One Night: Promised

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  I look over my shoulder to see him holding himself upright, looking down, the sight of his rippling stomach beyond the solid column of muscle he’s holding making me pant.

  ‘Rise and move back.’ He pulls on my hip, guiding me to him, until my kneeling body is straddling his lap. ‘Lower gently.’

  My eyes close as I sink down onto him. ‘Ohhhhh,’ I groan, feeling him impale me, each fraction I lower pushing him deeper and deeper until I have to hold myself on my knees and take some steadying breaths. ‘Too deep,’ I pant. ‘It’s too deep.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’ His hands slide around my front and cup my breasts.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Take your time, Livy. Give your body time to accept me.’

  ‘It does accept you,’ I object. Every modicum of me accepts him. My mind, my body, my heart . . .

  ‘We have all the time in the world. Don’t rush it.’ He circles my nipples and bites into my shoulder. My legs start to tremble, my muscles objecting to my held position, so I lower a little more, holding my breath and letting the back of my head fall onto his shoulder. One hand leaves my breast, dragging up my chest and onto my throat, his whole palm covering it.

  ‘How are you keeping so still?’ I push the words through controlled breaths, wanting to release my leg muscles and take him to the hilt, but I’m wary of the pain it’ll cause.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ He turns his face into my cheek and bites down before kissing it gently. ‘Trust me, it’s taking everything out of me. Down a bit more?’

  I nod and drop a fraction further. ‘Oh God.’ I grit my teeth, the persistent stabbing pain making my head heavy, my face turning into his neck and hiding.

  ‘Get past this and we’re in a whole new world of pleasure.’

  ‘Why does it hurt so much?’

  ‘I don’t want to sound self-assured, but . . .’ He gasps and starts to shake. ‘Fucking hell, Livy.’

  ‘Miller!’ I hold my breath and release the muscles in my legs, falling straight onto his lap on a shocked yelp. ‘Shit!’

  ‘Are you okay?’ he shouts. ‘Jesus, Livy, tell me you’re okay.’

  I’ve broken out in a sweat, and I’m still shaking, despite my relaxed body. It’s beyond my control. ‘I’m okay.’ I nuzzle into his neck some more.

  ‘Am I hurting you?’

  ‘Yes . . . no!’ I pull away from him and delve my hands into my hair in despair. ‘Just give me a moment!’

  ‘How long is a moment?’ he spits.

  I grit my teeth and push up from my knees, only a very small way, before dropping down, less controlled than I planned. He barks. I yelp. ‘Miller, I can’t!’ I feel utterly defeated by the mixture of pleasure and pain. I want to grab hold of the heaviness in my groin and take it to the next level, but my legs haven’t got the strength required to take me there. ‘I can’t do it.’ I fall back against his chest, my arms falling limply to my sides, my breathing laboured from doing hardly anything.

  ‘Shhhh,’ he soothes me. ‘Do you want me to take care of it?’

  ‘Please.’ I feel useless, feeble.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve worked hard enough to break you in, Olivia Taylor.’ He executes a slow, firm rotation of his groin into my bum, keeping deep but not instigating the sharpness that’s causing me discomfort.

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Better?’ he asks, resting his palms on my hips. I nod my acceptance on a sigh, letting him keep us completely close and connected while he grinds continuously, around and around, over and over. ‘How does that feel?’

  ‘Perfect,’ I breathe.

  ‘Can you lift a little bit?’

  I don’t answer, lifting myself a fraction, feeling him slip slightly from my passage. ‘You’re so patient with me,’ I murmur, wondering whether he’s this attentive with every woman he’s slept with.

  ‘You make me appreciate sex, Livy.’ I feel him rise slightly, too, his hands drifting from my hips to my breasts, then onto my shoulders and down my arms where he holds my hands. Lacing his fingers through mine, he lifts my useless limbs and takes them behind his head and holds them there. He thrusts forward gently, pulls back and inches forward once more. ‘Let me taste you.’

  I turn my head and find his eyes. It’s been too long since I’ve seen them. ‘Thank you.’ I don’t know why I’ve said that, but I feel the profound need to voice my gratitude.

  ‘Why are you thanking me?’ His eyes twinkle curiously as he maintains the steady flow of his body into mine. It’s divine, all tenderness long forgotten, being replaced with pure, beautiful pleasure.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admit quietly.

  ‘I do.’ He sounds confident, following up his assured words with a confident kiss, hard but slow, demanding but oh so giving. ‘You’ve never felt like this.’ His hips dip and roll up at an excruciatingly accurate angle, pulling a low, pleasure-filled moan from deep within me. ‘And neither have I.’ He pecks my lips. ‘So I need to thank you, too.’

  I’m starting to shake. ‘Oh God!’ I sound panicked, desperate.

  ‘Keep your hands in my hair,’ he orders tenderly, letting his own hands fall to my breasts. He massages them gently and circles his thumbs over the very tips of my nipples, hurling me beyond pleasure.

  I’m losing control of my muscles, my entire body giving in to wild shakes, and I’m purring, pulling his head closer to locate his lips. ‘Let me taste you.’ I mimic his words, plunging my tongue into his mouth, rolling, retreating and pushing back in, while he tortures my body with his delicate rhythm, so careful and attentive.

  ‘Do I taste as good as you?’ he asks.

  ‘Better.’

  ‘I very much doubt that,’ he claims. ‘I need you to focus, Livy.’ He groans and separates our mouths, his hair damp from sweat and dripping down his face. ‘I’m going to lower you so we can both finish, okay?’ I nod my acceptance, and he kisses me as he takes my hands from his head and pushes me down so I’m on all fours. ‘Comfortable?’

  ‘Yes.’ I shift my arms, feeling no reluctance or vulnerability at being so exposed. I’m at complete ease, and when he repositions himself, widening his stance and taking a gentle hold of my hips, my blissed-out mind just blisses out more. I take a deep breath as he lazily withdraws, then let it all rush back out when he plunges forward. ‘Ohhhhhhhhhhh . . .

  One hand leaves my hip and his fingers walk up my spine, each connection of his fingertips on my skin singeing my flesh. When he reaches my neck, he flattens his palm and strokes his way down until he’s at my bottom, rubbing soft, wide circles. ‘Jesus, Livy, I’m in awe of such perfection.’

  My legs may have been relieved from holding my weight, but my arms are now shaking in their place. ‘Miller.’ I resist collapsing to my front and try to rein in the uncontrollable spasms.

  He jerks forward on a curse, and then reaches under my stomach, feeling down until his fingers are slipping across my throbbing flesh. I cry out, my head dropping, my hair pooling on the bed beneath me. ‘You need a little help.’ His throat sounds sore, his voice like gravel. ‘Let it take hold.’ He slips his fingers back and forth over my clit as his hips advance and retreat, and his spare hand finds my breast, his grip compressing gently. I’m in sensory overload, helpless to what my body’s striving to find.

  Explosion.

  Release.

  And it comes fast, my bottom flying back on a choked cry, my arms finally giving out.

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ he cries, tugging me onto him and grinding deeply. He sighs and holds us connected while he thrusts the remnants of our pleasure away, mumbling confused words quietly.

  I don’t think I’m quite with it. My mind is a pleasure-induced fuzz, not allowing me to think straight, and my body is totally replete. It’s morning. I’ll never survive his endurance all day. I let him grind into me lazily, him groaning, me trying to stabilise my pleasure-fuelled gasps.

  ‘Come here, sweet girl,’ he murmurs, pulling at my body impatiently.

 
; ‘I can’t move,’ I breathe, going limp.

  ‘Yes, for me, you can move.’ He doesn’t leave me be, instead becoming more impatient, so I heave my exhausted body up and turn to him, letting him lift me and position my thighs on either side of his lap. His head cocks to the side a little as he runs his eyes down my torso, his hands skating slowly up and down my sides. ‘I’ve been desperate to touch you all night.’

  ‘You could’ve felt me.’

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘You misunderstand.’

  ‘How?’ I don’t pass up this opportunity to touch his hair, twisting a lock between my fingers.

  ‘Touch you, not feel you.’ He looks up at me and I frown, not quite fathoming the difference. ‘Feeling you gives me untold pleasure, Livy.’ Dipping, he kisses the centre of my chest. ‘But touching you, touching your soul. That’s beyond the realms of pleasure.’ His eyes make a slow blink as he returns them to mine, and it’s in this moment that I realise he doesn’t do it on purpose. His slow movements are part of this man disguised as a gentleman. This is him. ‘It’s like something powerful happens,’ he whispers. ‘And the pleasure of making love to you is just a little bonus.’

  ‘I’m still frightened,’ I admit. Even more so with every hopeful word he says to me.

  ‘I’m a little terrified of you, too.’ He brings his hand between our chests and rubs feathery circles around my nipple.

  Dropping my eyes, I watch his movements. ‘I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of what you can do to me.’

  ‘I can make you feel like no other, like you have me,’ he murmurs. ‘Take you to pleasure-filled places beyond your imagination, places that you have taken me.’ Dipping his head, he takes my breast between his teeth and grazes the tip of my nipple, encouraging my head to fall back and my lungs to drain of air. ‘That’s what I can do to you, Olivia Taylor. And it’s what you do for me.’

  ‘You already have.’ My voice is unrecognisable, fuelled with lust, bursting with desire.

  He’s suddenly moving, carrying me forward and placing me on my back, his body covering me completely and my arms settling over his shoulders. I’m looking up at him, my eyes spoilt for places to settle – his wet hair falling onto his face, his stubble darkening his jaw, but it’s the pull of his glistening eyes that captures mine. Whenever he catches my attention with that gaze, I’m hypnotised . . . helpless. I’m his.

  ‘You look good in my bed,’ he declares quietly. ‘Messy, but good.’

  ‘I look a mess?’ I ask, injured, thinking he should’ve let me take the shower I wanted.

  ‘No, you misunderstand.’ He frowns, clearly frustrated by my misinterpretation of his words, but I heard all too well what he just said. ‘My bed looks messy. You look gorgeous.’

  My lips start twitching as I realise his issue. I bet he sleeps deathly still, the covers folded neatly at his waist, whereas I’m a fidget in my sleep, and I know this because of the state of my own bed in the mornings – a bit like Miller’s bed is right now. ‘Would you like me to make your bed?’ I ask seriously, hoping the answer is no because, quite frankly, the thought scares me. I’ve seen the precision of the fancy cushions and the silk runner across the centre. I expect he keeps a ruler in the drawer of his bedside cabinet to measure the exact distance from the headboard to the sheets and from the pillows to the runner.

  He knows I’m teasing, despite my success in keeping a straight face and even voice. His thoughtful look confirms it. ‘As you wish.’ He kisses my startled face and pushes his naked body from the bed, standing to the side and removing the condom before taking his perfection to the bathroom to dispose of it.

  I should’ve kept my mouth shut. My bedmaking efforts will never come up to scratch. Shifting to the edge of his bed, I stand and stare blankly at the mess of sheets, wondering where to start. The pillows. I should start with the pillows. Grabbing one of the four plump rectangles, I arrange it neatly, then set another by its side before placing the remaining two on top of each, running my palms over the surfaces to smooth the cotton. Happy with the result, I take two corners of the quilt and fling my arms skyward, flapping the sheet into a perfect square that floats gently down to the bed. I’m pleased with myself, it looks tidy, but I know it’s not tidy enough, so I set on a journey around the bed, pulling at corners and ironing out the crinkles with my palms. Then I open the lid of the giant chest and begin placing the cushions, trying my hardest to remember the exact positioning from when I was last here. When I’m satisfied with my display, I slide the silk throw across the centre and tweak the edges into place.

  I smile triumphantly and stand back, admiring my handiwork. He can’t possibly turn his nose up at that. It looks spectacular.

  ‘Happy with yourself?’

  I swing my naked body around and find Miller, arms folded, leaning up against the door frame of the bathroom. ‘I think I’ve done a good job.’

  He casts his eyes over the bed and pushes himself away from the frame, walking over slowly and thinking hard. He doesn’t think it’s a good job at all. He wants to start all over again, and the juvenile side of me is willing him to do just that, just so I have ammo to poke fun at him.

  ‘You’re dying to pull it all off and start again, aren’t you?’ I ask, mirroring his folded arms and close studying of his bed.

  He shrugs nonchalantly, blatantly feigning acceptance. ‘It’ll do.’

  I smile. ‘It’s perfect.’

  He sighs and walks off, leaving me to admire his bed. ‘Livy, that is far from perfect.’ He disappears into his wardrobe and I follow behind, discovering Miller pulling some black boxers up his thighs.

  It’s hard to form words when confronted with such a sight. ‘Why the need to have everything just so?’ I ask, watching as his fluid movements falter at my question.

  He doesn’t look at me, only continues arranging the waistband of his boxers around his hips. ‘I appreciate my possessions.’ His answer is reluctant and curt and clearly not going to be elaborated on. ‘Breakfast?’

  ‘I have no clothes,’ I remind him.

  He takes a leisurely jaunt down my nakedness with sparkling eyes. ‘You’re fine as you are.’

  ‘I’m naked.’

  His face is completely impassive. ‘Yes; as I said, fine.’ He proceeds to pull on some black shorts and a grey T-shirt, and something in this moment makes me wonder if Miller Hart has ever stepped out in anything less than a three-piece suit.

  ‘I’d feel more comfortable if I had some cover,’ I argue quietly, annoyed with myself for sounding so unsure and timid.

  He straightens his T-shirt and regards me closely, making me shift and feel even more uncomfortable, now that he’s clothed. ‘As you wish,’ he grumbles, and I waste no time seeking out something to throw on.

  Flicking through the rails of shirts, I lose a bit of patience at the constant stream of dress shirts and pull down a blue one by the sleeve in exasperation.

  ‘Livy, what are you doing?’ He chokes the words out as I feed my arms through the sleeves.

  ‘Covering myself,’ I reply, my actions slowing as I register the look of pure horror on his face.

  He seems to release a calming breath, and then he’s on his way over to me and quickly removing the shirt from my body. ‘Not in a five-hundred-pound shirt.’

  I’m naked again and watching as he rehangs the shirt and starts brushing down the front, huffing his annoyance when the minuscule crease that I’ve created doesn’t disappear. I can’t laugh. He’s too aggravated, and it’s quite alarming.

  After a good few moments of Miller faffing with the shirt and me watching on in shock, he yanks it down, screws it up and tosses it in a wash basket. ‘Needs washing,’ he mutters, stomping over to a drawer and pulling it open. He lifts out a pile of black T-shirts and sets the stack on the cabinet in the centre of the room before taking each shirt individually and starting another pile to the side. When he reaches the last, he shakes it out and hands it to me, then goes about lowering the n
ewly rotated pile of T-shirts back into the drawer.

  As I watch him, completely fascinated, I steel myself to acknowledge something that’s been pretty obvious for quite some time. He’s not just tidy. Miller Hart suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

  ‘Are you going to put it on?’ he asks, still clearly annoyed.

  I don’t say anything; I’m not sure what to, so I pull it over my head and down my body, thinking he lives his life to military precision, and I might have thrown him a curveball with my presence, although he keeps putting me here, so I shouldn’t be too concerned about it.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I enquire nervously, wishing he’d put me back in his bed and resume worshipping me.

  ‘Fine and dandy,’ he mutters, very un-fine and un-dandy -like. ‘I’ll make us breakfast.’

  My hand is clasped abruptly and I’m pulled through the bedroom with purpose. It doesn’t pass my notice that Miller makes a terrible job of pretending to ignore the bed, his jaw ticking a little as he glances out of the corner of his eye to the neat covers and pillows – neat by my standards, anyway.

  ‘Please, sit,’ he instructs when we reach his kitchen, leaving me to lower my naked bum to the cool surface of the chair. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘I’ll have what you’re having,’ I say, thinking I should make this as easy as possible for him.

  ‘I’m having fruit and natural yogurt. Would you like that?’ He opens the fridge and lifts out a stack of plastic containers, all containing various chopped fruits.

  ‘Please,’ I answer on a sigh, praying we’re not heading down that familiar road of shortness and detachment. It feels like it.

  ‘As you wish.’ His tone is clipped as he sets about taking bowls down from the cupboard, spoons from the drawer, and yogurt from the fridge.

  I’m silent as I watch him. Each object he puts in front of me is nudged to get it just so. Orange juice is squeezed, coffee brewed, and he’s sitting opposite me in no time. I’m not touching a thing. I dare not. It’s all been placed with utter precision, and I won’t risk lowering his mood further by moving anything.