Page 47

‘I can taste you wherever I like.’ He lets me slide down the door to my feet and steps back, leaving me resentful of the sudden space between us.

So I close it and circle his waist with my arms, burying my nose in the material of his T-shirt. ‘Let’s just have our thing.’

‘We’re here to work up a sweat.’ He has humour in his tone as he collects my wrists from behind his back and disconnects me from him.

‘There are too many things I could say to that,’ I grumble.

‘Is my sweet girl exposing her sassy streak?’ His eyebrow cocks as he grasps the hem of his T-shirt and slowly pulls it up over his torso, revealing ripple after ripple until I’m cross-eyed with delight.

‘You’re being childish,’ I accuse with slightly narrowed eyes. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘What?’

‘That.’ I wave my arm up and down his chest, and he looks down, that wayward curl falling loose. ‘Put your T-shirt back on.’

‘But I’ll get hot.’

‘I won’t be able to focus, Miller.’ I’m very swiftly feeling the need to punch a bag of sand, but my frustration is of another kind. My finicky, obsessive Miller Hart is playing games and although it’s so very lovely to see him at ease, his tactics are irritating the hell out of me.

‘Tough luck.’ He folds his T-shirt and places it neatly to the side, and then takes my hand, leading me to the huge padded mat where the bag of sand is swaying from the rafters. ‘And your focus will be fine, trust me.’ Looking down at my feet, he frowns. ‘What are you wearing?’

I follow his line of sight and wriggle my toes in my Converse, noticing he’s barefoot. Even his feet and toes are perfect. ‘Shoes.’

‘Take them off,’ he orders, sounding totally exasperated.

‘Why?’

‘You’ll go barefoot. Those things have no support.’ He gives them a disgusted look and points to them, reinforcing his order. ‘Off.’

I grumble under my breath as I kick them off, so I now have bare feet to match Miller. ‘Aren’t you putting your T-shirt on?’ Bare feet, bare chest. This will be torture.

‘No.’ He wanders over to a bench, takes his iPhone from his pocket, and then crouches, placing it in a docking station. He spends an age scrolling before declaring, ‘Perfect,’ as Florence and the Machine’s ‘Rabbit Heart’ fills the huge studio.

I c**k my head a little in surprise as he makes his way back, a face full of purpose, and let him place me where he wants me. I’m mentally cursing his perfect arse to hell and avoiding letting my eyes feast too much. Impossible. ‘What are we doing?’ I ask, watching him collect a long length of material and smooth it through his fingers, folding and arranging it just so.

‘We’re going to spar.’ He takes my hand in his and begins neatly wrapping it in the material while I frown up at his focused face. ‘You’re going to hit me.’

‘What?’ I pull my hand away fast, horrified. ‘I don’t want to hit you!’

‘Yes, you do.’ He almost laughs as he takes my hand back and continues with the wrapping.

‘No, I don’t,’ I affirm, not laughing at all. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘You can’t hurt me, Olivia.’ He releases my hand and collects the other. ‘Well, you can, but not with your fists.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ he sighs, like I should already know, while he keeps up his wrapping task, ‘the only physical pain you can cause me is to my heart.’

My confusion transforms into satisfaction in an instant. ‘But it’s too resilient.’

‘Not where you’re concerned.’ His blue eyes flick briefly to mine. ‘But you already know that, don’t you?’

I hide my satisfied smile and flex my fists beneath the bandaging. ‘I have a vicious swipe,’ I remind him, rightly or wrongly. I don’t particularly relish the reminder of that night, but his cockiness is annoying me. I did well on the punchbag before. I worked up a sweat, and I had the achy arms to prove it.

‘I concur,’ Miller agrees with a hint of sarcasm, grabbing some gloves from a hook and negotiating my hands into them.

‘Why all the wrapping?’

‘Mainly for support, but it’ll also prevent blisters from developing on your knuckles.’

The heat rises in my cheeks. I really am an amateur. ‘Okay.’

‘You’re done.’ He hits the tops of the gloves with his balled fists, sending my arms jolting down. ‘Resistance, Olivia.’

‘You caught me off guard!’

‘Always be on your guard. It’s rule number one.’

‘I’m always on my guard where you’re concerned.’

He bashes the tops of the gloves again, sending them downward . . . again. Then he smirks. ‘Really?’

‘Point taken,’ I mutter, trying in vain to brush a stray hair from my face and getting nowhere.

‘Here, allow me.’

I let him tuck the wayward strand behind my ear and try my very hardest not to rub my cheek onto his hand . . . or cast my eyes to his chest . . . or smell him . . . or . . . ‘Can we get on with this, please?’ I shake him off and bring my gloves to my chin, ready to strike.

‘As you wish.’ He’s smug.

‘So you just want me to crack you one?’

‘You mean hit me?’

‘Knock you out.’

His face twists in amusement. ‘You will not knock me out, Olivia.’