Promised
Page 26
His head cocks to the side, his eyes slightly narrowed. ‘Are you not comfortable in your skin?’
‘Yes,’ I answer confidently, although I’ve never found myself asking that question before now. I know that I’m a little on the slender side, Nan reminds me daily, but am I really comfortable? Because the way I’m holding the sheet to me would indicate otherwise.
‘Good.’ He turns back toward the fridge. ‘Then that’s settled.’ A glass bowl appears, piled high with big, juicy strawberries, and then he opens a cupboard which reveals row after row of precisely placed champagne flutes. He grabs two and places them in front of me, then the bowl of strawberries – all washed and hulled – before he’s in another cupboard pulling down a cooling bucket and loading it with ice from the dispenser on the front of the fridge. The bucket gets placed in front of me, the champagne nestled into the ice, and then he’s at the hob, putting on an oven mitt. I watch in fascination as he moves around the kitchen with complete ease, every motion precise and neat, and all done so very carefully. Nothing that he moves or puts down stays in the same position for very long. It gets turned a fraction or repositioned before he’s happy and continuing with something else.
Right now he’s walking towards me, holding a metal pan which is billowing steam from the glass bowl that’s resting on the rim. ‘Would you please pass me that trivet?’
I look in the direction of his pointed finger and get up as quickly as the sheet covering me will allow, retrieving the metal pan stand and placing it next to the bowl of strawberries, champagne and glass flutes. ‘There,’ I say, taking my seat again and watching as he shifts the stand a few millimetres to the right before easing the hot pan onto it. I crane my neck over the pan and spy a deep puddle of melted chocolate. ‘That looks delicious.’
He’s next to me now, pulling a chair near and resting his backside on the seat. ‘It tastes delicious, too.’
‘Can I dip?’ I ask, getting my finger ready to plunge.
‘Your finger?’
‘Yes.’ I look to him, finding dark, raised, disapproving eyebrows.
‘It’ll be too warm.’ He grabs the champagne and starts peeling away the foil. ‘And that’s why we have strawberries, anyway.’
His frowning face and abrupt words make me feel childlike. ‘So I can dip a strawberry, but not my finger?’ I see him look at me out of the corner of his eye while he works the cork.
‘I guess so.’ He brushes off my sarcasm and pours the champagne, but not before neatly placing the rubbish that he’s just accumulated into a tidy little pile on a small plate.
He passes me a glass, and I start shaking my head. ‘No, thank you.’
His gasp is barely contained. ‘Livy, this is Dom Pérignon Vintage 2003. You don’t say no to that. Take it.’ He thrusts it forward, and I pull back.
‘I don’t want it, but thank you.’
The look of shock morphs into thoughtfulness. ‘You don’t want this particular drink or any drink?’
‘Water would be good, please.’ I’m not going into this. ‘I appreciate what you’ve done with the strawberries and champagne, but I’d rather have some water, if you don’t mind.’
He’s clearly stunned by my refusal to drink the expensive liquid, but he doesn’t push it, and I’m grateful. ‘As you wish.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile as he leaves me to replace the champagne with water.
‘Tell me you like strawberries,’ he pleads, fetching a bottle of Evian and joining me again.
‘I love strawberries.’
‘That’s a relief.’ He unscrews the lid and pours my water into the other flute. ‘Humour me,’ he says when he catches sight of my furrowed brow. I accept the drink and watch as he takes his time selecting a strawberry before he dips it in the bowl and swirls carefully, coating the ripe fruit with dark chocolate. ‘Open.’ He clasps the seat of my chair with his spare hand and drags me closer so I’m snugly fit between his thighs. His bare chest is slightly distracting.
My jaw loosens automatically, mainly because I’m gaping at his close beauty, and he holds my eyes as he brings the fruit to my mouth until I feel it skimming my lip. My mouth closes around it and my teeth sink in, biting a small piece from its plump flesh. ‘Hmmm,’ I hum happily and reach up to catch a trail of strawberry juice on my chin, but my wrist is seized before I get to wipe it away.
‘Allow me,’ he whispers, edging further into me, his lips homing in on my chin and slowly licking away the juice before he slips the remaining piece past his lips. My chewing has slowed right down, matching the precise motions of his mouth. He swallows. ‘Good?’
My mouth is full, so I nod – knowing Miller’s compulsion for manners – and hold my finger up to indicate a second as I chew quickly. I lick my lips and lean towards the bowl again. ‘You need to feed me another.’
His eyes twinkle as he selects another strawberry and dips and swirls again. ‘It would be even better with champagne,’ he muses, flicking his eyes to mine.
I ignore him and place my water on the table. ‘What chocolate is that?’
‘Ah.’ He brings the strawberry to my mouth, but this time he brushes the runny chocolate across my bottom lip, and my tongue instantly leaves my mouth to clear it up. ‘No.’ He shakes his head and slides his palm around my neck, pulling me in. ‘I get to do that,’ he whispers in my face, moving in.
I don’t fight him off. I let him clean up the mess that he’s made and take the opportunity to rest my palms on his thighs, on either side of my knees. I smooth across the dark hairs of his legs, enjoying the feel of him, while he finishes up at my mouth, kissing the corner of my lips, the centre, and then the other corner.
‘What chocolate is it?’ I repeat quietly, wanting to forget all sweet-tasting things and taste Miller instead.
‘Green and Black’s.’ He offers me the strawberry and I take it, holding it between my teeth. ‘It has to be a minimum of eighty per cent cocoa.’ The strawberry that I’m holding is preventing me from asking why, so I frown instead, prompting him to go on. ‘The bitterness of the chocolate coupled with the sweetness of the strawberry is what makes it so special. Add champagne and you have a perfect combination. And the strawberries simply have to be British.’ He leans in and bites the strawberry that’s wedged between my teeth and juice explodes between us.
I don’t care about the juice all over my chin, or that my mouth is full. ‘Why?’
He finishes chewing and swallows. ‘Because they’re the sweetest you can buy.’ He slips his hands under my thighs and lifts, pulling me forward so I’m astride him on the chair. He takes excruciatingly long to clean me up. It makes my skin heat and my breath catch constantly in my throat as I try to contain the urge to pounce on him. The sheet is yanked away, exposing my full nakedness to him. ‘Bath time.’
‘You don’t need to bathe me,’ I object, wondering how far he’ll take this worshipping business. I’m feeling extremely special, but I can wash myself.
He takes my hands and rests them on his shoulders, then gathers the masses of honey locks framing my face. ‘I absolutely do need to bathe you, Livy.’
‘Yes,’ I answer confidently, although I’ve never found myself asking that question before now. I know that I’m a little on the slender side, Nan reminds me daily, but am I really comfortable? Because the way I’m holding the sheet to me would indicate otherwise.
‘Good.’ He turns back toward the fridge. ‘Then that’s settled.’ A glass bowl appears, piled high with big, juicy strawberries, and then he opens a cupboard which reveals row after row of precisely placed champagne flutes. He grabs two and places them in front of me, then the bowl of strawberries – all washed and hulled – before he’s in another cupboard pulling down a cooling bucket and loading it with ice from the dispenser on the front of the fridge. The bucket gets placed in front of me, the champagne nestled into the ice, and then he’s at the hob, putting on an oven mitt. I watch in fascination as he moves around the kitchen with complete ease, every motion precise and neat, and all done so very carefully. Nothing that he moves or puts down stays in the same position for very long. It gets turned a fraction or repositioned before he’s happy and continuing with something else.
Right now he’s walking towards me, holding a metal pan which is billowing steam from the glass bowl that’s resting on the rim. ‘Would you please pass me that trivet?’
I look in the direction of his pointed finger and get up as quickly as the sheet covering me will allow, retrieving the metal pan stand and placing it next to the bowl of strawberries, champagne and glass flutes. ‘There,’ I say, taking my seat again and watching as he shifts the stand a few millimetres to the right before easing the hot pan onto it. I crane my neck over the pan and spy a deep puddle of melted chocolate. ‘That looks delicious.’
He’s next to me now, pulling a chair near and resting his backside on the seat. ‘It tastes delicious, too.’
‘Can I dip?’ I ask, getting my finger ready to plunge.
‘Your finger?’
‘Yes.’ I look to him, finding dark, raised, disapproving eyebrows.
‘It’ll be too warm.’ He grabs the champagne and starts peeling away the foil. ‘And that’s why we have strawberries, anyway.’
His frowning face and abrupt words make me feel childlike. ‘So I can dip a strawberry, but not my finger?’ I see him look at me out of the corner of his eye while he works the cork.
‘I guess so.’ He brushes off my sarcasm and pours the champagne, but not before neatly placing the rubbish that he’s just accumulated into a tidy little pile on a small plate.
He passes me a glass, and I start shaking my head. ‘No, thank you.’
His gasp is barely contained. ‘Livy, this is Dom Pérignon Vintage 2003. You don’t say no to that. Take it.’ He thrusts it forward, and I pull back.
‘I don’t want it, but thank you.’
The look of shock morphs into thoughtfulness. ‘You don’t want this particular drink or any drink?’
‘Water would be good, please.’ I’m not going into this. ‘I appreciate what you’ve done with the strawberries and champagne, but I’d rather have some water, if you don’t mind.’
He’s clearly stunned by my refusal to drink the expensive liquid, but he doesn’t push it, and I’m grateful. ‘As you wish.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile as he leaves me to replace the champagne with water.
‘Tell me you like strawberries,’ he pleads, fetching a bottle of Evian and joining me again.
‘I love strawberries.’
‘That’s a relief.’ He unscrews the lid and pours my water into the other flute. ‘Humour me,’ he says when he catches sight of my furrowed brow. I accept the drink and watch as he takes his time selecting a strawberry before he dips it in the bowl and swirls carefully, coating the ripe fruit with dark chocolate. ‘Open.’ He clasps the seat of my chair with his spare hand and drags me closer so I’m snugly fit between his thighs. His bare chest is slightly distracting.
My jaw loosens automatically, mainly because I’m gaping at his close beauty, and he holds my eyes as he brings the fruit to my mouth until I feel it skimming my lip. My mouth closes around it and my teeth sink in, biting a small piece from its plump flesh. ‘Hmmm,’ I hum happily and reach up to catch a trail of strawberry juice on my chin, but my wrist is seized before I get to wipe it away.
‘Allow me,’ he whispers, edging further into me, his lips homing in on my chin and slowly licking away the juice before he slips the remaining piece past his lips. My chewing has slowed right down, matching the precise motions of his mouth. He swallows. ‘Good?’
My mouth is full, so I nod – knowing Miller’s compulsion for manners – and hold my finger up to indicate a second as I chew quickly. I lick my lips and lean towards the bowl again. ‘You need to feed me another.’
His eyes twinkle as he selects another strawberry and dips and swirls again. ‘It would be even better with champagne,’ he muses, flicking his eyes to mine.
I ignore him and place my water on the table. ‘What chocolate is that?’
‘Ah.’ He brings the strawberry to my mouth, but this time he brushes the runny chocolate across my bottom lip, and my tongue instantly leaves my mouth to clear it up. ‘No.’ He shakes his head and slides his palm around my neck, pulling me in. ‘I get to do that,’ he whispers in my face, moving in.
I don’t fight him off. I let him clean up the mess that he’s made and take the opportunity to rest my palms on his thighs, on either side of my knees. I smooth across the dark hairs of his legs, enjoying the feel of him, while he finishes up at my mouth, kissing the corner of my lips, the centre, and then the other corner.
‘What chocolate is it?’ I repeat quietly, wanting to forget all sweet-tasting things and taste Miller instead.
‘Green and Black’s.’ He offers me the strawberry and I take it, holding it between my teeth. ‘It has to be a minimum of eighty per cent cocoa.’ The strawberry that I’m holding is preventing me from asking why, so I frown instead, prompting him to go on. ‘The bitterness of the chocolate coupled with the sweetness of the strawberry is what makes it so special. Add champagne and you have a perfect combination. And the strawberries simply have to be British.’ He leans in and bites the strawberry that’s wedged between my teeth and juice explodes between us.
I don’t care about the juice all over my chin, or that my mouth is full. ‘Why?’
He finishes chewing and swallows. ‘Because they’re the sweetest you can buy.’ He slips his hands under my thighs and lifts, pulling me forward so I’m astride him on the chair. He takes excruciatingly long to clean me up. It makes my skin heat and my breath catch constantly in my throat as I try to contain the urge to pounce on him. The sheet is yanked away, exposing my full nakedness to him. ‘Bath time.’
‘You don’t need to bathe me,’ I object, wondering how far he’ll take this worshipping business. I’m feeling extremely special, but I can wash myself.
He takes my hands and rests them on his shoulders, then gathers the masses of honey locks framing my face. ‘I absolutely do need to bathe you, Livy.’
