‘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.
‘Will you join me for breakfast?’ he asks, undoing his tie and starting again.
‘Sure,’ I answer quietly, hating the awkwardness closing him off from me. I’m surprised to have woken up to daylight. When I dozed off last night, I was certain that I’d only be given a few hours’ recovery time before Miller woke me up to recommence worshipping me . . . or, more to the point, I was hoping he’d wake me up. I’m disappointed, and I’m trying not to make it obvious.
I don’t know why I glance around the room for my clothes because I know they won’t be anywhere in sight. ‘Where are my clothes?’
‘Take a shower. I’ll prepare breakfast.’ He strolls over to his wardrobe and appears moments later, buttoning up his waistcoat. ‘I need to leave in thirty minutes. Your clothes are in the bottom drawer.’
I shift uncomfortably, wondering what’s changed. He’s more closed off than ever before. Has he spent all night thinking, validating exactly what I’ve told him? ‘Okay,’ I confirm, not able to think of anything else to say. He’s barely even looking at me. I feel cheap and worthless, something that I’ve fought to avoid for years.
Not saying another word, he gets his suit jacket from the wardrobe and leaves me in his bedroom, feeling slighted and confused. I desperately want to escape the uneasiness, but I really don’t want to, too. I want to stay and loosen him up again, make him see me, not the illegitimate child of a hooker, but it doesn’t sound like I have much choice. He needs to leave in thirty minutes, and I need to shower before I join him for breakfast, which is limiting my time further.
Jumping up na**d from the bed, I rush into the bathroom to shower. I use his body wash, working it in firmly, like some way to keep him with me. Reluctantly rinsing off, I step out of the shower and pull one of the crisp, perfectly folded towels from the shelf and dry myself in record time before throwing my clothes on.
I traipse through his apartment, finding him in front of the mirror in the hallway, messing with his tie again. ‘Your tie is fine.’
‘No, it’s skew-whiff,’ he grumbles, yanking it free from his neck. ‘Fuck it!’
I watch as he stalks past me into the kitchen. I follow, a little bemused, and I shouldn’t be shocked when I find him standing in front of an ironing board, but I am. He lays the tie neatly, then with the utmost concentration he glides the iron across the blue silk before flicking the switch on the socket and draping the tie around his neck. He sets about putting away the board and iron, then returns to the mirror and starts the meticulous task of fastening his tie again, all as if I’m not even here.
‘Better,’ he affirms, pulling his collar down and looking over to me.
‘Your tie is wonky.’
He frowns and turns back to the mirror, giving it a little jiggle. ‘It’s perfect.’
‘Yes, it’s perfect, Miller,’ I mutter, making my way into the kitchen.