Denied
Page 52
‘Olivia?’
‘Let me give you your thing.’
‘No, tell me what’s troubling that beautiful mind of yours.’ He’s insistent, firming up his hold of me. ‘I won’t ask again.’
‘You’re drunk,’ I blurt quietly, ashamed for doubting the care he takes with me. ‘Alcohol makes people lose reason and control.’ Now I’m cringing. Miller doesn’t need whisky to lose control and both scrapes with Gregory are evidence of that. And the hotel encounter . . .
I remain on his lap and let him process my worries while I twist my ring nervously around and around, wishing I could retract my words. He’s rigid beneath me, every hard plane of his body seeming to bruise my flesh. Then he takes hold of my face, squeezing my cheeks gently, and brings it to confront him. He looks remorseful, which increases my guilt and my shame. ‘My self-hatred claws at my dark soul daily.’ He seems to have rapidly gathered something close to soberness, maybe my omission feeding it. His blue eyes seem stronger and his mouth is now forming clear, exact words. ‘Never fear me, I beg you. I could be of no harm to you, Olivia.’ His sombre statement takes the edge off my despondency, but only a little. Miller fails to comprehend the destruction he can cause by hurting me emotionally. That’s what I fear the most. Losing him. I can recover from physical injuries in time, if unintentionally caught up in one of his psychotic outbursts, but no amount of time will fix the mental injuries he can inflict upon me. And that terrifies me.
‘It’s like you take leave of your senses,’ I begin cautiously, choosing my words wisely.
‘I do,’ he mutters, before nodding for me to continue.
‘I’m not frightened for me; I’m scared for your victim and you.’
‘My victim?’ He coughs. He’s not happy with my choice of word. ‘Livy, I don’t prey on innocent people. And please don’t worry about me.’
‘I do worry about you, Miller. You’ll be thrown into jail if someone presses charges and I don’t like seeing you hurt.’ I reach up and brush over a faint blemish on his bristly cheek.
‘That won’t happen,’ he sighs, pulling me into his chest and attempting to rub some comfort into me. Weirdly, it works, and I melt into his relaxed body, matching his tired sigh. He sounds confident. Too confident. ‘Gorgeous girl, I’ve said it once before and on this occasion I have no problem repeating myself.’ He falls to his back, taking me with him, and tussles with me until I’m cuddled into his side and he has access to my face. Feathery kisses trail from one cheek to the other and back again. ‘The only thing in this world that can cause me pain is currently being held in my arms.’ He lifts my chin so my lips are level with his and the lingering stench of whisky invades my nose. I find it easy to disregard. He’s gazing at me like I’m the only thing that exists in his world, those eyes easing my remaining anxiety from this long day. His lips move in and I brace myself, my hand slipping onto his chest to feel him. ‘May I?’ he whispers, pausing mere millimetres from my mouth.
‘You’re asking?’
‘I’m aware that I smell like a distillery,’ he murmurs, making me smile. ‘And I’m sure I won’t taste much better.’
‘I beg to differ.’ All of my reluctance to let him have me in these circumstances diminishes under his tenderness, and I close the small gap between us, our mouths clashing more forcefully than I intended. I don’t care. Disinclination has been hijacked by an urgent need to reinstate my serenity and Miller’s recently relaxing disposition. I can taste the whisky, but Miller’s essence dominates the alcohol, drowning my senses with pure yearning. It’s making me light-headed. The only instructions I can find in my suddenly lust-filled mind are ones telling me to let him worship me. That that will chase away my woes. That will make the world right again. That will calm him. Our passion collides and everything else is of no importance. It’s perfect in these moments, but hard to hold on to when faced with endless resistance.
Miller rolls to his back, keeping our mouths fused, and locks one palm on my nape and his other under my bottom, ensuring I’m secure in his clutch. ‘Savoured,’ he mumbles against my lips, that one familiar word making me see past my consuming desperation for him and follow his demand to slow things down. My fear was unwarranted. I’m the one being told to rein it in, Miller appearing to have full control and lucidity, despite the obscene amount of whisky that must have passed his lips. ‘Better,’ he praises, moulding at my neck. ‘So much better.’
‘Hmmm.’ I’m not prepared to release him to speak my agreement, choosing to hum it instead. I feel his lips spread into a smile through our kiss and that does make me pull away, and pull away fast. Catching a glimpse of one of Miller’s rare smiles will send me delirious with happiness. I’m sitting up fast, wiping my hair from my eyes, and when my view is clear, I see it. It’s something else, a no-holds-barred, megawatt smile that sends me giddy. He’s always devastating, even when he looks downright miserable, but right now he’s surpassed perfect. He’s ruffled, tatty and messy, but utterly beautiful, and when I should be returning his smile, matching his ease and cherishing the rare sight, I start crying instead. All of the crap that today has dealt me seems to come collectively together and pour from my eyes in silent, uncontrollable sobs. I feel silly, overwrought and weak, and in an attempt to hide it, I bury my face in my palms and blindly remove my body from his.
The only sound in the peaceful air encompassing us is my shallow sobs as Miller silently shifts, seeming to take for ever to find my shuddering body – probably because his usually stealthy movements are hampered by too much alcohol. But he eventually makes it to me and embraces me, sighing heavily into my neck and delicately rubbing calming circles into my back. ‘Don’t cry,’ he whispers, his voice like sandpaper, rough and low. ‘We’ll survive. Please don’t cry.’ His tenderness and barely spoken understanding only escalates my emotions, making clinging to him tightly my only purpose.
‘Why can’t people leave us alone?’ I ask, my words disjointed.
‘I don’t know,’ he admits. ‘Come here.’ He collects my hands from the back of his neck and holds them between us, fiddling with my ring unconsciously as he watches me fight my tears away. ‘I wish I could be perfect for you.’
His admission cripples me. ‘You are perfect,’ I argue, however wrong I know I am deep down. There’s nothing perfect about Miller Hart, except for his visual appeal and incessant obsession to have everything surrounding him precise. ‘You’re perfect to me.’
‘I appreciate your unrelenting belief, especially since I’m drunk right now and have shamed myself in front of your grandmother.’ He shakes his head on a frustrated exhale and reaches for his head, holding it for a few moments as if the consequences of his actions have just registered, or maybe a hangover has.
‘She was pissy,’ I tell him, seeing no reason to try and make him feel better. He’ll need to face her wrath eventually.
‘I gathered that when she manhandled me up the garden path.’
‘You deserved it.’
‘I concur,’ he accepts willingly. ‘I’ll call her. No, I’ll visit.’ His lips straighten and he appears to think hard about something before refocusing his attention on me. ‘Do you think I can win her over by offering a bite of my buns?’
‘Let me give you your thing.’
‘No, tell me what’s troubling that beautiful mind of yours.’ He’s insistent, firming up his hold of me. ‘I won’t ask again.’
‘You’re drunk,’ I blurt quietly, ashamed for doubting the care he takes with me. ‘Alcohol makes people lose reason and control.’ Now I’m cringing. Miller doesn’t need whisky to lose control and both scrapes with Gregory are evidence of that. And the hotel encounter . . .
I remain on his lap and let him process my worries while I twist my ring nervously around and around, wishing I could retract my words. He’s rigid beneath me, every hard plane of his body seeming to bruise my flesh. Then he takes hold of my face, squeezing my cheeks gently, and brings it to confront him. He looks remorseful, which increases my guilt and my shame. ‘My self-hatred claws at my dark soul daily.’ He seems to have rapidly gathered something close to soberness, maybe my omission feeding it. His blue eyes seem stronger and his mouth is now forming clear, exact words. ‘Never fear me, I beg you. I could be of no harm to you, Olivia.’ His sombre statement takes the edge off my despondency, but only a little. Miller fails to comprehend the destruction he can cause by hurting me emotionally. That’s what I fear the most. Losing him. I can recover from physical injuries in time, if unintentionally caught up in one of his psychotic outbursts, but no amount of time will fix the mental injuries he can inflict upon me. And that terrifies me.
‘It’s like you take leave of your senses,’ I begin cautiously, choosing my words wisely.
‘I do,’ he mutters, before nodding for me to continue.
‘I’m not frightened for me; I’m scared for your victim and you.’
‘My victim?’ He coughs. He’s not happy with my choice of word. ‘Livy, I don’t prey on innocent people. And please don’t worry about me.’
‘I do worry about you, Miller. You’ll be thrown into jail if someone presses charges and I don’t like seeing you hurt.’ I reach up and brush over a faint blemish on his bristly cheek.
‘That won’t happen,’ he sighs, pulling me into his chest and attempting to rub some comfort into me. Weirdly, it works, and I melt into his relaxed body, matching his tired sigh. He sounds confident. Too confident. ‘Gorgeous girl, I’ve said it once before and on this occasion I have no problem repeating myself.’ He falls to his back, taking me with him, and tussles with me until I’m cuddled into his side and he has access to my face. Feathery kisses trail from one cheek to the other and back again. ‘The only thing in this world that can cause me pain is currently being held in my arms.’ He lifts my chin so my lips are level with his and the lingering stench of whisky invades my nose. I find it easy to disregard. He’s gazing at me like I’m the only thing that exists in his world, those eyes easing my remaining anxiety from this long day. His lips move in and I brace myself, my hand slipping onto his chest to feel him. ‘May I?’ he whispers, pausing mere millimetres from my mouth.
‘You’re asking?’
‘I’m aware that I smell like a distillery,’ he murmurs, making me smile. ‘And I’m sure I won’t taste much better.’
‘I beg to differ.’ All of my reluctance to let him have me in these circumstances diminishes under his tenderness, and I close the small gap between us, our mouths clashing more forcefully than I intended. I don’t care. Disinclination has been hijacked by an urgent need to reinstate my serenity and Miller’s recently relaxing disposition. I can taste the whisky, but Miller’s essence dominates the alcohol, drowning my senses with pure yearning. It’s making me light-headed. The only instructions I can find in my suddenly lust-filled mind are ones telling me to let him worship me. That that will chase away my woes. That will make the world right again. That will calm him. Our passion collides and everything else is of no importance. It’s perfect in these moments, but hard to hold on to when faced with endless resistance.
Miller rolls to his back, keeping our mouths fused, and locks one palm on my nape and his other under my bottom, ensuring I’m secure in his clutch. ‘Savoured,’ he mumbles against my lips, that one familiar word making me see past my consuming desperation for him and follow his demand to slow things down. My fear was unwarranted. I’m the one being told to rein it in, Miller appearing to have full control and lucidity, despite the obscene amount of whisky that must have passed his lips. ‘Better,’ he praises, moulding at my neck. ‘So much better.’
‘Hmmm.’ I’m not prepared to release him to speak my agreement, choosing to hum it instead. I feel his lips spread into a smile through our kiss and that does make me pull away, and pull away fast. Catching a glimpse of one of Miller’s rare smiles will send me delirious with happiness. I’m sitting up fast, wiping my hair from my eyes, and when my view is clear, I see it. It’s something else, a no-holds-barred, megawatt smile that sends me giddy. He’s always devastating, even when he looks downright miserable, but right now he’s surpassed perfect. He’s ruffled, tatty and messy, but utterly beautiful, and when I should be returning his smile, matching his ease and cherishing the rare sight, I start crying instead. All of the crap that today has dealt me seems to come collectively together and pour from my eyes in silent, uncontrollable sobs. I feel silly, overwrought and weak, and in an attempt to hide it, I bury my face in my palms and blindly remove my body from his.
The only sound in the peaceful air encompassing us is my shallow sobs as Miller silently shifts, seeming to take for ever to find my shuddering body – probably because his usually stealthy movements are hampered by too much alcohol. But he eventually makes it to me and embraces me, sighing heavily into my neck and delicately rubbing calming circles into my back. ‘Don’t cry,’ he whispers, his voice like sandpaper, rough and low. ‘We’ll survive. Please don’t cry.’ His tenderness and barely spoken understanding only escalates my emotions, making clinging to him tightly my only purpose.
‘Why can’t people leave us alone?’ I ask, my words disjointed.
‘I don’t know,’ he admits. ‘Come here.’ He collects my hands from the back of his neck and holds them between us, fiddling with my ring unconsciously as he watches me fight my tears away. ‘I wish I could be perfect for you.’
His admission cripples me. ‘You are perfect,’ I argue, however wrong I know I am deep down. There’s nothing perfect about Miller Hart, except for his visual appeal and incessant obsession to have everything surrounding him precise. ‘You’re perfect to me.’
‘I appreciate your unrelenting belief, especially since I’m drunk right now and have shamed myself in front of your grandmother.’ He shakes his head on a frustrated exhale and reaches for his head, holding it for a few moments as if the consequences of his actions have just registered, or maybe a hangover has.
‘She was pissy,’ I tell him, seeing no reason to try and make him feel better. He’ll need to face her wrath eventually.
‘I gathered that when she manhandled me up the garden path.’
‘You deserved it.’
‘I concur,’ he accepts willingly. ‘I’ll call her. No, I’ll visit.’ His lips straighten and he appears to think hard about something before refocusing his attention on me. ‘Do you think I can win her over by offering a bite of my buns?’
