Flawed (Ethan Frost 4)

“Shut. Up,” he tells me again, and this time the words are accompanied by a look—and a growl—that has my throat seizing up. Which, in turn, has me doing exactly what he asked.

“That’s better,” he says as he pulls me against him, my back to his front. And then his hands are in my hair, massaging in the shampoo with firm, steady fingers. It feels good—so good—and I end up dropping my head back against his shoulder before I can stop myself.

The only man who’s ever washed my hair before is my beautician, Pedro, and he never makes me feel like this. Warning bells are going off all over the place inside me, but I don’t heed them. I can’t. Not when I’m drowning in the simple pleasure of Miles’s fingers rubbing over my scalp.

He keeps it up for a couple of minutes, until my knees are weak and I’m all but melting against him. Only then does he tilt my head back and rinse the shampoo out, all while being extra careful not to get it in my eyes.

Then he reaches for the conditioner, and by the end I’m little more than a whimpering mess. I expect him to take advantage, expect him to push me up against the shower wall and fuck me until we both come. God knows, the way I’m melting against him can’t be mistaken for resistance, no matter how this shower started out.

But he doesn’t do that. Instead he slicks his hands up with soap and slides them all over my body. Half washing me, half teasing me, he skims over every part of me and it feels good. Better than good. It feels right.

Any other time, that realization would scare the crap out of me. But right now, with his body pressed against mine and his hands working their magic on every square inch of my skin, it’s hard to care. Even harder to worry.

Especially when he rinses his hands off and then drops to his knees in front of me.

Now I’m pressed up against the shower wall as he gently moves my thighs apart.

As he slides two fingers over my slit before gently thrusting them inside me.

As he leans forward and strokes his tongue right over my clit.

“Oh my God.” My hands come up to clutch at his shoulder, his head—as much for support as to keep him in place as he goes down on me.

It feels good, so good that the last of my resistance melts even before he lifts up one of my legs and drapes it over his shoulder.

Even before he buries his face in my sex and makes me see stars with every stroke of his tongue.

Even before he makes me come harder, longer, than I ever have before in my life.

And when it’s over, when he pushes back to his feet and does nothing more than finish washing both of us, I figure out that I’m in a lot deeper trouble than I thought.

The fact that I suddenly can’t bring myself to care only makes the knowledge more exciting. And more terrifying.

Chapter 16

Miles

“This is really good.”

Tori glances up from her plate, eyes amused and mouth twisted. “Why do you keep sounding surprised when you say that? This is the second meal I’ve made for you—not to mention the smoothie yesterday afternoon—and you’ve said the same thing, in the same tone, every single time.”

“Because it’s good every single time. I’m impressed.”

“Again, no need to sound so surprised when you say it.” She forks up another piece of banana-stuffed French toast from the platter in the middle of the table and then pours syrup all over it. “I really do know how to cook. I’ve taken cooking lessons and everything, FYI. When I cook dinner for you later, you’re probably going to think that’s good, too.”

“Of course I am. But you really don’t have to cook for me, you know.”

“You’re letting me stay here free of charge. It’s the least I can do, to earn my keep.”

“You don’t have to earn anything. I want you here.” I reach for her hand, thread my fingers through hers, before lifting it to my mouth and kissing first one fingertip and then a second and a third.

She watches me, eyes wide and unblinking and maybe even a little bemused, and I can’t help wondering what the deal is. Can’t help wondering what kind of guys she’s been with in the past. I may be surprised at how good a cook she is, but she’s downright shocked whenever I treat her with any kind of tenderness.

Whether it’s washing her hair in the shower or wrapping my arms around her waist while she cooks or now, dropping light kisses on her hand, it’s obvious she has no idea how to respond. When I touch her in bed, she’s more responsive than I could ever hope for. But outside it? She doesn’t have a clue how to deal. It’s obviously new—and uncomfortable—ground for her.

Which doesn’t make sense. I know Parsons is a total dickhead, know that Chloe hasn’t approved of any of the guys Tori has dated since I’ve been in San Diego, but surely she’s had a decent guy at some time in her life, right? Someone who was actually interested in her and not just her party-girl image? Someone who cared about making her feel good not just in bed, but out of it, too?

Maybe it’s just me who makes her uncomfortable. Me whom she doesn’t know how to respond to. I think about that idea, turn it over and over in my head as we finish breakfast. It’s a valid theory, after all, especially if I consider how Tori hightailed it out of bed this morning. Oh, she swore there was nothing wrong, that she just had a lot to do today, but I wasn’t sure I bought it then and I’m really not sure I buy it now.