My mind fogs and a haze of pleasure sweeps through my body like a tornado, nearly knocking me off my feet. ‘Miller!’ I scream, finally finding my voice. ‘Miller, Miller, Miller!’
‘Holy fucking shit!’ he bellows, yanking me onto him and holding me there, shuddering above me. He’s shaking, and his eyes close, prompting me to drop my head in exhaustion, feeling his essence flood me. Warm me. Complete me. ‘Jesus, Olivia, you fucking goddess.’ He collapses forward, the material of his suit meeting my sweaty back, and breathes erratically into my neck.
We’re wiped out, both of us struggling for breath. My eyes are heavy, but I know I’m not going to be allowed to sleep.
‘I’m going to worship you all night.’ He peels himself away from my naked back and turns me in his arms, then spends a few moments wiping my damp face before kissing every wet piece of it. ‘To the fridge,’ he whispers.
Chapter 25
I’m aching. I’m deliciously sore between my thighs and spread-eagled in Miller’s bed with the sheeting tangled around my waist, my bare back exposed to the cool air of his bedroom. I’m sticky and I’ve no doubt my hair is a mass of wild blonde, sticking out everywhere. I have no desire to open my eyes. So instead in my darkness, I replay every second from last night over and over. He did, indeed, take me in every available place. Twice over. I could sleep for a year, but the absence of Miller soon registers in my waking brain and I pat across the bed on the off-chance that my Miller-senses have failed me. Of course, they haven’t and I fight with the bedding until I’m sitting up and brushing my sweat-infested mane from my sleepy face. He’s not here.
‘Miller?’ I look across to the bathroom, seeing the door wide open, but no noise coming from beyond, so on a crumpled brow, I start to edge my way to the side of the bed, pulling up when something tugs on my wrist. ‘What the . . . ?’ There’s some thin white cotton looped over my wrist, and I take it with my free hand and toy with it, noticing a long length extending from the knot. I follow the cotton with my eyes, seeing it leading to the bedroom door. I half frown, half smile, getting myself to my feet. ‘What’s he up to?’ I ask the empty room, tucking the sheets around me and taking the line with both hands. Keeping hold of the thread, I pad to the door and open it, peeking down the corridor, listening intently.
Nothing.
Pouting to myself, I hold the line and follow it down the hall, smiling as I go, until I find myself in Miller’s lounge, but the guide still carries on, and my smile falls away when it takes me across the room and lands me in front of one of Miller’s paintings.
Not any of the famous London landmarks.
It’s a new one.
Me.
My palm meets my mouth, stunned by what I’m looking at.
My naked back.
My glazed stare traces the curves of my tiny waist, drifting into my seated bottom, and back up again until I’m gazing at my side profile that’s looking down at my shoulder.
I look serene.
I look clear.
I look perfect.
There’s nothing abstract about me at all. Every detail of my skin, the side of my face, and my hair is impeccably clear. All of me. He hasn’t adopted his usual painting style of blurring the image or making it unappealing.
Except with the backdrop. The view beyond my naked body, all of the buildings on the skyline, they’re all a wish-wash of colour, mostly blacks and greys with hints of yellow blobs to enhance the glow of lights. He’s captured the glass of the window perfectly, and though it defies possibility, my reflection is faultlessly clear, too – my face, my naked chest, my hair . . .
I slowly shake my head and register my lack of breathing when I remove my palm from my mouth, tentatively stepping forward. The oils are shimmering. It’s not completely dry, so I refrain from touching, even though my fingertips are being lured towards the picture to trace the lines of me with my eyes and my touch.
‘God, Miller,’ I breathe, awestruck by the beauty of what I’m looking at – not because it’s me in the painting, but because my beautifully damaged man created it. He’ll never cease to amaze me. His complicated mind, his power, his tenderness . . . his astonishing talent.
I’m painted to perfection, almost lifelike, but I’m framed by a mess of paint. I begin to comprehend something, just as a scrap of paper catches my eye on the bottom left-hand corner of the painting. Reaching forward with only a teeny tiny fraction of uncertainty, because Miller Hart has a history of breaking my heart with his written words, I pull it down and unfold the paper while nibbling on my bottom lip.
There are just four words.
And they choke me.