Chapter 14
Ethan
The moment our lips part, it feels like a crack in a frozen lake — silent at first … then unstoppable. Harper is still leaning into me, breath soft against my cheek, fingers curled in my shirt like she’s holding onto something she’s afraid to lose. Hell, maybe I am too.
Her forehead rests against mine, and I close my eyes because looking at her right now feels too intimate.
“Ethan,” she whispers, voice warm and uncertain all at once.
I swallow hard. “Yeah?”
Her fingers flex slightly in my shirt. She hasn’t let go.
She’s not backing away. And every inch of her body is angled toward mine like she wants more — like she’s asking for it without saying a word.
I should stop. I know I should. This is too risky.
But her breath brushes my lips again and all my resolve shreds like old rope.
“This might be a bad idea,” I murmur, voice low.
She lifts her head enough to meet my gaze.
“It doesn’t feel like a bad idea.”
God help me. Her eyes are soft, wide, and luminous in the firelight. There’s something vulnerable there — trust, warmth, want — and it wrecks me completely. I have no armor against her. Not anymore.
I should pull away. Be the sensible one. Set boundaries. Say something practical like we’re tired or stressed or wrapped up in holiday nonsense. Instead, I lean in slowly, testing and hovering just above her lips.
Her breath catches with a tiny, desperate inhale — and it punches straight through me. She wants this. She wants me in a way I haven’t felt wanted in a very, very long time.
I kiss her again. This time deeper. Still gentle, but with intention.
With the kind of hunger I can’t pretend I don’t feel.
Her hand slides up to my neck, fingers threading into the hair there, pulling me closer.
My entire body goes hot, tight, and alert.
She tastes sweet from the chocolate and warm from the fire, and for a brief, dizzy moment, I think I could drown in this.
“Harper,” I say, but her name comes out too ragged, too filled with things I shouldn’t admit. She freezes — not pulling away, but waiting and listening. “I want you,” I confess quietly. “More than I should.”
Her fingers trail down my jaw in a slow, soft stroke.
“I want you too.” Having her say those words does something to me.
I pull her tight beside me on the king-size bed — the one where neither of us were supposed to drift.
But, I’m not drifting. I’m diving into her like she’s the holy water that could save me.
Her mouth opens for me, soft and hungry.
My hands want to touch her everywhere at once.
I run my palm over her cheek first, then into her hair, burying my fingers at the nape of her neck while her arms go around my shoulders.
She clings to me, smaller than I expect, stronger than I imagined.
She makes a little sound, soft and needy, and it spikes straight to my groin.
Everything else drops away. The world, the fire, the fake marriage. None of it matters. Only her.
I thrust my tongue into her mouth. I want more. My body aches with it. I want to know every shade of noise she makes. The control I’m so damn proud of is a thread, fraying fast.
She shifts, placing one of her legs around my hips.
Her cheeks are flushed as if the fire is inside her now.
One of her hands presses flat against my chest in a desperate way.
She’s so damn responsive. I’m acutely aware that this clothing we’re wearing is nothing but a barrier, one that I intend to make temporary.
Harper’s hips arch into me with this wild urgency, like she can’t stand another inch of distance between us. I half-laugh, half-groan, and flip us so she’s under me, hair splaying across the pillow. Her eyes are wide open, blue as the Rockies in spring and just as dangerous for a man’s willpower.
I brace myself above her, arms trembling with restraint, every muscle screaming want.
But I keep the pressure light, careful not to crush her with my size.
Her hands skim up my arms, roaming, then clutching my biceps like she can’t believe what’s under her hands.
It does something to me. She touches me like I’m a wish come true instead of a problem she bought by accident.
I want to see her, all of her. But more than that, I want her to know what I’m about to do to her.
Maybe it’s the way she looks up at me, so trusting despite the way I know I scare some people.
Maybe it’s the way she moves under me, unafraid.
Or maybe it’s how, for the first time in years, I want to be seen. All of me. Even the broken parts.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” I say, voice low and tense. “Tell me to slow down.”
She shakes her head, the movement so slight I might miss it if I wasn’t focused on every detail of her. “Don’t want to stop.”
That’s it. There’s no turning back now. My hands are greedy.
I slide my palm under her shirt, fingers gliding up the curve of her waist to the underside of her breast. She gasps—a feather-light, shocked sound that makes my cock twitch, hard and insistent now.
I pause, just long enough to check her eyes, make sure this is what she wants.
But her eyes are wild, already half-lidded, her chest rising fast under my hand.
I risk it and slide my thumb over the peak of her nipple through the fabric of her bra.
She bucks up, lips parting on a sharp, honest moan.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers.
I don’t. I push the sleep shirt up, baring her stomach first, all pale, delicate and soft.
I don’t recognize the sound I make, but it’s not anything I’ve heard leave my mouth before.
I want to strip her slow, memorize every inch, but the animal in me wants to tear it off and bury myself in her right now.
I compromise by lifting her shirt with both hands, drag it up and over, and she raises her arms to help.
The movement exposes her, bare from the waist up except for the bra—a pale pink, lacy thing that makes my head spin.
“You’re so beautiful,” I hear myself say, and it’s not a line. I mean it so hard my hands shake.
She looks away, embarrassed, but I tilt her chin back. “You are,” I insist, kissing her again, deeper, until she believes me. My hands roam down, over the swell of her breast, around her ribs, then back up to cup her face. Her lips are red and wet, her breath coming in soft, needy pants.
My mouth leaves hers and trails hot down her neck.
I press my lips under her jaw, then lower, tasting the delicate, sensitive skin just above her collarbone.
She shivers under me. I want her to feel it, to feel me, to know exactly how insane she drives me.
I tongue the hollow just below her throat, then nip at it, just hard enough to make her gasp.
My hands cradle her ribs, greedier now, learning her shape.
She writhes under me. The shy Harper is gone. She lifts her hips to grind against me and I exhale through my teeth, just barely holding back from taking her right here, right now. I want her to beg. I want to hear how she asks. I want to listen for the small, secret noises she’ll make only for me.
I slide my hands down, palms gliding over her waist, her hips.
She’s soft, so much softer than I could have imagined.
I cup her ass, squeeze, and she lets out a high, shocked sound.
The legs she’s wrapped around my waist tighten, bracing me there.
I could snap if I wanted. I could break her open.
But the way she looks at me says she trusts I won’t.
I bring my mouth to her breast, kiss it through the lace, then drag the cup aside with my thumb. I take her nipple in my mouth, sucking slow, then harder, and she arches up into me, hands fisting in my hair.
“Ethan,” she gasps, the word edged with disbelief. “God… that’s…”
The rest is lost in a sound that’s almost a whimper, but not quite.
I lick over the bud, roll it between my teeth, then switch to the other, because now I’m obsessed with symmetry.
With making her come apart evenly. She groans, head pressed back into the pillows, throat arched, and that’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.
While my mouth is busy, my free hand slides down, tracing the soft slope of her hip, then up again until I reach the waistband of her leggings.
I hook my finger just inside, testing. She makes no move to stop me.
In fact, she lifts her hips so I can pull them down.
She’s so eager she almost helps, and that does it -- I completely lose my mind.
I drag the leggings down, kneeling to tug them off her legs.
She’s wearing nothing underneath, and the sight of her bare and wanting on the bed nearly undoes me.
I run my hands up her calves, over her thighs, then pause at the sweet, slick heat of her.
She’s already wet. So wet it’s almost criminal.
I let my fingers trace her, feather-light, just enough to let her know what I want.
She whimpers, reaching for my shoulders, fingers digging into my skin.
“Please,” she says, and the way she says it -- soft, desperate, like she’ll die if I don’t touch her -- sets me on fire.
I dip my fingers in, testing, working her open.
She arches, trembling, the rhythm of her breaths matching the slow, deep press of my hand.
I stroke her until she’s panting, then lean down, spreading her thighs and pressing my mouth to her.
She jerks, shocked, then moans, loud and unselfconscious.
I savor her, licking slow and deliberate, then quick, teasing her until her fingers knot in my hair, frantic, pulling me closer.
“Ethan…” she gasps, and there’s a pleading in my name I’ve never heard before.