Ethan nips at my lower lip, and it’s my turn to open my mouth, my turn to moan. He takes instant advantage, his tongue stealing inside to explore. Now that he’s got me, I expect an invasion, an annexation. In my experience, that’s how most guys kiss. Like they’re claiming your mouth for the motherland or something. Like you’re some prize they’ve won and have to mark or risk losing.
But Ethan’s been different all along, and in this, he continues to be. He doesn’t thrust his tongue inside me, doesn’t try to conquer by enthusiastic force. Instead, he coaxes. He charms. He seduces. And against that, I have no defense.
The tip of his tongue slides gently along my own, circling slowly, slowly, slowly. Licking along the top of my tongue, then the bottom before moving on to the inside of my cheek, the roof of my mouth. He plays with the frenulum between my upper lip and my gum, and I shudder a little—no one’s ever done that before and it’s shocking how good it feels.
His hands come up to cup my face, to tilt my head this way and that so he can delve deeper. So I can welcome him wholly inside me. And I do. For these few, stolen moments out of time, I welcome everything he can give me.
He tastes like spearmint and lemonade. And blueberries. Always blueberries. On him, they taste delicious. Sweet and tart and oh so addicting.
Need, powerful and unexpected, blossoms inside me, and the fingers I still have tangled in his hair tighten as I pull him more tightly against me. I’m the aggressor now, the one on fire. The one who craves, who wants to conquer. And if there’s a part of me that’s shaking with nerves, with fear, then I ignore it. Shove it deep inside me to the place where everything I don’t want to deal with goes, and concentrate on the now.
Concentrate on Ethan.
I press my mouth more firmly against his, relish the groan he makes no effort to hide. Relish even more the feel of his body, hard and hot and aroused, against my own. In that moment, I swear if I could have pulled him inside me, I would have.
Instead, I stroke my tongue along the edge of his bottom lip, then do the same to his top one. I pay special attention to the corners of his mouth—God, I love how he tastes—and the perfect bow at the center of his upper lip. Then, when I can’t take it anymore, I pull his lower lip between my teeth and nip softly. Once, and then again.
It must be the sign he’s been waiting for, the permission I didn’t know he wanted. Because suddenly I’m up against the wall, one leg wrapped around his hip as his mouth plunders mine.
His hand is on my thigh, his fingers stroking the sensitive flesh on the inside of my knee as he kisses me and kisses me and kisses me.
I shudder, clutch at him, arch into him. He groans, low in his throat, his fingers tightening in my hair and on my thigh. Not enough to hurt, but definitely enough to ground me. To let me know that he’s no more ready to let go of me than I am to be released.
My own hands come up to tangle in the cool, ebony silk of his hair. To tug and pull and claim. And still the kiss goes on, until my lips feel hot and swollen and achy from the pressure. Until my breasts and my sex feel exactly the same way.
In that one, perfect moment, I want more. I want everything. Everything I’ve denied myself since I was fifteen years old. Everything I’ve told myself I don’t want and shouldn’t have.
Ethan’s hand slides up, up, up my thigh, sneaks under my skirt, and skates along the edge of my panties. I freeze at the unexpected caress—and everything comes rushing back. The reason I’m here, what I wanted to accomplish with this visit, the promise I made myself just minutes ago about not giving in to this thing between us, whatever it is. And the fear that I’m working so hard to pretend it doesn’t exist.
But it does exist, and as it rises up inside me, I don’t know how to deal with it. How to keep it at bay. Not now, when the rigid control I keep on myself seems as nebulous as the security it brings me.
“Ethan. ” I drag my mouth from his, use every ounce of willpower I have to stay calm. To stay here with him instead of drifting back to a time and place I’ve done my best to forget.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you, Chloe. ” He whispers the words in my ear, his breath hot against my cheek. “I’ve got you. Let me make you feel good. Nothing else. Just that. ”
He hesitates, doesn’t move as he waits for an answer I don’t have. I ache with wanting him to touch me, with the need to feel the agony and the ecstasy that comes with being loved by him. But at the same time I’m afraid I’ll freak out and ruin everything. It’s what I’m good at, after all. Ruining things.
Again, I try to separate what is from what was. Who I am from who I used to be. I don’t know if it works, only that I want Ethan to touch me.
I burrow closer, bury my head against his chest. He relaxes, tension I didn’t even know was there slowly leaving his body as he once again strokes his fingers along my sex.
Every bone in my body goes weak and I lean my head back, rest it against the wall as I allow Ethan an intimacy I’ve never granted anyone before.
I gasp, arch against him as his finger strokes its way inside my panties and down to the very heart of me. He leans forward, murmurs soothingly in my ear once more. But this time it’s all nonsense to me. He might be making sense, might be perfectly coherent, but I can’t understand him. Can’t focus on anything other than his fingers as they slowly—oh so slowly—press into my sex.
I’m wet, so wet. And trembly. And needy. And just a little scared. I’ve never let a man do this before, never opened myself up so completely. After what happened when I was younger, I’ve never wanted to let a man close enough to hurt me.
I’m terrified that Ethan can do just that. Oh, as gentle as he is with me, I’m not afraid of him hurting me physically. But emotionally? This is Ethan Frost, one of the most sought-after bachelors in the world. Genius. Visionary. Charmer. Since I can’t even figure out what he’s doing with me, how can I believe that he wants anything more than this? Just this?
I should grab his hand, push it away, tell him I don’t want him to touch me. Not that he would believe me—I don’t believe myself. How can I when my body is on fire, every nerve ending lit up by his touch? His thumb presses against my clit, circles, and I know I’m not going to do anything of the sort. I’m not going to do anything at all unless it involves this man touching me, wanting me.
“God, Chloe, you feel so good,” he tells me, his voice as dark and smooth and seductive as the chocolate bar I keep at the bottom of my purse in case of emergencies.
“You too,” I manage to gasp out.
He slips one finger, then two, all the way inside of me. I gasp, try to hold still so I can feel every pleasurable thing he does to me. But the truth is, my hips are moving of their own volition now, as beyond my control as the pleasure spiraling through me. I’m riding his hand, chasing the wicked pleasure that I can’t get away from now that he’s shown it to me.
The pressure is building alongside the pleasure, the fear going hand in hand with the ecstasy, until I feel like any wrong move will have me shattering—but not in a good way. Not in the way I so desperately crave.