by Tracy Wolff
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.
The panic is rising, already eating away at the need, the desire, that was so all-consuming just a few minutes ago. I try to ignore it, to push it back down. I want this. I want Ethan. I want us to have a normal relationship, one where he doesn’t have to worry all the time about me freaking out at any second. And the only way I’ll get that is to get through this, get through it now. Because I know if we do this just once, if I feel him inside me and know that it’s Ethan and that he cares about me, that I’ll be okay. I’ll be better. And neither of us will have to worry about me losing my shit again.
Except Ethan isn’t buying into my plan. Instead of just relaxing and letting me give him pleasure, he’s stopping me. Pulling me back up his body so that we’re once again face-to-face.
“I want you,” I tell him, looking into his eyes for the first time since I threw us into this mad rush. I don’t know what I expect to see—pleasure, maybe? Arousal, certainly. The same need that is so much a part of me?
But when he looks at me, I see none of that. Instead, he’s got his thinking face on. His lips are pressed together, his jaw is set, and his eyes—instead of being cloudy with desire—are a clear, bright blue. So clear, in fact, that I can all but see the gears turning in his brain.
Shit. He doesn’t want me, not the way I want him. I fucked everything up yesterday—freaking out on him, telling him about Brandon. Is there any wonder he’s not into me? He’s probably afraid I’ll lose my shit all over again. The fact that that’s a distinct possibility is all the more humiliating.
The last of my desire dies and I push at his shoulders, start to stand. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to go—
“Chloe, stop.”
Ethan’s voice halts me in my tracks. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t make any move to make
me stay on his lap, but his voice is so commanding that I automatically obey.
I settle back onto his legs, but I duck my head. I can’t stand for him to see the hurt and the humiliation that are currently ripping me apart.
“Look at me.”
I shake my head. I can’t. There are tears in my eyes, and after the show I put on yesterday, there’s no way I’m going to let him see me cry again.
He sighs, his hands clenching where they’re resting on his legs. But still he makes no move to touch me. “Come on, baby. I need to see your face. I need to see you.”
Again I shake my head. But I’m lifting my chin even as I do, my eyes shooting up to meet his one more time.
I try to blink the tears away, but I know he sees them. I can feel it in the way his body tenses against mine, hear it in the “fuck me” he mutters beneath his breath.
“Don’t blame me for your frustration,” I say with the last bit of spirit I can muster. “That’s what I was trying to do.”
He laughs. “God, I’m crazy about you.” And finally his hands come up to touch me, his fingers tracing soothing circles on my back.
“Then why did you stop me?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something about wanting the woman I’m making love to to actually be into it?”
“I was into it!”
“No, you were trying to be into it. It’s not the same thing.”
“It doesn’t matter!” I smack at his chest, frustrated and furious and terrified that this thing between us is never going to go anywhere. And I want it to. I really want it to, I just don’t know how to get us there.
“Yeah, Chloe, it does.” He grabs hold of my hands, not hard enough to hurt but firmly enough to let me know that he means what he’s saying. “That’s all that matters.”
“I’m not like other women! I can’t just—”
“You can.”
“I won’t be able to—”
“You will.”
“Can’t we just do it?” I wail. “Just get it over with the first time and then I’ll be better. I promise.”
“Sweetheart, if you think I’m going to have sex with you while you are freaking out and terrified, then you have completely lost your mind. I promise you, that’s the one thing that absolutely is not going to happen here.”
I drop my head in defeat, rest the top of it against his chest as I wait for the tears—and the crushing sense of disappointment—to pass me by. “I don’t know what to do, then.”
Ethan puts a finger under my chin, tilts my head back up. Waits for me to open my eyes. When I finally do, he catches my gaze with his own, the deep indigo of his eyes as enthralling to me as the depths of emotion I see reflected there. “Do you trust me?” he asks.
I swallow against the sudden desert in my mouth. If he asked me if I loved him, I would have answered in a heartbeat. Or if I wanted him. Needed him. But trust is a funny thing. Just a week ago, I would have said I didn’t have any trust to give, to anyone. But when it’s Ethan Frost, a week makes all the difference. It makes every difference.
“Yes.” I whisper the word, because no matter how true it is, I can’t force myself to say it any louder.
“Then let’s do this my way. I’ll take care of you, baby. I promise.”
Nodding is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder than telling Ethan the truth last night. Harder, even, than listening as my parents sold me out. The control freak in me doesn’t like giving anyone else that kind of power over me.
But once it’s done, once I’ve handed myself completely over to his care, it’s like a weight disappears from my shoulders. Because I know that Ethan will never hurt me. And he won’t let me hurt myself, either. Not anymore.
Chapter Twenty-two
Long minutes pass as we do nothing but lie in the sun, my body stretched over Ethan’s as he touches me. Gentles me. He strokes my hair for a long time, his strong fingers rubbing at my scalp until I’m all but purring. Then he moves to my neck, my shoulders, and down my back, following the muscles of my spine. He kneads my waist, my arms. Threads his fingers through mine and rolls my hand around in a circular motion that somehow manages to feel nearly as good as an orgasm.
By the time he’s done, I’m nothing but a blissed-out pile of relaxed goo, every muscle in my upper body as soft and runny as melted butter.
“You still awake?” he murmurs, a smile in his voice.
I purr the closest thing to a yes that I can manage.
“Good.” He gathers me closer to his chest, slips an arm under my knees, and then stands.
“Where are we going?” I’m too lazy to even wrap an arm around his neck, so I just burrow in and let him do all the work.
“The bedroom.”
I smile against his chest. “It’s about time.”
“Really? You’re complaining?”
“Not complaining. Just anxious.”
He lifts one of my hands, then lets go, watching as it just flops by my side. “Yeah. You look real anxious.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
“So I hear.” He mumbles the last under his breath, and this time I do lift my head, just in time to see a look I’ve never seen before cross his face. But then it’s gone, just as quickly as it appeared and I’m left wondering what it was I saw. And why I think it’s important.
When we get to the bedroom, he deposits me on the bed before walking into the bathroom. Seconds later, I hear the bathwater start to run.
Then he’s back, standing next to the bed. I watch with great interest as he shrugs out of his shirt—he never did rebutton it after I tore it open earlier—and drops it on the end of the bed. His belt buckle comes next, then the top button of his jeans. By the time I hear the snick of his zipper going down, I’m wet and achy and more than ready to pick up what we were doing before I completely lost my shit out on the patio.
But Ethan has other plans. He rolls his jeans and boxer briefs down his legs, and then he stands there, naked and aroused, in front of me.
It’s all I can do to keep my mouth from dropping open as I stare at him. I haven’t seen very many naked men in my life, but I don’t have to have seen that many to know that Ethan Frost is a prime specimen of manhood. Long and lean, with muscles in all the right places, he’s got the ultimate surfer’s body. Massive biceps for paddling through the big waves, powerful pecs to push him up on the board, tightly stacked abs that help him stay upright when he’s got a big swell beneath him and strongly muscled legs for all of the above. And then there’s his cock, which is as long and hard as the rest of him.
He’s gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous, and I itch with the need to touch all that golden skin. To kiss and lick and taste and test every delectable part of him.
He smiles at me like he knows what’s going on in my head, but all he says is, “Want to take a bath with me?”
I do. I really do, but I’m nervous as well. Small space, both of us naked. The last thing I want to do is make a fool of myself all over again.
But again, it’s like Ethan has a direct line into my brain. Because he reaches a hand out to me and says, “Come on. I’ve got you, Chloe.”
And though I know it may be a bad idea, that it may end with me as disappointed and humiliated and miserable as our last two attempts at sex have, I take his hand. Because when he asks like that I can deny him nothing. And because if Ethan says it’s going to be all right, I can’t help but believe him.
I take his hand, let him pull me up. I wait, a little tense, a little unnerved, for him to undress me, but he makes no move to do so. Instead, he places a hand on my lower back and guides me gently into the bathroom.
I go where he leads, but I have to admit that it’s strange walking with Ethan when he’s naked and I’m fully dressed. Not uncomfortable strange, but weird strange, and I can’t help wonder why he hasn’t stripped me out of my clothes as easily as he stripped off his own.
Then he crouches down to check the temperature of the water, and as I sta
re at the nape of his neck, at the vulnerable expanse of his naked shoulders, it finally hits me. Him being naked while I’m clothed is a shift in the power dynamic between us. Though he’s very clearly in charge—I abdicated my control to him the moment I agreed to trust him in this—the fact that I’m clothed and he’s naked makes me the armored one. It takes away some of the vulnerability I’m feeling and puts it squarely on him.
My knees tremble at the thought. This man. This wonderful, strong, thoughtful man is doing everything to make this okay for me. He promised that he would, and while I gave him my trust out there on that patio, for the first time I’m really beginning to believe that things might actually work out. That this moment won’t end the way last night did, with me screaming and terrified of the specters from my past.
“It’s almost ready,” Ethan says from where he’s perched by the tub. He’s completely at ease with his nudity, completely relaxed being on display for me. Then again, it’s not like the man has any reason to be insecure. He’s so beautiful to look at that it actually hurts.
I reach for the bottom of the floaty yellow tank I’m wearing and pull it off in one fell swoop. Then I shimmy out of the pretty skirt before hanging both on a set of hammered chrome hooks that decorate the wall closest to the shower. Ethan watches me from eyes gone dark with desire, and I force myself to stand before him in my yellow bra and panties as I wait for him to make the next move.
He doesn’t make it. Instead, he smiles at me and says simply, “You’re so beautiful.”
“So are you.”
I can tell from his face that that’s the last thing he expected me to say. I flush a little, wondering if I’ve done something wrong, but then he throws his head back and laughs. “I’m glad you think so.”
