Promised

Except me.

He owns a nightclub?

My head snaps up when the mechanism on the door sounds and he’s back, looking satisfied, until he sees my face. ‘I asked you to do something.’

‘Will you force me if I don’t?’ I challenge, the alcohol injecting some bravery into me.

He seems confused by my question. ‘I would never force you to do anything I know you don’t want to, Livy.’

‘You forced me down here,’ I point out.

‘I didn’t force you. You could’ve battled with me or struggled from my hold if you’d really wanted to.’ He runs his hand through his hair and takes a deep breath, then brings himself to me and pushes my thighs open, standing between them. His finger slides under my chin and pulls my face to his, but he’s a little blurred. I squint, frustrated that I can’t fully appreciate his features. ‘You’re drunk,’ he says softly.

‘It’s your fault.’ I’m beginning to slur.

‘Then I apologise.’

‘Did you tell your girlfriend about me?’

‘She’s not my damn girlfriend, Livy. But yes, I told her about you.’

The thought thrills me, but if he’s felt the need to tell her, then there’s more to it than business.

‘Is she an ex?’

‘Fuck, no!’

‘Why the need to tell her about me, then? What business is it of hers?’

‘None!’ He’s exasperated. I don’t care. It’s quite satisfying to see something more than a straight face and clipped tone.

‘Why do you keep doing this?’ I ask, pulling away. ‘You’re tender, sweet and affectionate, then hard and cruel.’

‘I’m not ha—’

‘Yes, you are,’ I interrupt him, and I don’t care if I get chastised for my lack of manners. It wasn’t very polite of him to manhandle me down here, but he still did it, and he’s right, I could’ve tried harder to stop him. But I didn’t. ‘Are you finally going to f**k me?’ I ask, barefaced and completely even.

He recoils, repulsion plaguing his face. ‘You’re drunk,’ he hisses. ‘I’m not doing anything to you when you’re drunk.’

‘Why?’

He pushes his face to mine, his jaw ticking. ‘Because I’ll never do anything less than worship you, that is why.’ Taking a moment to calm down, his eyes close briefly and reopen lazily. He hits me with a determined gaze. ‘I’ll never be a drunken fumble, Olivia. Every time I take you, you’ll remember it. Each and every moment will be etched on that beautiful mind of yours for ever.’ He gently taps my temple. ‘Every kiss. Every touch. Every word.’

My heart rate accelerates. It’s too late, but I say it anyway. ‘I don’t want it to be that way.’ He’s already got a permanent residence in my mind.

‘Tough luck, because that’s how it’s going to be.’

‘It doesn’t have to be,’ I goad, wondering where these confident words and tones are coming from and if I really mean them.

‘Yes, it does. It has to be.’

‘Why?’ I’m beginning to sway a little, and he notices because he takes my arm to steady me. ‘I’m fine!’ I slur insolently. ‘And you haven’t answered my question.’

He clenches his eyes shut, and then slowly opens them, blasting me back with blue puddles of sincerity. ‘Because that is how it is for me.’

I swallow, hoping my drunkenness isn’t making me hear things. I have no reply, not now, perhaps not even when I’m sober. ‘You want me.’ My drunken mind still wants him to say the words.

He takes a deep breath and makes a point of burning through my eyes with his gaze. ‘I. Want. You,’ he confirms slowly . . . clearly. ‘Give me my thing.’

I throw my arms around his neck and pull him in, giving him his thing.

A cuddle.

My heart is free-falling.

He holds me for the longest time, stroking my back and combing my hair with his fingers. I could fall asleep. He’s sighing repeatedly into my neck, constantly kissing me and squeezing me to him.

‘Can I take you back to my bed?’ he asks quietly.

‘For four hours?’

‘I think you know that I want a lot longer than four hours, Olivia Taylor.’ He surrenders his thing and palms my bum, sliding me from his desk and up to his body. ‘I wish you had never covered your face.’

‘It’s make-up. It doesn’t cover, it enhances.’

‘You’re a pure, natural beauty, sweet girl.’ He turns and starts for the door, but detours to the drinks cabinet to rearrange the champagne flutes first. ‘I’d like it to stay that way.’

‘You want me to be timid and merciful.’

He shakes his head lightly and opens the door to his office, setting me on my feet and taking his signature hold of my nape. ‘No, I just don’t want you behaving so recklessly and giving those lips to another man to taste.’

‘I didn’t mean to.’ I stagger, prompting Miller to grab my upper arm to steady me.

‘You need to be more careful,’ he warns, and he’s right. I realise that, even through my drunkenness. So I prevent my drunken insolence from resurfacing.

As we walk down the corridor and back up the stairs to the main club, I feel my stupid drinking binge really take hold. People are a wish-wash of blurred, slowed movements and the loud music is a bombardment of pain on my ears. I wobble on my heels, feeling Miller look down at me.