Just as we breach the entrance to his bedroom, I’m swiftly scooped up and carried across the room. I’m a little shocked, but the rightness of it prevents me from saying anything. He’s so strong and impeccably formed, a true masterpiece of a man, and he feels as good as he looks. When I’m placed on my feet just inside the bathroom doorway, I glance back into his bedroom and quickly reach a swift conclusion. The soles of my feet are covered in chocolate. His are not. He didn’t want to mess up his carpet. He’s pottering around the bathroom, all particular about where he puts things – the towels, the toiletries – and he doesn’t give me a second glance as he passes me, going back into the bedroom, leaving me feeling small and awkward. I frown to myself and wrap my arms around my na**d body, while I stand silently gazing around the immense bathroom until he’s eventually back. He turns the shower on and tests the water. He has no problem with nudity, and it’s hardly surprising. There’s absolutely nothing for him to be shy about.
‘After you.’ He sweeps his arm out, gesturing toward the mega shower space.
I’m hesitant, however I manage to find direction and shuffle forward, na**d and coated in chocolate. I glace up at an impassive face as I pass him. He’s all formal and cold, a complete about-turn from five minutes ago.
‘Thank you,’ I murmur, stepping under the hot spray and immediately looking down, seeing chocolate water pooling at my feet. I’m alone for a few moments, keeping my eyes down until his feet appear in my field of vision. Even they are perfect. My eyes start a slow climb up his body, studying every perfect, hard inch, until I’m watching him squirt soap onto his palm. Those palms are going to be on me any second, but judging by the look on his face, this isn’t going to be a steamy shower scene. He’s concentrating too hard on the massaging of suds between his hands.
Without a word, he crouches in front of me and starts rubbing the shower cream into my thighs, slowly washing away the chocolate. I can do no more than watch quietly, but the lack of speaking is making me feel uncomfortable. ‘What do you do for a living?’ I ask, trying to break the awkward silence.
He pauses, but quickly picks up his pace again. ‘I don’t think we should get into personal chit-chat, given our arrangement, Livy.’ He doesn’t look at me, choosing to remain focused on my clean-up. I wish I had kept quiet because those words haven’t relieved my unease; I just feel even more awkward. I’m compelled to know more about him, but he’s right. The knowledge will serve no purpose and will only make this cosier than it’s supposed to be.
He continues to sweep those splendid hands all over my skin, not saying a word or even looking at me. After the intimacy of our night so far, this is difficult and unwelcome. It’s like we’re strangers. Well, we are, yet the man kneeling before me is the only person on God’s earth whom I’ve shared myself with. Not my past or any troubles, but my sober body and my vulnerability. He’s made me question my approach to life and men. He’s lured me in with a false sense of security, and now he’s carrying on like this is business, not pleasure.
I’m perplexed, but I shouldn’t be. I knew the deal, yet his tenderness and the fact that he absolutely has not f**ked me, perhaps gave me false hope of this being more, which is obscene. He’s really a stranger and an unpredictable, moody, intimidating one at that.
My speeding thoughts are interrupted when his hands make it to my shoulders, the firmness of his thumbs working into my flesh deliciously. And he’s now looking at me, his face still straight and his hair sopping wet, looking longer with the water weighing down his waves. Lowering his face, he kisses me gently but sweetly before resuming the task of ridding my body of chocolate.
What was that?
A tender display of affection? A caring gesture? Natural instinct? Or was it just a friendly kiss? The heat of our mouths together suggested otherwise, but his face doesn’t. I should leave. I’m not sure how I thought this evening would pan out, but I should have thought harder, and then I’m sure that I would’ve passed his offer up. This shouldn’t be me, and I’ve swiftly been dragged from awe to resentment.
I’m just about to declare my intention to halt our arrangement when he speaks. ‘Tell me how it’s possible that you’ve not been taken by a man in seven years,’ he asks, pushing some wet hair from my face.
I sigh, dropping my face until it’s quickly forced back to his. ‘I . . .’ Whatever can I say? ‘It’s just that . . .’
‘Go on,’ he pushes soothingly.
I find avoiding his question easy when I suddenly recall his previous statement. ‘Given our “arrangement”, I thought we weren’t going to do chit-chat.’
His frown matches mine. He looks embarrassed. ‘So I did.’ My neck is gripped by his hand over my wet hair and I’m directed from the shower. ‘Forgive me.’
I’m still frowning as he dries me off with a towel, and then takes my neck again, leading me from the bathroom towards his giant leather bed. It’s dressed beautifully, all plush with deep-red crushed velvet and gold scatter cushions placed delicately. I didn’t notice it before, but I know it couldn’t have been this neat when I got up earlier, so it’s been remade. I don’t want to ruin the preciseness of it again, but Miller releases me and starts taking the cushions and placing them neatly in a chest at the end of the bed before he draws back the quilt and nods for me to climb in.
I step forward cautiously and slowly clamber onto the huge bed, feeling like the princess and the pea. Nestling down, I watch as he slips in beside me and plumps his pillow before resting his head and snaking his arm around my waist, gently tugging me towards his body. I move instinctively into the warmth of his chest, knowing this is wrong. I know it’s wrong, even more so when he takes my hand, kisses my knuckles, and then places my palm on his chest and lays his over it, beginning a guided caress of his skin.