I pull my finger free and we both move forward slowly.
And all of those things intensify when our mouths join. My eyes close, my palms slip onto his waist, and my neck is seized in his grasp, holding me secure while he spends an eternity worshipping my mouth. I’m swallowed up and carried off to a place where only Miller and I exist, a place Miller has created for me to run away to. Somewhere safe. Somewhere calm. Somewhere perfect.
His hold of me is so strong, always is, and the power he exudes is mind-bending, but his constant tenderness douses that control somewhat. Yet there is never any mistaking that Miller is always the one driving things. There’s no denying he rules my body and heart. He knows what I need and when I need it, and he displays this in every element of our relationship, not just when he’s worshipping me. Like when I needed to go to the hospital immediately. Like when I needed to come home and immerse myself in Nan’s lingering presence. Like I needed him to remove himself from his perfect world and be here with me.
Our kiss slows, but Miller’s hold of me doesn’t ease. After nibbling at my bottom lip, then my nose and my cheek, he pulls away and my torn eyes are faced with their usual dilemma. Not knowing which to focus on, my gaze drifts repeatedly from his blistering blues to his mesmerising mouth.
‘Let’s get you showered, my gorgeous girl.’
We spend a blissful half hour under the hot spray. The space restriction makes it a very intimate shower, although I wouldn’t expect it to be anything less, even if we had acres of space. My palms on the tiled wall, I drop my head, my eyes watching the soapy water disappear down the drain while the heavenly sensation of Miller’s smooth, soapy palms work into every tired muscle in my body. My hair is shampooed and conditioner smoothed through to the ends. I remain still and quiet the whole time, only moving when he positions me how he needs me. After raining soft kisses over every part of my wet face, he helps me from the tub and dries me off before guiding me to my room.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asks, pulling the brush through my wet strands.
I shake my head and ignore the slight falter in his movements behind me, but he doesn’t argue. I’m placed in bed and he crawls in behind me until our naked bodies are locked tightly together and his lips are performing a lazy dance across my shoulders. Sleep finds me easily, assisted by the low hum of Miller and his heat compressed to every available part of my back.
Chapter 8
A commotion yanks me from my dreams and has me pelting down the stairs at a ridiculous rate. I land in the kitchen, still half asleep, naked and with slightly blurred vision. I blink repeatedly to clear my sight, until I’m staring at Miller, who’s standing bare-chested with a box of cornflakes in his hand.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, worried eyes scanning my naked frame.
Reality slams into my waking brain, a reality where it’s not Nan pottering around the kitchen looking happy and at home; it’s Miller looking awkward and out of place. Raging guilt consumes me for being disappointed. ‘You startled me,’ is all I can think to say, and suddenly very alert, I register my naked form and start backing out of the kitchen. I indicate over my shoulder. ‘I’ll just get some clothes on.’
‘OK,’ he agrees, watching me closely as I disappear down the hallway. My sigh is heavy as I take the stairs and my actions subdued as I tug on some knickers and a T-shirt. Once I’ve made it back downstairs, I find the table set for breakfast and Miller looking even more out of place, sitting with his phone to his ear. He indicates for me to take a seat, which I do slowly while he continues with his call. ‘I’ll be in around lunchtime,’ he says, clipped and to the point before hanging up and setting his phone down. He gazes across the table at me, and I note after only a few seconds of studying him that he’s slipping into that emotionless man who repels everyone. We’re back in London. All that’s missing is his suit.
‘Who was that?’ I ask, picking up the pot of tea that’s steaming in the centre of the table and pouring myself a cup.
‘Tony.’ His reply is as curt and short as he was with Tony just now.
Dumping the teapot a little heavy-handed to my right, I make quick work of adding milk and stirring, and then watch in astonishment when Miller leans over the table and takes the pot, placing it exactly back in the centre of the table. Then he tweaks it a little more.
I sigh, taking a sip of my tea and immediately wince at the taste. I swallow hard and put the mug down. ‘How many tea bags did you put in there?’
He frowns and looks at the pot. ‘Two.’
‘Doesn’t taste like it.’ It tastes like warmed milk. I reach over to take the lid off and peek inside. ‘There are none in here.’
‘I took them out.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’d block the spout.’