Ruined (Ethan Frost 1)

Someplace he can’t follow. Someplace I never thought I’d find myself again. But I can’t say that, not when he’s been nothing but sweet to me.

I reach up, and this time it’s my turn to touch his face. My turn to cup his cheeks in my hands and bring my mouth gently to his. Ethan resists at first, and I know he wants to ask more questions. To delve deeper into my damaged psyche and find out what it is that has screwed me up so badly.

But I don’t want him there, don’t want him to see just how ruined I am. Not now, when I’m desperate to feel his arms around me and his lips on mine. Not yet, when I’m so far from being ready to let him go.

“Please,” I whisper against his lips. Please don’t make me do this now. Please accept what I can give you. Please say that it’s enough, that I’m enough. “Please. ”

His lips part at my first whisper, but it isn’t until I’ve said “please” a second time that he accepts my kiss. More, welcomes it.

Every other time we’ve kissed, he’s been the aggressor. The one who controls what happens while I control what doesn’t. This time we switch, and if we’re both a little uncertain about how the reversal is supposed to work, it doesn’t take long for us to figure it out.

I lick at his lips, slowly, carefully. He tastes so good, feels so good, that I want to stay here—right here in this moment—forever. I want to savor this gift he’s given me, to explore it as fully as I can before I have to give it back. Give him back. And I know, eventually, that I’ll have to do just that. The likes of Ethan Frost aren’t meant for me.

Misery churns in my stomach at the thought, but I push it away. Ignore it. I might not be able to keep Ethan forever, but I have him right now and I’m not going to waste a second of my time on regrets or maybes or why-nots. Not when there are so many better things to do.

With that thought in mind, I suck his lower lip between my teeth. Nibble softly. Then relish the groan that seems to come from the very heart of him. This time when he opens his mouth, I slip inside. Stroke my tongue along his, once, twice, then again and again as I absorb the sweet mint and lemon taste of him.

He groans again, even as he wraps his arms around me and presses his big, strong hands into the center of my back. I can feel the heat of him even through my wetsuit and he feels so good that I think about yielding, about ceding control, as I always do to him. But then he pulls his mouth from mine, gasps for air, and I know that I’m not giving up the power I have over this man. Not now. Not yet.

I move to recapture his lips and this time I’m not gentle. Instead, I grind my mouth against his in a desperate attempt to get deeper. To take more. To reach the very depths of him.

He nips at me in response, his teeth catching on my lower lip as he pulls me even more tightly against him. I bite back, not hard enough to do damage but definitely hard enough to let him know that I mean business. He groans and mutters a particularly vile curse, and I move to take advantage.

I plunge my tongue into his mouth, run it over his teeth, his tongue, the insides of his cheeks. I want to experience all of him, to find out every single thing I can about this man who is still a mystery to me in nearly every way that counts.

I keep expecting him to take control, to roll me under him and bend me to his will. He can do it easily—I’m so desperate for the taste and touch of him that I’ll do nearly anything to get it. But aside from plunging his hands into my hair to keep me close, he seems content to let me set the pace.

The freedom only makes me more frantic. Keeping my mouth on his, I shove at his shoulders until he leans back on his elbows in the sand. I start to scramble on top of him, but he jerks away before I can straddle him. The unexpectedness of it makes me freeze, afraid that I’ve somehow done something wrong. It’s been years since I’ve made any kind of move on a guy, let alone something this blatantly sexual, and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.

Convinced I’ve made a fool of myself in front of this man yet again, I scoot a few feet away from him. I think about apologizing, but what am I supposed to say—Sorry for trying to jump you? Just the thought makes the humiliation worse. But I have to say something. After all, I’m the one who practically attacked him.

But before I can form words, any words, I realize that Ethan’s grinning—and not in a you’re-an-idiot kind of way. No, his smile is pure sensuality, pure carnality, and it looks damn good on him. So good that I forget my embarrassment for a moment and simply stare.

How can I, when he’s just so damn beautiful? Too beautiful, really, for words or for me. I should pack it in now, give up before I make an even bigger fool of myself. But I can’t. I’m transfixed, as much by the way he’s looking at me as by his actual looks.

His eyes are a dark and storm-tossed blue that seem to see to the very heart of me, while his dark hair is wild and windblown from the hour and a half we’ve spent on the beach. Though, if I’m being honest, I have to admit that my fingers are at least as responsible for the disarray as the gentle breeze currently winding itself around us.

His cheekbones are high and sharp, his lips pink and swollen from our kisses. And inviting. So inviting. When his grin widens and his tiny little dimple flashes—so out of place in that fallen-angel face of his—it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to lean forward and pick up back where we left off only moments ago.

When I finally yank my gaze away from his too-perfect face, I notice for the first time that Ethan isn’t scrambling to get away from me at all. In fact, he’s doing the exact opposite. I watch in awe as he pulls his arms out of his wetsuit before rolling the clingy, uncomfortable material down his chest and over his chiseled abs.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him in person without a shirt on, and I realize I made a mistake when I was touching him earlier. Ethan isn’t hiding a six-pack under his dress shirts and suits. No, the man has a full-on eight-working-on-ten-pack, something I didn’t even think was possible outside of magazines and movies.

My fingers clench with the need to touch him. To pet him. To feel him. For a second I engage in a simple little fantasy that involves nothing but his abs and my tongue, and while it isn’t fancy, it definitely gets the job done. Already I can feel drool pooling in my mouth.

In the meantime, Ethan keeps tugging at the suit, rolling it past his hips and down his legs before kicking it off completely. Underneath, he’s wearing a pair of relatively tight board shorts that make it exceptionally obvious that he has an erection.

He reaches for me, his hands closing around my upper arms, and I feel a frisson of alarm as he turns me around so that my back is to him. I don’t like having any man behind me, not even him—it makes me feel vulnerable—but my fear dissipates as he presses soft kisses to the nape of my neck.

“Your turn,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.

“My turn?”

“Making out in wetsuits is not what I would call advisable. ”

Then he’s pulling down my zipper and slowly—oh so slowly—peeling me out of the wetsuit. It takes a lot longer to get mine off than his, because he presses his lips to each part of my body as it is revealed to him. My shoulders, my shoulder blades, my upper arms, the curve of my elbow, my ribs. I try to stand perfectly still, but I can’t help the small shivers that run through me as he wraps his arms around me. Clasps his hands on my bare stomach. Trails soft, sweet kisses down my spine.

He licks under the strap of my bikini top while his hands slide up to cup my breasts. I gasp, arch against him as his thumbs brush over my nipples. They harden instantly and he laughs a little, a breathless sound of delight that only makes me shiver more.