by J. Haymore
"I got my hands dirty with several successful tech and Internet startups. The business grew and eventually became Williams Funding."
"Did you see success right away?"
"No, not right away. It took some time, and during that time, I worked on finishing my undergraduate and MBA degrees at UCLA. But then it really took off a few years ago. I came from the right background, so I know what founding a startup is like, and I have an instinct about what's going to work and what isn't."
Given my BA in business administration with a focus on finance, this talk isn't boring to me. In fact, I find it oddly arousing. But then again, Ethan could rattle off a grocery list, and I'd probably find it arousing.
"Come here," he says quietly, and he pulls me to him. I cuddle up against him, my head on his shoulder, my hand splayed over his abs. His arm curls around me, and I sink into the feeling of being in his arms like this. I feel…safe. Cherished. Like this is where I belong.
He kisses the top of my head. "Anything else you want to know about me?"
Yes. I want to know more about his childhood in poverty. About his business success. And I want to know about the debutante in the online pictures.
I gnaw on my lower lip, not exactly sure how to ask that last question. Then I finally say, "Have you had a lot of girlfriends?"
The air releases from his chest. After a short silence, he says, "No. Not a lot."
"Why not?" Women must throw themselves at him at every available opportunity.
His arm tightens around me. "I told you I'm not interested in relationships. And there just hasn't been anyone to change my mind about that—even for a short time." He pauses, then adds quietly, "Until you."
I close my eyes, letting myself savor his words for a few seconds. Then I ask, "Why?"
"Don't sell yourself short," he says roughly. "I hate it when you do that."
"Do I?"
"All the time. You're gorgeous, brave, determined, strong, loyal, and so fucking smart—"
I laugh out loud, because all those adjectives, strung together like that and referring to me… It just doesn't seem like it can possibly be real.
"I wouldn't call myself any of those things," I say.
His body bristles beneath me. "You're beautiful. Don't tell me anyone's ever told you otherwise."
I don't answer. No one has ever called me ugly…but they've never gushed over my beauty like they did Emily's.
"And what about Kyle? The way you rescued him. The determination to keep him safe, the loyalty."
I sigh. He can't understand the nature of my relationship with Kyle. How much I owe him.
"And you…" His voice wavers, then he continues, "You have a limp…but you've never told me about it, never complain about it. Tell me what happened to you. Tell me how you got it."
The air sticks in my lungs, unable to leave my body as if something has blocked my airway.
I haven't told him about Emily. It's a topic to be avoided in any circumstance, because talking about it breaks me every time.
But…I'm comfortable enough with him to tell him this. Just give him the basics. "Car accident," I manage.
He lies very still beside me. "A bad one." It's not a question. More of a statement.
"Yes…it… Yes. My leg was crushed. And burned." I also broke two ribs and my collarbone. My lung collapsed, and there was swelling in my brain. They kept me in a medically induced coma for two days after the accident. The only visible scars that remain are the ones on my leg, though. And my limp.
"And here you are," he says quietly. "Walking again. Crossing an ocean in a sailboat—doing something that most people wouldn't have the guts to do. Bravery. Strength."
He can't know how weak I've really been. The days and months spent in my apartment, afraid to go outside, the crushing depression. Nothing about clawing my way out of it has ever felt easy. And it doesn't make me feel strong.
Then he asks the most dreaded question of all. "Was anyone in the car with you?"
Chapter Nine
Ethan's words are low and hesitant, as if he doesn't really want to know the answer. He always seems to pick up my moods like that; he can tell something affects me before I outwardly reveal that it does.
I bury my face against his chest. "Yes, there was someone in the car with me," I say raggedly, my voice muffled by his shirt. "My sister."
"I'm sorry, Tara. I'm so sorry." His arm tightens around me.
At times the grief washes over me like a tidal wave, and I can't stop it. Emily was my only family, my best friend, my big sister, my role model. She was beautiful and smart and funny and vivacious. She had an incredible future ahead of her, and in the blink of an eye, she was gone.
I battle it back, that feeling of despair threatening to overwhelm me, and tilt my head up to meet Ethan's lips with my own.
Touching Ethan, kissing him, being with him…it'll help push aside these feelings. Lock them into a corner where they can't hurt me anymore.
I kiss him desperately, and he returns my kisses with equal strength, equal fervor, hauling me on top of him before wrapping his arms around me and pressing me to him. His legs are spread slightly, and my lower body is notched between them. Breathing in short pants, I thrust my fingers into his thick, dark hair, and I kiss him so hard our teeth touch. My tongue dives inside his mouth, and he groans.
His hands press my lower back, then rotate so his fingers are cupped over the upper slope of my butt.
My kisses move over his cheek, frantic and needy. He tastes so good. I want more. I need more. I need him.
My heart beats hard and fast, and my breath comes out in short puffs. I'm so focused on kissing him, on tasting him, that I don't realize he's turning us until I'm beneath him. He pulls back from me, holding my face steady between his hands. "Shh, Tara."
I inhale sharply. He's sensed it before I felt it, but I feel it now—the edges of a panic attack prickling over me. With every breath, it becomes more difficult to pull in enough air.
Oh God. Not now. Not here.
"Shh," he murmurs again.
I grip his shoulders while shudders rack my body and sweat breaks out across my chest, making my shirt stick to my skin. "Please." My whisper is hoarse, but he appears to understand the word.
"I've got you." His body presses over mine, a heavy, grounding weight. "That's right," he murmurs. "Breathe. In and out. Good. Now slower. I'm going to count to two—two counts while you inhale and two counts while you exhale."
Opening my eyes, I focus on him, watching his lips as he counts and trying to measure my inhalations. When I can extend them to two counts, he slows down by counting to three, then four, then six.
It's like he knows what I need to calm down, and he's giving me exactly that. As my breaths calm, my heart rate decreases and cool air dries up my sweat.
Several minutes later, he is still there, still talking me down. And as we chase the last vestiges of the panic away, self-consciousness covers me like a cold, mortifying blanket. "I'm sorry," I whisper.
"It's not your fault. It's mine," he says gruffly. "I shouldn't have pushed you to talk about something that's so difficult for you."
"I need to get over it." I don't know why I can't move on, and it frustrates the crap out of me. I'm stuck in a purgatory of my own making, and I can't seem to free myself from it.
"No. A person never gets over something like that."
I reach up and run my hands over his arms, my fingers tracing the dips and curves of his muscles. His strength calms me even more.
"You're like a dream," I say.
"You're my dream," is his response. He leans down and presses his forehead to mine. "I want you so bad, baby."
I want him with an intensity that scares me. I feel like I need him, like if he doesn't reciprocate my feelings, I'd be lost.
He moves to his side and brings me along with him. I snuggle against his body, sinking completely into those unfamiliar feelings of safety and contentment. He strokes me. First
he smooths my hair away from my face and down my back. Then his fingers drag long trails up and down my spine.
"I'm going to touch you," he murmurs. "I'm going to feel every inch of your skin. Learn every part of your body. Taste all of you."
The promise of it makes me shudder.
"But not here."
"Why not?"
"Someone might come up here. I want it to be private. Just between us. I want it to be special."
"I can't think of anything more special than being here with you right now," I say honestly.
His hand flattens on my lower back, just above the curve of my butt.
"No one has ever come up here while we're on watch at this hour," I tell him. "Why would they choose tonight?"
He doesn't answer, and I press against him, kissing his chest, running my hand over the tight muscles of his arm. To be naked under the stars with Ethan is an irresistible temptation.
Slowly and reverently, he begins exploring. His hands move to my sides, over the dip in my waist, then slide around to my backside. I push my face and my body against him as he leaves trails of heat on my skin everywhere he touches.
His fingers move to the front of my pants, and my breath catches as he flicks the button open. He pulls down the zipper, and it seems a harsh sound over the creaks and splashes the Temptation makes as it slips through the waves.
He slides his hand around the inside waistband of my pants as his other hand draws slow, gentle circles on my back. His fingers are cool on my overheated skin.
"Lie back," he says.
I comply, opening my eyes to see him balanced over me, haloed by a million stars.
He gives the front of my body the same attention he gave my back, but this time he adds his lips into the mix. He kisses me, then drags his lips down my neck as he explores my breasts, cupping them over my bra and T-shirt, gently coaxing my nipples into taut peaks.
His lips follow where his hands have explored, and I can feel the heat of them even through my clothes. He kisses up the side of one of my breasts, then latches on to my nipple. The sensation is so strong, almost overpowering. What will it be like when I'm naked?
He moves downward. My hips and the dips in my waist above them seem to fascinate him. He wraps his fingers around my sides and moves lower until he's nudging my shirt up to expose my midriff above the waistband of my pants.
His lips are warm and soft but purposeful, and when they glide over the sensitized skin of my stomach, I groan.
His fingers hook over the waist of my pants. "I'm going to take these off." His voice is quiet but full of delicious heat.
I knew this was coming, but still I tense.
"What is it, baby?"
I can't lie to him. I don't want to. "It's… I don't like my legs, that's all."
He runs his hand over the outside of my leg, his fingers brushing over the length of the scars through my pants. "Bravery," he reminds me. "Strength. That's what your scars mean to me. That's all they mean to me."
"They're ugly."
"You're beautiful."
I hesitate for long seconds, then swallow down the self-consciousness that has bubbled up. "Okay."
"And I'm taking off your panties too."
My mouth feels dry. "Okay." This time, it is just a whisper.
I lift my butt up, and he draws my pants and underwear down my legs and completely off, removing my shoes when he reaches my feet. The breeze brushes my bare skin—another layer of caresses to add to Ethan's.
And then, more kisses, more gentle strokes as he works his way back up my legs. He doesn't focus on my scars, but he doesn't ignore them either. He treats them like they're a natural part of me, and he kisses and nibbles over them like he does the rest of my skin.
By the time he has traveled up to my thighs, I don't care about the scars anymore. I'm so turned on, it is all I can do not to writhe and squirm. If he touches my sex, I'll be soaking wet. I'm so ready to have him inside me.
Gently, he tugs my knees apart, and he strokes up my inner thighs, following his touch with his lips. He takes his time, kissing and nibbling and suckling, and every inch he moves closer to the apex of my thighs makes me feel heavier, needier.
And then his fingers are on me. Gently opening me and stroking through my slickness. "Oh God," I groan.
"You're so wet," he murmurs, dark satisfaction in his tone.
A single finger slides into me. I whimper as he drags it out, stroking my inner walls, and then pushes back inside. He repeats the movement again and again, and it's a tease, such a tease. His fingers drive me higher and higher, but they won't take me over the edge. I need him inside me—not just his fingers, but all of him.
I start begging. "Please, Ethan. Please."
"What do you want, baby?" But he doesn't give me a chance to answer. Instead, he asks, "Do you want this?" And then his mouth covers my sex, all heat and wetness, even as his fingers continue their relentless assault.
His tongue is wicked. He knows exactly where to flick it over me, and suddenly I'm careening to my peak. The sensations—his lips and his tongue on me, his fingers working inside me—all come together in an intense conflagration of heat. I don't need to strain for it; instead, it rushes at me with all the power of an inferno.
His tongue passes over my clit, and that's it. I explode into a million burning sparks. I have no control over my body, which undulates with the force of the orgasm. And I can't control my cries of pleasure or the way my hands clutch at Ethan's hair.
My body is racked with powerful spasms so intense my vision goes black for a moment, blotting out all the stars.
Slowly, I come down from it. Ethan's mouth has gentled on me, and his fingers slip from my body as the last of the spasms die out. He kisses his way upward, until our mouths align. He kisses me deeply, and I taste myself on his lips as I wrap my arms around him and move my lips in concert with his.
He threads his hand in my hair, and he kisses me and kisses me, his lips gentle and soft even as they overwhelm me, make me inexorably his. He murmurs about how beautiful I was when I came, how good I tasted, how sweet I am, until I feel like my blush has spread from my cheeks all the way down my chest and has hit my belly button.
After a long time has passed, and I'm sighing with contentment and the aftereffects of pleasure, he rises and begins to put my underwear and pants back on, but I stop him. "Wait. What about you?"
His smile is slow and sexy. "What about me?"
I chew my lower lip, my eyes flickering down to the prominent bulge behind the zipper of his pants.
"Mmm," he says. "What do you want with that, Tara?"
"Everything," I whisper.
"Good." He presses a kiss to my big toe. "But not tonight."
"But—"
"Shh."
He pulls my underwear and pants back up and then lies down beside me and gathers me against him. We lie like that, me cuddled into the crook of his arm.
"I want to spend every hour I can with you," he murmurs. "Every minute. I can feel them ticking away, and I want to grab each one and hold on to it and not let it get away."
I feel the same. Right now, our inevitable return to LA feels like diving into a black hole after a long flight through a million bright stars. I want to stay among the stars for as long as I can.
We lie here, wrapped around each other, for the duration of our watch. We check on the instruments and on the sails intermittently, but for the most part talk about anything and everything.
At one a.m., he walks me to my cabin and gives me a long, sweet kiss good night before returning up to the deck for the remainder of the middle-of-the-night watch he shares with Kyle.
I get ready for bed, put on my pajamas, and slide between the sheets, pulling my comforter up over me.
I'm glad we decided to keep our relationship private. I felt so uncomfortable when I saw Mick watching us like we were fascinating specimens. But the real truth is, this feeling I have—it's special. I want to keep it and hold it
close, and I don't want to share it with the world. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
For the first time in forever, I fall asleep relaxed, content, and with a smile on my face.
Justine
November 2, 2004
As our relationship grows deeper and more profound, I've learned a lot about Ethan. He has opened up to me completely (far more than I have opened up to him, by the way). I know just about everything about him now, about his awful life before he dug his way out of the pit in high school and won the scholarship to Stanford.
Something unconscionable happened to his mother, and he was there to witness it. It explains a lot about him, about how insanely protective he is toward the people he cares about. It has also made me view his mom in a different way. I despised her at the beginning, but now I am able to tolerate her. Sometimes.
The thing is, I've been through hard times too. Really awful times. But I don't use them as an excuse for...well, anything. Yes, I suffered through them. But now, they're over. I've moved on. So I don't have a lot of sympathy for people (like Jean) who use one horrible incident to color their whole life. In fact, it makes me angry. I just want to shake them and yell, Move on, people!
Really, people just need to get over themselves.
Anyway, I'll stop ranting. Good thing I won't have to see too much of Jean. She might make my head explode if I have to deal with her self-effacing, martyring, oh, so sweet attitude too often.
Enough of that. I actually have big news for you, Diary, and it is this: My plan has come to fruition! I've done it! I've convinced Daddy that Ethan is indispensable to the future of Triton. And I've convinced Ethan that this opportunity to partner with my dad is big, bigger than what Stanford can do for him right now.
I'm right on both counts, of course. It just took a little surreptitious nudging (and a bit of hacking to speed up their progress) on my part to make both of them realize it. It's been ten months to the day, but I am a patient girl. All my hard work has paid off.
Daddy is bringing Ethan, the tech/business prodigy into the fold. Ethan has chosen to quit school in order to work alongside my brilliant father.
Do you understand what this means, Dear Diary? No? Let me spell it out for you.
