Ruined (Ethan Frost 1)

We have breakfast out on the patio. Warm chocolate croissants. Bowls full of succulent berries—strawberries for me, blueberries for Ethan. Mimosas that are heavy on the champagne, exactly as I like them.

“You sure know how to spoil a girl,” I tell him, leaning back on one of the chaise longues with my second drink in hand.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. But you keep resisting. ” He reaches for my free hand, kisses my fingers in a gesture that should be cheesy but is somehow sexy as hell.

“No more resisting,” I tell him. “I’m yours. ”

He doesn’t say anything to that and I freak out for a second. Have I overstepped? Did I read too much into the belly chain? Into the way he’s been touching me, holding me, treating me? But then he lifts his face to mine and I realize he’s as affected by this thing between us as I am. Maybe more.

That’s when I realize I don’t know Ethan’s story. Not really. Not the way he knows mine. Oh, I know the basics. His parents divorced at an early age. He lost his father in a very public way when he was just a boy. He was raised by his dad’s parents instead of his mother. And he lives through having his dad’s life and death dragged out every couple of years when the government wants to remind people what a hero looks like.

I know he’s spent his life trying to ensure that other people don’t lose their loved ones the same way he lost his father—from injuries that fifteen years ago couldn’t be treated anywhere but in a surgical suite. Self-made soon-to-be-billionaire. Philanthropist. Environmentalist. Genius.

But there’s something else there. Something that doesn’t fit with the charming public image. Something darker and more damaged than he ever lets on. It never stays around for long, but it definitely exists. I’ve seen it a couple of times, lurking in the back of his eyes. I don’t know what it is, but something tells me it’s bad. That deep inside, he’s hurting as much—if not more—than I am.

The thought galvanizes me like nothing else could. I drain my mimosa in one long sip—a little Dutch courage never hurt anyone—and deposit the glass on the nearest table. Then I climb off my chaise and onto Ethan’s lap, my knees resting on either side of his thighs so that I’m straddling him.

It’s by far the most aggressive I’ve ever been with him, and his blue eyes widen in surprise. Still, it doesn’t take long for him to get with the program. His hands come up to cup my face and—looking directly into my eyes—he slowly, slowly raises his mouth to mine.

It’s as good as it always is. Better, maybe, now that he knows so much of my truth. I guess subconsciously I’ve been afraid things would be awkward between us after what happened on the beach yesterday, but as he licks his way inside my parted lips, I know that those worries were for nothing. The heat is still there between us.

His tongue slides against my own and need rips through me, makes me anxious. Makes me hurt. I slide my hands up Ethan’s shoulders to his neck and then to the back of his head, grab a fistful of his hair, and pull his lips even more tightly against my own. He’s being sweet, gentle, and while I appreciate the concern, it’s not what I want from him. Not now when my body’s on fire and all I can think of is him. All I want is him.

I grind my mouth against his, suck his lip between my teeth and bite a little harder than I normally do. Not hard enough to do more than sting a little, but definitely enough to let him know I want him. Want this. He tastes like chocolate this morning. Like champagne and berries and Ethan. Just Ethan.

Ethan groans low in his throat at my enthusiasm, and his hands slide down to tangle in my hair. He tugs a little and a frisson of awareness tears through me, increasing the want—and the need.

But he’s still moving too slowly. Still savoring where I want him to rush, still showering me with sweet, gentle softness when what I need is a blistering, headlong race toward completion.

“Ethan. ” I rip my mouth from his, then lick and nibble my way over the dark stubble that decorates his jaw. He groans, his head falling back against his chair to give me better access. I take instant advantage, racing my lips down his neck to the hollow of his throat.

I find the spot where his heart beats fast and frantic and lick over it. Once, twice, then again and again. He tastes different here, wilder, sexier, though I didn’t think that was possible. Salty-sweet like the ocean, earthy like the sand. I love it.

My hands go to the buttons on his shirt and I start to flick them open, one after the other. I want to see his chest again, when I’m not freaking out. I want to study his tattoo before kissing and licking my way over it to the hard, flat planes of his abdomen. And lower. He’s brought me pleasure a couple times now, taken me to the edge and hurtled me over into the stars, but I’ve never done the same for him.

Today I will. Today I’ll take him in my hands, in my mouth, in my sex. My mind is a cacophony of rioting images and sounds and longings, everything I want to do to this man coming together in an explosive cataclysm of need. I’m desperate for him, for the taste of him on my tongue, the feel of him inside my body.

I’m clawing at him now, ripping the buttons of what is probably a five-

hundred-dollar shirt in my desperation to get to him. His hands come up, cover mine, his thumb stroking across the back of my hand in a rhythm that is somehow both soothing and arousing.

“Chloe, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he murmurs as he dots kisses across my forehead and down my cheeks. “There’s no rush. Let’s take it slow. ”

He doesn’t understand. I don’t want to go slow. I’m afraid to go slow. Right now I want him, need him, am entirely caught up in the way he smells and tastes and feels. I want to run with that before something happens, before that damn switch gets triggered in my brain again and I freak out on him for the second time.

“Please, Ethan. ” I shove the shirt off his shoulders, down his arms, then press hot, open-mouthed kisses to his warm, bare chest. “I need you. ”

“You’ve got me, baby. I’m not going—” He breaks off, hissing out a breath as I lick across his nipple.

“Jesus. ” His hands tangle in my hair and for one long, perfect moment he lets me have my way. I roll his nipple between my lips, nibble softly, relishing the way his hips pump against mine and the groan he can’t hold back.

I slide backward a little, bending forward so I can kiss lower on his torso. His abs, his navel, the beginning of the V cut that just shows above the low-rise waist of his jeans.

“Chloe, baby, that’s enough. I want to touch you, too. ”

I shake my head as I run the tip of my tongue around his navel, circling it again and again as my fingers fumble with his belt. His hands cover mine, try to move my fingers away, but I nip at his stomach to distract him, then run my tongue under the waistband of his jeans.

“Chloe!” There’s a warning in his voice, a dark urgency that tells me that no matter how much he’s enjoying what I’m doing, he’s not going to put up with being ignored much longer. Which means I have to move faster, take more of him, get him so crazy that he makes love to me without realizing how close I am to freaking out.