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.
‘Livy, are you okay?’
I nod, my head not quite doing what I’m telling it to, making my movement more of a limp roll on my neck. Then I bump into a wall. ‘I feel . . . My mouth is suddenly producing far too much saliva, my stomach turning violently.
‘Oh shit, Livy!’ He scoops me up and charges for his office again, but he’s not quick enough. I throw up all over the corridor . . . and Miller. ‘Bollocks!’ he curses.
I retch some more as he gets me into his office. ‘I feel sick,’ I mumble.
‘What the hell have you had?’ he asks, negotiating my floppy body onto the toilet in his bathroom.
‘Tequila,’ I giggle. ‘But not properly. I forgot the salt and lemon so we had to do it again. Oh!’ I slip from the toilet seat and land on my backside. ‘Ouch!’
‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ he grumbles, picking me up and holding me in place, my head lolling while he tries to remove his sick-splattered waistcoat and shirt. ‘Livy, how many shots did you have?’
‘Two,’ I answer, my bottom dropping to meet the toilet seat again. ‘And I helped myself to more champagne,’ I slur, ‘but I didn’t use the glass with cherry-red lipstick on. She wants an association in more than business, you stupid man.’
‘What’s got into you?’
I pull my heavy head up and try to focus, finding a bare, smooth, masterpiece of a chest at eye level. ‘You, Miller Hart.’ I rest my hands on his pecs and take my time caressing him. I might be stinking drunk, but I can still appreciate what I’m feeling, and it feels good. ‘You’ve got into me.’ I lift my eyes with some effort, finding his are dropped, watching me feeling him. ‘You’ve worked your way into me and I can’t shake you out.’
He slowly crouches in front of me and strokes my cheek before sliding his hand around the back of my neck and pulling my face close to his. ‘I wish you weren’t so pissed right now.’
‘So do I,’ I admit. There’s no way I’ll handle him in a drunken stupor. And I wouldn’t want to. I want to remember every intimate moment, even this one. ‘If I forget the look on your face right now, or the words you said to me on your desk, promise me you’ll remind me.’
He smiles.
‘And that!’ I blurt. ‘Promise me you’ll smile at me like that the next time I see you.’ His smiles are rare and beautiful, and I hate him for giving me one now, when I’m not likely to remember.
He groans, and I think he closes his eyes. Or did I close mine? I’m not even sure. ‘Olivia Taylor, when you wake up in the morning, I’m going to be catching up on what you’ve deprived me of this evening.’
‘You’ve deprived yourself,’ I retort. ‘But remind me first,’ I mumble as he pulls me in for his thing. ‘Smile at me.’
‘Olivia Taylor, if I have you, then I’ll be smiling for the rest of my life.’