I sever our eye contact, trying to process all of this, but Miller interrupts my train of thought.

‘Do you know the statistics when it comes to women cl**axing during penetrative sex?’

My gaze lifts. ‘No.’

‘It’s incredibly rare. Every woman I f**k comes when I’m inside her. I don’t even have to try. That kind of makes me talented. And in demand.’

I’m stunned into silence, astounded by his frankness. He’s explaining like it’s a burden. It might be. And exhausting. My poor, innocent mind is racing, and it homes right in on a little detail. My orgasm in the hotel room. I didn’t try for that one. I was shut off from my body. It came all by itself . . . but then my spiralling thoughts register something else. ‘You had to help me once,’ I breathe, remembering feeling so useless and frustrated. ‘You used your fingers.’

He frowns. ‘That makes you even more special.’

‘I’ve buggered up your flawless track record.’

He smiles at me, pulling one from me, too. It’s ridiculous that I’m mirroring his amusement, but the alternative is wretchedness. ‘Arrogance is a really ugly emotion,’ he whispers.

My eyes widen. ‘Says you?’ I choke.

He shrugs.

‘I might sell my story,’ I announce seriously, watching as his mild smile spreads into the rare, full-blown one I cherish seeing. ‘London’s most notorious male escort loses his touch.’ I remain serious, watching his eyes continue to twinkle and his mouth twitching.

‘What will it cost me for your silence?’ he asks.

I look up to the ceiling and pout, feigning thinking hard about his question when I know exactly what I’m going to say, and I knew the moment he posed the question to me. I return my eyes to his. ‘A lifetime of worshipping.’

‘I hope you mean from me.’ Our lips reattach.

‘Exclusively. You owe me a thousand pounds,’ I mumble against his mouth, making him pull away on a puckered brow. ‘I paid for goods that I wasn’t satisfied with. I want my money back.’

‘You want a refund?’ He smiles, but it falls away in a second, being replaced with worry. ‘I left your money on the table.’

‘Oh.’ I sit up and straddle his lap, not matching his concern at all. I don’t want that money any more than I want the thousands that are stashed in the bank accounts where it came from. ‘I bought you dinner.’ I shrug.

‘Livy, oysters and wine do not cost a thousand pounds.’

‘Then I bought you dinner and left a very generous tip.’

His lips press into a straight line in an obvious attempt to restrain his amusement. ‘Now you’re just being silly.’

‘And you are being uptight.’

‘I beg your pardon!’

‘Oh, lighten up!’ I collapse onto his chest and nuzzle into him.

He scoffs at my insult but cuddles me fiercely. ‘Your request has been noted, Miss Taylor.’

I grin into his skin, feeling an overwhelming sense of happiness. ‘Jolly good, Mr Hart.’

‘Cheeky.’

‘You love my sassy streak.’

He sighs deeply and rests the side of his head on mine. ‘I do,’ he whispers. ‘If you’re sassy with me, I love it, most of the time.’

His indirect declaration cements it for me. I’m utterly and completely in love with Miller Hart. He turns me away from his body and pulls my back into his chest. My head rests on his forearm and my hand finds his, our fingers intertwining in a silent message.

Never let go.

‘Unobtainable,’ I whisper on a sigh.

‘I’m perfectly obtainable to you, Olivia Taylor.’ He constricts me, inhaling deeply before tenderly kissing the back of my head. ‘I’ve never made love to a woman in my life.’ I barely hear his words. ‘Only you.’

His sobering confession sinks into my mind, shocking me. ‘Why me?’ I ask quietly, refraining from spinning over to see his eyes. I shouldn’t make a big deal of it, even though it’s a huge deal.

He sinks his nose into my hair and breathes me into him. ‘Because when I look into those bottomless sparkling sapphires, I see freedom.’

My body relaxes on a contented sigh. I would not have thought I could take my eyes from the stunning outlook of Miller’s squidgy sofa, but when he follows up his heartfelt words with his signature hum, I’m proven wrong. London slowly disappears before my eyes, and the horrid images I’ve fought and failed to remove from my mind’s eye for so long disappear with it.

Chapter Twelve

I come awake slowly, feeling safe and content, the hardness of Miller’s torso pushed into my back, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist and his face buried snugly in my neck. Smiling, I melt further into him, closing any space there may have been, gripping his hand on my tummy with mine. It’s early, the rising sun offering a hazy glow through the window, and I’m warm and cosy, but I’m also thirsty. Completely parched.

Breaking away from Miller’s firm clench is close to unthinkable, but I can quickly find my place again once I’ve quenched my thirst. So I tentatively peel my body from his, detaching his arms from around my midriff and shifting towards the edge of the sofa, being sure not to disturb him. Then I quietly stand and study him for a while. His hair is everywhere, his dark lashes spread and his full lips slightly parted. He looks angelic, beautifully tangled up among the blankets. My emotionally impaired part-time gentleman.

I could remain here motionless for an eternity, just watching him sleeping serenely. He looks peaceful. I feel peaceful. The air surrounding us is so peaceful.

On a contented exhale, I take my na**d self out to the corridor and follow my feet until I’m standing before one of Miller’s paintings. London Bridge. I c**k my head, pouting while I ponder his perception of the landmark, the blur of paints sending my eyes crossed after a few moments of staring, making me see the bridge perfectly. Then I frown, uncrossing my eyes, making the painting a perfect mess of oil paints again. He’s taken a beautiful London landmark and made it almost unappealing – like he wants people to be averse to its actual beauty, and it’s in this moment I wonder if Miller Hart sees everything in his life as distorted and unclear. Does he see the whole world in this tainted manner? My neck retracts as another speculating moment descends on me abruptly. Does he see himself in this tainted manner? At a distance, the painting looks perfect, but get up close and beneath the surface, you find a wreck. A mess of colour – something ugly and confusing. I think he does see himself like this, and I think he goes all out to blur people’s perception of him, too. The sobering thought is paining but equally maddening. He’s beautiful inside and out. But I may be the only person on this planet who knows that for sure.

A distant chiming sends me on a startled jump and yanks me from my pondering, my hand flying up to my chest to put some pressure on my suddenly pumping heart. ‘Jesus!’ I blurt, following the sound until I’m rummaging through my bag for my new phone. A glance at the screen tells me it’s five-fifteen and Nan’s calling. ‘Oh shit!’ I answer immediately. ‘Nan!’

‘Olivia! Oh my goodness, where are you?’ She sounds beside herself, and my face screws up guiltily, mixed with a little dread. ‘I woke to use the toilet and checked your room. You’re not in bed!’

‘Well obviously.’ I wince and drop my bare bum to a chair, hiding from no one by burying my face in my spare palm. I hear a little gasp through the phone. It’s a gasp of realisation. It’s a happy gasp.

‘Olivia, sweetheart, are you with Miller?’ She’s silently begging the answer is yes, I know she is.

My na**d shoulders rise and brush my earlobes. ‘Yes,’ I squeak, my face screwing up further. I should be apologising for causing her such worry, but I’m too busy clamping down on my bottom lip in anticipation of her reaction to this news.

Nan coughs, clearly trying to restrain her squeal of delight. ‘I see.’ She’s failing terribly to sound nonchalant. ‘Well, um, in that case, uh, I’m sorry for disturbing you.’ She coughs again. ‘Yes, I’ll be going, then.’

‘Nan.’ I roll my eyes, my face heating with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, I should have called you to—’

‘On no!’ she screeches, piercing my eardrum. ‘It’s fine! So, so fine!’

I knew it would be. ‘I’ll be home to get ready for work.’

‘Okay!’ She must be waking the whole street. ‘George is taking me shopping early. I might not be here.’

‘I’ll see you after work, then.’

‘Ooooh, with Miller? I’ll do dinner! Beef Wellington! He said it was the best he’d tasted!’

I rub my forehead and flop back in the chair. I should have expected this. ‘Maybe another time.’

‘Oh, well, I can’t organise my life around you two.’ She can and she would. ‘Enquire as to what day would suit him.’

‘I will. See you later.’

‘Yes, you will.’ She sounds slighted, and her tone is threatening. I’m going to be grilled later.

‘Bye.’ I go to disconnect the call.

‘Oh, Livy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Give his buns a little squeeze from me.’

‘Nan!’ I gasp, hearing her giggling as she hangs up on me, leaving me gaping at her crude comment. The filthy minx! I’m about to throw my phone down on the table in disgust, but the text icon catches my eye, telling me I have a message. And I know who it’s from. I open it, despite wanting to throw this phone at the wall, too.

I would appreciate being enlightened

on this evening’s events. William.

He wants me to check in? I scowl at my phone, then toss it on the table. I’m not telling him anything, no matter how terse the demand. Nor am I going to let him talk me out of this. Or force me out of this. Never. Resolute and confident, I stand, suddenly eager to join Miller back on the sofa. I hurry over to the cupboard, grab a glass, and fill it from the tap, not prepared to delay myself further by fussing with bottled spring water. I glug it all down, place the glass carefully in the dishwasher, and then make my way back towards Miller’s studio, pulling to a sudden halt when I spot my dress strewn across the floor. Or still strewn across the floor. He’s not picked it up, folded it neatly, and placed it deftly in his bottom drawer? I frown at the offending garment, not being able to resist scooping it up and shaking it out before folding it. Then I stand thoughtfully for a few moments and before I know it, I’m in the studio staring at all of his clothes scattered everywhere. I know his painting space is typically a royal mess, but his suit doesn’t belong in here on the floor. It’s all wrong.

I hurry and gather up his clothes, shoving them under my arm and doing my best to smooth and fold while I take myself to his room. I wander through to his wardrobe, making sure everything is put in its rightful place – his jacket, trousers and waistcoat hung up; his shirt, socks and boxers in the laundry basket; and his tie on his tie rack. Then I make sure my dress and shoes land in the bottom drawer of his dresser in the bedroom. I start to leave and notice the bed is a huge mess, too, so I spend a good ten minutes messing with the sheets, attempting to restore it to its former glory. He’s slept through the night, with no tormenting thoughts or dreams of items in the wrong place. I don’t want him diving up in a panic to fix that. Creeping quietly back to the studio, I slip under the blankets, shift cautiously so I don’t disturb him . . . and squeal when I’m seized by the waist and yanked onto his body. I don’t get a moment to gather myself. I’m hauled up and carried to his bedroom where he throws me on the bed with no consideration that I’ve just perfected it. Or probably not perfected it by Miller’s standards.