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‘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 cl*t as his h*ps 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.