Denied

‘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.’



‘I might.’ I’m sounding cocky now, and deep down I know I’ll regret it.



‘I love your sass,’ he says on a shake of his head. ‘Take your best shot.’



‘As you wish.’ I quickly draw back my arm and throw it out, aiming straight for his jaw, but he pulls back stealthily, sending me on an uncontrolled spin on the spot, and before I know where I am, he has my back locked against his chest.



‘Good try, sweet girl.’ He bites at my ear and pushes his groin into my lower back, making me choke on a breath mixed with shock and desire. I heave against him, all disorientated; then I’m spun back around and released from his secure grasp. ‘Better luck next time.’



His cocky demeanour injects me with irritation and I immediately thrash out again, hoping to catch him off guard . . . and fail. ‘Oh!’ I cry, finding myself back in the hardness of his chest with his groin pushed into me, his stubbled cheek against mine.



‘Oh dear.’ His breath tickles my ear, and my eyes clench shut while I look for the poise I need to take him on. ‘You’re being driven by frustration. It’s the wrong fuel.’



Fuel? ‘What do you mean?’ I puff.



Releasing me, he places me back in position and brings my fists up to my face. ‘Frustration will make you lose control. Always maintain control.’



My eyes widen at his statement. I don’t remember seeing any element of control all of the times I’ve seen Miller’s fists flying, and judging by the fleeting look that passes over his face, he’s just considered that, too.



‘You don’t help,’ he says quietly, holding his hands out to the sides. ‘Again.’



Mulling over his words, I try to find some calming thoughts and my inner control, but it’s hidden deep and before I can locate it, my arm rockets forward again on impulse, doing nothing more than sending me into a physical tailspin, as well as a mental one. ‘Damn it!’ I curse, pushing my bum back when I feel his h*ps brush up against me again. There’s nothing controlled about this either, my body naturally reacting to the contact. ‘I can do it!’ I yell, annoyed, wriggling free of his grasp before I give in to temptation and turn to rip his shorts off. ‘Give me a minute.’ Taking some deep, calming breaths, I raise my fists to my face and my eyes to his. He’s regarding me thoughtfully. ‘What?’ I ask shortly.



‘I’m just thinking how lovely you look in boxing gloves, all sweaty and exasperated.’



‘I’m not exasperated.’



‘I beg to differ,’ he deadpans, widening his stance. ‘Ready when you are.’



His coolness is heating my annoyance. ‘Why are we doing this?’ I ask, thinking I desperately need to expel some of this pent-up frustration before I explode. My solo gym session was far more satisfying, even if I didn’t have Miller’s sharp physique to focus on.



‘I told you, because I love seeing you all exasperated by me.’



‘You always make me feel exasperated,’ I mutter, extending my arm fast and ending up, yet again, in the heated hardness of Miller’s chest. ‘Damn it!’



‘Frustrated, Olivia?’ he whispers, running his tongue up the edge of my ear. My eyes close, my breathing slowing to breathless gasps that have nothing to do with my exertion. His teeth bite lightly at my ear and shots of desire stab harshly in my groin, making my thighs clench.



‘What’s the point of this?’ I breathe.



‘You’re my possession and I have an appreciation for my possessions, which includes doing anything I can to protect them.’



The words are quite impersonal, but it’s my emotionally wrecked male who’s delivering them, and although it’s a peculiar way of communicating his feelings, I accept that it’s his way. ‘Does this help you?’ I ask, just locating the ability to voice my question through my fevered state that’s fast being diluted by anxiety. He has anger issues.



‘Immensely,’ he confirms, but doesn’t elaborate and instead escalates my fever by lifting me and carrying me across to a wall. I frown, not because I’d like an explanation, even though he’s confirmed my suspicions, but because I’m looking at dozens of coloured, plastic-moulded lumps protruding sporadically from the surface of the wall – starting from the base and staggering up to the ceiling.



‘What are they?’ I ask as he pushes me into a part of the wall that’s free from strange lumpy bits.



‘This’ – he reaches around me and takes my hands, removes the gloves, and slowly unravels the bandages – ‘is a climbing wall. Hold on.’ My hands are placed on two of the plastic moulds. I grip hard, and then I gulp as he gently takes my h*ps and pulls back. ‘Comfortable?’



I can’t speak. All previous pent-up, workout-related stress has made way for anticipation. So I nod.



‘It’s polite to answer someone when they ask you a question, Livy. You know that.’ He pulls my shorts aside, along with my knickers.



‘Miller,’ I gasp, slightly concerned by our location, feeling his fingers skimming my sex. ‘We can’t, not here.’



‘This room is booked out to me daily from six to eight. No one will disturb us.’



‘But the glass . . .’



‘We’re out of sight.’ His finger pushes forward and my forehead meets the wall on a deep inhale of shaky breath. ‘I’ve asked once.’



‘I’m comfortable,’ I answer reluctantly. I’m comfortable in my position, but not in my location.



‘I beg to differ.’ He circles deep, enticing a deep moan from us both. ‘You’re tense.’



Thrust!



‘Oh God.’



‘Loosen up.’ He eases gently into me, this time with two fingers, and his tender movement reduces my tenseness, softening my whole body. ‘Better.’



It is better. The continued slipping of his fingers into me is pushing me into a rapturous state, my mind no longer concerned by our location. I’m too lust-fuelled. I’m quivering. I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m . . . ‘Miller!’



‘Shhhh.’ He hushes me gently and withdraws his fingers, taking a firm but gentle hold of my hips. The loss of friction pushes me to insanity and I release one of the grips and bash the side of my fist into the wall.



‘No, please!’



‘Didn’t I tell you that I’d drive you crazy with desire on a daily basis?’



‘Yes!’



‘And am I?’



‘Yes!’



‘And you know it delights me, right?’



‘Fucking hell! Yes!’



He groans his approval and slips the head of his c**k across my flesh. Then he eases into me on a drawn-out hiss. My knees buckle.



‘Oooh.’ My body liquefies, depending on Miller to hold me up.



‘Steady,’ he breathes, coiling his arm around my waist to support my limp body. My chin drops lifelessly to my chest. ‘It would appear we’ve steered off course.’ His h*ps ease forward, each fraction deeper that he plunges sending me giddier until he’s fitting snugly within me and holding still. In my darkness, I see nothing, but the loss of sense is of no consequence. I can smell him, hear his fitful breaths, feel him, and when his hand slides up my front until his fingers are resting on my lips, I can lick him and taste him, too. ‘Would you like me to move?’ he asks, his voice rough and full of searing hot craving.