Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

“Ethan,” I whisper. That’s all it takes for him to come, for his back muscles to turn to stone under my hands, for his eyes to slam shut as he savors every minute of it.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The touching doesn’t let up for a minute. He’s mapping me with his hands. I went to bed with a sexual beast and woke up with Helen Keller––if Helen Keller were a six foot two gorgeous slab of man meat. Gripping my hips, he grinds against me.

“You’re full of surprises.”

He kisses my neck and murmurs, “Hmm, how?” on my skin.

“Why tonight? What happened?”

A weighty pause follows.

“I’m so damn tired of fighting it…aren’t you?” The last few words are tentative, vulnerable.

“Yeah, I am. But I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“We’ll be careful.”

“Living dangerously, counselor. I might have to revoke your Mr. Perfect card.”

“Mr. Perfect?” he parrots. “Hardly. Far from it, in fact.”

I turn onto my back and peer up at him. “Right.”

His eyes roam over my face while his remains inscrutable. “But I wouldn’t mind being perfect for you,” he says quietly with a half-smile that’s tentative and shy and makes my insides fuzzy, makes me want to be perfect for him. And that is not what this is about.

His gaze sharpens on me. “I want to show you something.”

Before I can respond, he’s out of bed and walking naked to his dresser and holy moly is the view spectacular. A minute later he’s back, walking toward me all easy grace, his heavy erection bobbing with every step he takes, the dark hair surrounding it neat and tidy––of course. Time for an obligatory eye roll.

“I’ve seen it and I approve.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “I mean these,” he says, motioning to the stack of pictures in his hand.

Pictures? Who gives a crap about pictures when I have an interactive feast for the senses before me. He slides back into bed, and my face turns into sad Emoji. Jeez, I’m worse than a kid with a new toy.

He sidles up next to me and wraps his muscular arm around my neck––touching me, needing the connection as much as I do.

The pictures he hands me look old, weathered on the edges. They’ve been handled a lot. I sit up, to get a better look, and Ethan’s hand spontaneously falls on my lower back. The warmth radiating from his palm sinks all the way to my bones. A lazy warmth spreads through me. It feels so bloody good my eyelids get droopy. There’s only one thing that feels better and that’s his magic d…

“Amber?”

“Yeah,” I say, shaking off the daze.

My interest perks up at the first picture. A healthy looking boy with a very deep tan and an amazing grin peers back at me. Around eleven or twelve, he’s already incredibly handsome. He’s also holding up a fish half the size of his torso, looks quite proud of himself.

“Very cute.” I trace the boy’s features with my fingertip. “I see promise of perfection in your smile. Where was this taken?” My question is met by silence, compelling me to look over my shoulder. My smile slips when I realize the one Ethan is wearing is fixed in place, held up by sheer force of will.

“Sun Valley, Idaho. And that’s not me.” Sitting up, he gently takes the picture. “That’s Jake.” Pointing at the figure in the corner, he says, “And that’s me.”

In the background, a skinny kid sits on a rock. He’s wearing a crooked baseball cap, glasses, and he’s holding a book. He also looks incredibly sad. “We took that trip shortly after the cancer went into remission…the first time.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. This is not the time to be stingy with the fucks. There’s suddenly an elephant sitting on my chest. An overwhelming urge to cry for that little boy hunched over with his chin resting on his hand takes hold of me.

“I was a late bloomer.”

Ethan pulls the next picture out and it’s the same little boy standing next to the much huskier one, an enormous Christmas tree behind them. Jake is smiling, his arm hanging around Ethan’s neck. Ethan, however, is not smiling. The sad little duckling became a swan.

I glance up at him and the brief smile he gives me doesn’t reach his eyes.

Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not freaking cry.

He’s trying to make me feel better. Me. Here I am, staring at the source of the most profound pain a child can experience and he’s trying to comfort me.

My eyes flicker away from his, back to the pictures. I’m barely holding it together, and if I look at him I will lose it.

He pulls the third picture out and my eyes go straight to the gorgeous woman standing between the two boys. She has a colorful scarf wrapped around her head, and although she’s wearing a huge smile that’s almost a carbon copy of Ethan’s, she’s so tall and thin it looks like a light breeze could push her over.