Promised

‘Cuddling’s my thing with you, Olivia Taylor. I just want to hold you. Close your eyes and enjoy the silence.’ He gathers my masses of honey hair and pulls it out of his way so he can access my back, then he starts a hypnotising, slow routine of lazy kisses over my skin. It makes my eyes heavier, finding immense comfort from the attention and his warmth coating every part of my back as he gives me his thing.

It makes me realise that I’ve existed in solitary.

Chapter 8

I come to in a dusky darkness, completely na**d and completely disorientated. It takes me a few moments to gather my bearings and when I do, I smile. I feel relaxed. I feel at peace. I feel sated and comfortable, but when I roll onto my side, he’s not there.

I sit up and gaze around his bedroom. Should I look for him? Should I stay put and wait for him to return? What should I do? I have just enough time for a trip to the bathroom, ensuring I leave everything exactly how I found it, before the door opens and Miller appears. He has his black shorts on again, and his semi-naked perfection attacks my sleepy eyes, making me blink repeatedly just to ensure I’m not dreaming. He looks at me standing and fidgeting, a sheet wrapped around me and my hair probably resembling a bird’s nest.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks, walking forward. His hair looks adorable, the dark waves wild and messy, and that lock sitting perfectly in place on his forehead.

‘Yes.’ I pull the sheet in tighter, thinking maybe I should’ve got dressed.

‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ He takes the sheet and wrestles it from my grip until he’s holding a corner in each hand and opening it, exposing my na**d body to shimmering blue eyes. His lips don’t smile, but his eyes do. He moves into the sheet and drapes the ends over his shoulders so we’re both enclosed in white cotton. ‘How do you feel?’

I smile. ‘Good.’ I feel more than good, but I won’t admit it to him. I know why I’m here and it’s searing painfully on my conscience and morality each time I think about it. So I simply won’t.

‘Just good?’

I shrug. What does he want? A thousand-word essay on my current state of mind and state of body? I could probably write ten thousand words. ‘Really good.’

His hands slide around to my bottom and squeeze. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘Not for oysters,’ I blurt on a shudder.

He removes himself from the confines of the sheet and wraps me back up with the utmost care. ‘No, not for oysters,’ he agrees, pecking my lips lightly. ‘I’ll feed you something else.’ His hand finds the nape of my neck over my hair, and then turns me away from him, leading me from the room.

‘I should get dressed,’ I say, not attempting to stop him, but wanting him to know that I’m not entirely comfortable with a sheet of cotton covering my modesty.

‘No, we’ll eat, then bathe.’

‘Together?’

‘Yes, together.’ He doesn’t give my concerned tone the attention it deserves. I can shower or bathe myself. I don’t need him to worship me to that extent.

I’m taken into his kitchen and placed on a chair at a huge dining table, and I thank the cotton gods for the bed sheets separating my backside from the cold seat beneath me. ‘What time is it?’ I ask, silently hoping that I’ve not wasted too much of my twenty-four hours sleeping.

‘Eleven o’clock.’ He opens the mirrored door of the huge double fridge and starts shifting things aside and placing things on the counter next to him. ‘I was allowing you two hours’ sleep, then I was going to poke you.’ He places a bottle of champagne on the side and turns to face me. ‘You came round just in time.’

I smile, pulling my sheet in, thinking how much nicer it would’ve been to wake up to those eyes glistening down at me. ‘Do you mind if I get dressed?’ I ask.

His head cocks to the side, his eyes slightly narrowed. ‘Are you not comfortable in your skin?’

‘Yes,’ I answer confidently, although I’ve never found myself asking that question before now. I know that I’m a little on the slender side, Nan reminds me daily, but am I really comfortable? Because the way I’m holding the sheet to me would indicate otherwise.

‘Good.’ He turns back toward the fridge. ‘Then that’s settled.’ A glass bowl appears, piled high with big, juicy strawberries, and then he opens a cupboard which reveals row after row of precisely placed champagne flutes. He grabs two and places them in front of me, then the bowl of strawberries – all washed and hulled – before he’s in another cupboard pulling down a cooling bucket and loading it with ice from the dispenser on the front of the fridge. The bucket gets placed in front of me, the champagne nestled into the ice, and then he’s at the hob, putting on an oven mitt. I watch in fascination as he moves around the kitchen with complete ease, every motion precise and neat, and all done so very carefully. Nothing that he moves or puts down stays in the same position for very long. It gets turned a fraction or repositioned before he’s happy and continuing with something else.

Right now he’s walking towards me, holding a metal pan which is billowing steam from the glass bowl that’s resting on the rim. ‘Would you please pass me that trivet?’

I look in the direction of his pointed finger and get up as quickly as the sheet covering me will allow, retrieving the metal pan stand and placing it next to the bowl of strawberries, champagne and glass flutes. ‘There,’ I say, taking my seat again and watching as he shifts the stand a few millimetres to the right before easing the hot pan onto it. I crane my neck over the pan and spy a deep puddle of melted chocolate. ‘That looks delicious.’