Ruined: An Ethan Frost Novel; A Loveswept New Adult Romance

by Tracy Wolff

  “I feel like I did. I promise I’ll do a good job on the project.”

  “I have no doubt.” His smile fades. “But what’s going on over there? You said you’re having problems with the other interns?”

  I think of Rick’s smarmy face, of Chrissy’s total lack of friendliness after she realized what project I was assigned. None of it seems so bad now, not when I know that I got the job because Ethan believes in me. “It’s no big deal. I can handle it.”

  He doesn’t look pleased. “What exactly do you have to handle?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Positive.” I push to my feet. “Thank you for your time. I won’t keep you.”

  He reaches out, snags my elbow. “What if I want to keep you?”

  The question hangs in the air between us, and it occurs to me that he’s talking about a lot more than just this moment. A lot more than I’m prepared to even consider.

  It’s there in the air between us. In the look on his face and the conviction in his voice.

  In the way his thumb brushes against my inner elbow with whisper-soft strokes.

  In the way he angles his body so that he’s on the outside, shielding me, protecting me from I don’t know what.

  And it’s there in the butterflies in my stomach, the electric sparks racing from one nerve ending to the other.

  I’m shocked by how much I want to say yes. Yes to dinner, yes to a walk on the beach, yes to what comes after. But nothing’s changed between when I came charging up here and now. Nothing but my perceptions. The rest of the world is exactly the same. I’m exactly the same. As damaged—as ruined—as ever.

  I don’t want Ethan to see it, to see me. If he does, he’ll know just how broken I am, and I’ve spent too many years trying to keep my past private to simply roll over and expose the underbelly of my secrets now. Even if there is something about him that makes me want to.

  “I need to go.”

  His eyes narrow at the huskiness of my voice, and he stands up. Steps closer to me. Watches me with an intensity that says he notices everything. Sees everything.

  It’s what I’m most afraid of, and contrarily what I most want. Someone who really sees me, who takes the time to look beyond the surface and the lies and the No Trespassing signs I wear like my own personal armor. That Ethan can do it so easily cripples my defenses, and I find myself clinging to him, my fingers tangled in the soft silk of his dress shirt. He reaches up to stroke my hair back from my face and even my curls hold on for dear life, wrapping themselves around his fingers in a desperate attempt to keep him close.

  His hand tightens on my elbow, not enough to hurt, but enough to let me know that he’s there. Enough to make me feel him, really feel him. And then slowly, inexorably, he pulls me closer until I can feel the powerful beat of his heart against my chest. The hard ridge of his erection against my hip.

  I wait for the panic, for the fear. For the inevitable freak-out that has followed every time a man invades my personal space.

  This time it doesn’t come. I don’t know why, not when Ethan is as close to me—closer—than I’ve let anyone get in a very long time. It’s not because I’m not nervous, because I am. My heart is nearly beating out of my chest while drops of sweat work their way slowly down my spine.

  And yet I don’t feel threatened. Don’t feel like he’ll take any more than I want to give. Maybe it’s a pipe dream. Maybe I’m just as foolish as every other girl caught in the throes of sexual attraction for a powerful man.

  I shake my head, look away. There’s no maybe about it. Ethan wouldn’t have built the company he has if he was willing to settle for crumbs and half measures. He wouldn’t be where he is if he couldn’t look below the surface to what lies underneath and figure out how to get it. If he can do that in business, what makes me think for a second that he won’t also be able to do the same with me?

  I don’t. Standing here, looking into those cerulean eyes, I come to understand the truth. That Ethan Frost is a man who will accept everything I have to give and demand more. Demand everything. And then keep searching for whatever lies beyond even that.

  Just the thought should terrify me. And maybe it would—maybe it does. But not enough to send me running from this room, running from him. Because along with the need, along with the demands, I can also see the tenderness. Ethan may want everything from me, but he won’t take more than either of us is willing to give.

  I don’t know how I know that, but I do. And still I hold back. Still I refuse to yield. How can I not when everything inside me screams that this—whatever this is—can’t end any way but badly?

  “Where’d you go?” he murmurs softly, his mouth centimeters from my ear. My cheek.

  My breath catches in my throat. How can it not? There’s an electricity between us, a knowledge and a need that throbs in the very oxygen we breathe. It’s there when I suck in a gulp of air, sizzling its way down my windpipe and into my desperate lungs. It’s there when I try to look away, stopping my head from turning, keeping my eyes pinned to Ethan’s. And it’s there working its way inside me with every second that passes until I don’t—I can’t—remember what I felt like without it.

  “I’m still here.” I shouldn’t be, but I am.

  “I want you, Chloe.” His mouth skims across my cheek, down my jaw. “And I think you want me, too.”

  I shake my head, but it’s more acknowledgment than denial, and we both know it. “Ethan—”

  He pulls back, smiles, and it’s the happiest look I’ve seen from him yet. “You said my name again. That’s progress.”

  Progress? Was it only just this morning that I insisted on calling him Mr. Frost? It seems so strange, when he’s been Ethan to me all along. Well, Juice Guy and then Ethan. Only when I was determined to defy him was he ever Mr. Frost.

  “Most guys wouldn’t consider that progress.”

  “I’m not most guys.”

  I raise my eyebrows at him. “Yeah, right. I’ve heard that before.” I’m teasing him, actually teasing him. It’s kind of hard to imagine.

  He laughs. “That didn’t sound nearly as clichéd in my head.”

  “Really?”

  “Or maybe I just didn’t think it through well enough.”

  “Yeah, maybe not.”

  “Since we’re on the subject of clichés, we could try another one.” This time he’s the one who lifts a brow questioningly.

  “I have to admit, I’m a little jealous. I’ve always wanted to know how to do that.”

  “What?” He looks baffled.

  I reach out and touch the eyebrow he just raised, smooth my fingers over it. He grows still. Serious. But I keep talking, not wanting to let this moment go. Not the sweetness nor the easiness of it. In my life, there’s been too little of both. “That whole one-eyebrow thing. It’s a lot harder than it looks.”

  “Oh, yeah? Maybe I’ll teach you someday.”

  “I’d like that.”

  We’re close now, even closer than we were just a minute ago, and I didn’t think that was possible. But with each sentence, each word we exchange, we move inexorably closer. Like magnets, drawn together by a natural chemistry over which we have no control.

  Again, it occurs to me that I should be frightened—that I am frightened—but not enough for me to stop this. Not enough for me to walk away. Not enough for me to do anything but stand here and wait for Ethan to close the final few millimeters between us.

  He does, slowly. Oh so slowly. Until I’m nearly insane with nervousness and anticipation and need. Oh, God. The need. It’s overwhelming.

  He’s so close that I can see the little crinkles by the corners of his eyes, can feel the heat rolling off him in waves. I can hear the hitch in his breathing, smell the sweet spearmint of his breath. And still it’s not enough. I want to taste him. Need to taste him.

  And then he’s there, his lips whisper-soft against my own. Once, twice, then again
and again. Little glancing kisses that do nothing but fan my desire, nothing but make me want more. I kiss him back, part my lips to encourage firmer, deeper contact, but he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he continues with the tiny kisses—on my cheek, my jaw, the corner of my mouth, my upper lip, my lower lip, the other corner of my mouth.

  Frustrated, I slide my hands up his muscular biceps, let my fingers rub at his tense shoulders before walking them slowly up his neck. He groans a little, and this time when he takes my mouth, it’s no light, glancing thing. It’s a full-fledged kiss, one that weakens my knees and makes my head spin even as it grounds me firmly in the here. The now.

  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.

  And then Ethan’s dropping to his knees in front of me. Shoving my skirt up to my waist and pushing my panties aside. Before I can even imagine what he’s going to do, let alone give my permission, his mouth is on me. His tongue delving inside me even as his hands move to rest on th
e line where my thigh connects to my body. He lifts my leg—the same one that was wrapped around his waist a short time ago—and drapes it over his shoulder.

  I’m totally open to him now, totally vulnerable. My cheeks flame, and I squirm—no one has ever done anything this intimate to my body before, and I’m traumatized even as I love it. Even as I crave more. Crave everything, including the release that has been just out of reach.

  I whimper, moan, beg, and plead, words falling out of my mouth with no conscious thought or organization on my part. All I know is that I need. For this one moment, the fear has disappeared. The worry, the pain, the memories. Everything is gone and my whole body, my whole consciousness and existence, has shrunk to this one moment out of time. To the pleasure, and release, that I am chasing as relentlessly as any junkie has ever chased a high.

  Ethan quiets me with a low growl, and then his tongue is there—right there—at the epicenter of my pleasure. He circles my clit, flicks at it, before sucking for one second, two. Combined with the rubbing, twisting motion of his fingers inside me, that’s all it takes. With a shudder and a shout, I tumble over the edge and into an orgasm so intense, so pleasurable that I forget everything. Who he is. Who I am. Who I was. Why we shouldn’t be doing this. Why I care.

  In those moments, all I know is him. All I feel is him. And the warmth, the pleasure, the tenderness—absolute and indescribable—that he’s given me.

  Chapter Seven

  But nothing lasts forever—no matter how much I might wish it would. As the shudders finally stop and thought returns, so do all those things I’d banished in the moments before release.

  Ethan is still kneeling on the floor in front of me, his fingers inside me and his mouth brushing glancing kisses across my hip and abdomen. There’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to stay here, right here, in this moment. To let him pet and touch and cuddle me until his heart is content…or mine is.