Promised (One Night 1)

I can’t speak, so I nod, my hands stroking down his biceps as he drags his palms all over my back. The only sound is strained breaths, mostly emanating from me. But it’s comfortable. It feels right.

‘Are you thirsty?’

I shake my head no and burrow deeper, content to remain exactly where I am, grateful for his acceptance of me.

‘Have you lost your voice?’

I nod, but then I feel him jerking underneath me. He’s laughing and I desperately want to see it, so I spring to life, scrambling from his chest and quickly getting his face in my field of vision. It’s straight, and his eyes are wide with shock.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, all concerned, scanning my face.

I gather all of the air in my lungs and use it to form a sentence. ‘You were laughing at me.’

‘I wasn’t laughing at you.’ He’s all defensive, clearly thinking that I’m insulted, but I’m not. I’m delighted, but pissed off I missed it.

‘That’s not what I meant. I’ve never seen or heard you laugh.’

He looks uncomfortable all of a sudden. ‘Maybe that’s because there’s not much to laugh about.’

I feel my brows meet in the middle. I get the impression that Miller Hart doesn’t laugh very often. He barely smiles either. ‘You’re too serious,’ I say, sounding more accusatory than the simple observation that it was meant to be.

‘Life is serious.’

‘Don’t you laugh in the pub with your friends?’ I ask, trying to imagine Miller drinking a pint in a spit and sawdust pub. I can’t see it.

‘I don’t frequent pubs.’ He almost looks offended by my question.

‘What about friends?’ I press, finding it hard to imagine Miller laughing and joking with anyone full stop, with or without a pub added to the mix.

‘I believe we may be getting personal,’ He snubs me completely, making me choke. After everything I’ve shared?

‘You pressured me into sharing something very personal, and I told you. When someone asks you a question, it’s polite to answer.’

‘No, it’s my prerogative to—’

I cut him off with a dramatic roll of my eyes and fail to halt my mischievous hand from slipping up to his armpit. He watches me suspiciously, his eyes following my hand until I’m tickling him there.

He doesn’t even flinch, just raises his eyebrows cockily. ‘Afraid not.’ He’s straight-faced but smug, making me more persistent, so I walk my fingers across his collarbone to his stubbled chin and attack him with wriggling fingers, but still nothing. He shrugs. ‘I’m not ticklish.’

‘Everyone’s ticklish somewhere.’

‘Not me.’

My eyes narrow and my fingers creep down to his stomach, giving a little dig in the hard, muscled area of his abdomen. He remains impassive and unaffected by my tactics. I sigh. ‘Feet?’ He shakes his head slowly, making me sigh deeper. ‘I wish you’d express yourself more.’ I crawl back up his body and settle to his side, propping my head up on a bent elbow as he shifts to mirror me.

‘I think that I express myself just fine.’ His hand reaches over, taking a lock of my blond, and he starts twirling it between his fingers. ‘I love your hair,’ he muses, watching his slow-playing fingers.

‘It’s unruly and unmanageable.’

‘It’s perfect. Don’t ever cut it off.’ His hand slides around my nape and tugs me closer so there are just a few inches between our faces. My eyes are torn, not knowing whether to focus on his eyes or his lips.

They choose his lips. ‘I love your mouth,’ I confess, inching forward and resting mine over his. My bravery is increasing, my ability to express myself with this expressionless man becoming easy.

‘My mouth loves your body,’ he mumbles, pulling me in further.

‘My body loves your hands,’ I counter, falling into the relaxed movement of his tongue.

‘My hands love how you feel under their touch.’

I hum as he glides those hands to my stomach, onto my hip and down my thigh. The smoothness of his palms defies his masculinity. They’re clean, soft and have no rough calluses, hinting to a life free of manual labour. He’s always in suits, always impeccably turned out, and his manners are faultless – even with his moody arrogance. Everything about Miller is mystifying, but incredibly enticing, and the invisible pull that’s constantly yanking me towards him is confounding and aggravating, but impossible to resist. And in this moment, when he’s worshipping me, feeling me and taking me so tenderly, I conclude that Miller Hart does express himself. He’s expressing himself right now. He does it like this. He may not laugh or smile much, or give me any facial expressions when we’re talking to tell me what he’s thinking, but his whole physical being tells me his emotional state. And I don’t think I’m mistaking it for feelings, not just fascination.

I’m a little annoyed when he breaks our kiss and pulls away, gazing at me quietly before turning me away from him and pulling me back against his chest. ‘Get some sleep, sweet girl,’ he whispers, burying his nose in my wild blond.

Falling asleep with a man wrapped around me is not something I’m used to, but with his soft breaths in my ear and him humming that soft melody quietly, I find slumber too easily, smiling to myself when I feel him break away and get out of bed.

He’s going to tidy up.

Chapter 13

He’s standing in the doorway to his bedroom in his suit trousers and shirt, fixing his tie, while my arms are wrapped protectively around my na**d body. I would pull the covers over me, but the side of the bed that he slept on has been made and I don’t want to disturb it. His hair is wet and his face unshaved, and though he looks divine, I’m hurt that he’s not still in bed with me.