And I want to know it all.
Breaking free of his chest, I slowly lift myself from his lap, his semi-erection slipping free as I do. That alone makes me feel half complete. I settle in the passenger seat and gaze out of the window to the murky, litter-crowded alleyway while he sorts himself out next to me and the music fades to nothing. A small part of my mind is willing me to walk away now before he has the opportunity to do just that to me, but I find it easy to ignore it. I’m not going to be walking anywhere unless I’m forced to. There’s only one thing that I’ve ever been determined to do, and that’s avoid putting myself in this situation. Now I find myself determined to stay here, no matter what the cost to my falling heart.
Chapter 12
I have the stamina to get to the seventh floor this time, before Miller carries me up the rest of the stairs. It’s no wonder his physique looks like it belongs to a mythical god.
‘Would you like a drink?’ He’s returned to sharp and formal, but his manners are still intact. The door is held open for me, and I slip in, immediately noticing a huge spray of fresh flowers on the round table.
‘No, thank you.’ I circle the table slowly and break the threshold into the lounge, glancing around at the paintings adorning the walls.
‘Water?’
‘No.’
‘Please, sit.’ He indicates the sofa. ‘I’ll just hang these,’ he says, holding up our jackets.
‘Okay.’ Things are strained, our honest words causing a friction that I want to be rid of. Then soft music is with me and I look around, wondering where it’s coming from while absorbing the calmness of the beats and the gentle tones of the male’s voice. I recognise it. It’s Passenger’s ‘Let Her Go’. My mind starts racing.
Miller returns, his waistcoat and tie removed, his collar unbuttoned. He pours some dark liquid into a tumbler, and I notice the label this time. It’s Scotch. He takes a seat on the coffee table in front of me again and sips slowly, but then he almost frowns at the glass before tipping the neat alcohol down his throat and placing the glass on the table.
As I knew he would, he tweaks the position then clasps his hands together, looking at me thoughtfully. I’m immediately wary of that look. ‘Why don’t you drink, Livy?’
I was right to be worried. He keeps saying he doesn’t want to get personal, yet he has no problem asking me personal questions or invading my personal space, namely my home and my dinner table. I don’t say that, though, because what I actually want is for this to get really personal. I don’t just want to share my body with him. ‘I don’t trust myself.’
His eyebrows jump up, surprised. ‘You don’t trust yourself?’
I’m squirming, my eyes darting around the room, despite my desire to share this with him. It’s just finding the courage to form the words that I’ve refused to utter for so long.
‘Livy, how many times do we need to go through this? When I’m talking to you, you look at me. When I ask you a question, you answer.’ He takes my jaw gently and forces me to face him. ‘Why don’t you trust yourself?’
‘I’m a different person with alcohol in my system.’
‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’ He didn’t need to tell me that. His eyes are telling me all by themselves.
I feel my face flush, probably heating the tips of his fingers. ‘It doesn’t agree with me.’
‘Elaborate,’ he demands harshly, his lips pursed.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I try to pull my face from his grip, suddenly not so keen to share a part of my personal, his approach to my news the reason for my change of heart. I don’t need to feel any more ashamed.
‘That was a question, Livy.’
‘No, that was an order,’ I snap defensively, managing to break free from his hold. ‘One that I’m choosing not to elaborate on.’
‘You’re being cagey.’
‘You’re being intrusive.’
He recoils a little but quickly gathers himself. ‘I’m being intuitive here, and I’m going to suggest that the only times you’ve had sex were when you were intoxicated.’
My colour deepens. ‘Your instincts are correct,’ I mutter. ‘Is that all, or would you like a run-by-run account of who, what, where and when?’
‘There’s no need for insolence.’
‘With you, Miller, there is.’
He narrows bright blues on me, but doesn’t scold me for my bad manners. ‘I want a run-by-run account.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Your mother.’ Those words make me instantly stiffen, and by the look on his face, he’s noticed. ‘When I was forced to hide in your room, your grandmother mentioned your mother’s history.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does.’
‘She was a prostitute.’ The words fall from my mouth automatically, taking me by surprise, and I chance a glimpse at Miller to gauge his reaction.