‘You make me feel as good as I know I make you feel – something that no one else has ever done or ever will. I had sex with women. Nothing about any of those encounters made my heart race.’

‘You said it was pleasurable,’ I remind him, keeping myself attached to him. ‘I didn’t get any pleasure when you took me like that. Did you?’ I definitely remember him cl**axing.

‘I felt nothing but disgrace before, during, and after.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I swore on my own life that I’d never tarnish you with my dirty brush.’

‘Then why didn’t you stop?’

‘I blacked out.’ He drops my lips and shifts uncomfortably. ‘When that switch flicks, I don’t register anything except my own aim.’

‘How do these women get any satisfaction from it?’

‘They desire me. But I’m unobtainable. Everyone wants what they can’t have.’ He watches me closely, almost apprehensively.

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.