3. Ivy #2
Then, a sharp, delicious stretch as he thrusts inside me, filling me completely.
I break against him, my moan swallowed by his kiss as he buries himself to the hilt, his growl vibrating against my lips.
Ethan drives into me with an intensity that borders on violent, his pace unrelenting, each deep, punishing thrust sending shockwaves through my body.
My back slams against the wall with every movement, my legs wrapped tightly around his waist as he grips my hips hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into my skin like he’s anchoring himself to me.
His breath is ragged, uneven, hot against my throat as he drags his teeth along my skin, his mouth open and hungry, nipping and sucking at every inch he can reach as though he wants to brand himself onto me.
The stretch of him is overwhelming, the sharp sting lasting only a second before pleasure crashes over me, thick and all-consuming, making my head spin.
He’s big, too big, forcing my body to adjust around him, but he doesn’t slow, doesn’t give me a moment to catch my breath.
He fucks me with the kind of desperation that makes my toes curl, his cock sinking deep, filling me over and over again until I’m clawing at his back, my nails raking over the hard ridges of his muscles, needing something to hold on to before I completely lose myself.
He growls against my throat, the sound rough and possessive, his teeth scraping my jaw before he lifts his head to look at me.
His green eyes are dark with hunger, wild with something deeper than lust, something that makes my stomach clench and my pulse stutter.
His thrusts grow harder, sharper, his control fraying as he grips the back of my neck with one hand, forcing me to look at him, forcing me to see exactly what I do to him.
“You take me so fucking well,” he rasps, his voice thick with need, his fingers tightening around my throat just enough to make me gasp. “Like you were made for this. Made for me.”
I can’t speak, can’t think, can’t do anything except moan, my body tightening around him, my walls clenching as another deep thrust sends a fresh wave of heat spiraling through me.
My hands scramble at his back, my fingers pressing into his skin as I bury my face against his neck, my breaths coming in quick, desperate gasps.
“Ethan,” I whimper, my voice broken, wrecked, almost pleading, and he groans at the sound, his hips snapping forward in a punishing rhythm that has me trembling, my thighs shaking as the pressure builds, as pleasure tightens low in my belly, sharp and unbearable.
He pulls back just enough to look at me again, his thumb dragging over my bottom lip before he tilts my head up, his breath mingling with mine. His expression is dark, unreadable, his pupils blown wide with lust, but there’s something else beneath it, something dangerous and claiming.
“Come for me,” he demands, his tone low and rough, his fingers curling around my jaw as he thrusts into me with brutal gusto, grinding his hips just right, hitting the spot that makes my vision go white, the pleasure coiling so tight I can’t hold it back any longer.
My orgasm slams into me, my body seizing, back arching, my mouth falling open in a broken scream as I shatter around him, my walls quivering, gripping him tightly.
Ethan curses, his grip tightening as he pushes in deep, chasing his own release, his movements turning frantic, almost brutal, as if he’s unraveling completely.
He buries himself inside me one last time, his body tensing, a ragged, almost pained groan tearing from his throat as he comes, hot and thick, his grip on me faltering, his forehead pressing against mine as he exhales, shuddering against me.
I feel the aftermath of him deep inside me, feel the way his body still shakes, his muscles tight, his breaths still uneven.
For a long moment, neither of us moves, our bodies tangled, our breaths still uneven as we come down together. His hands remain firm on my waist, like this isn’t just a fleeting moment, even though we both know better.
This is a one-night stand destined to burn itself into memory—unforgettable, but never to be repeated. I force myself to blink, willing away the sudden sting behind my eyes. I tell myself it’s just the crash after an unexpected high, but that would be a lie.
Ethan shifts, his breaths still uneven as he finally lets me go, but his hands linger at my waist for a moment longer before he exhales and steps back, watching me closely.
His green eyes, sharp even in the dim light, flick over my face, reading me the way a surgeon might study a patient before making an incision.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just tilts his head slightly, considering.
Then, quietly, “Go take a shower.”
It’s not a suggestion, but it’s not a command either. Just Ethan, direct and controlled, speaking like he already knows something is wrong but isn’t going to push until it’s his place to do it.
I hesitate, swallowing hard, before nodding and stepping away, reaching for my dress.
By the time I’m in the shower, the water scorching against my skin, the reality of the night presses in. My body hums, overstimulated, my pulse still slow and heavy, but beneath it is the ache—the one I always try to outrun. The one that reminds me that warmth like this is borrowed, not owned.
I linger longer than I should, the heat relaxing muscles that weren’t tense until now. When I finally step out, wrapped up in a robe, a warm, spiced aroma curls through the walls.
I pad downstairs, pulling the robe tighter around myself, and find him in the kitchen.
He’s standing at the stove, stirring something in a small saucepan, his sleeves rolled back up, the sharp lines of his forearms illuminated under the golden glow of the lights.
His posture is relaxed, but there’s an alertness in the way he moves, as if he’s waiting.
At the sound of my footsteps, he turns, giving me one slow, deliberate once-over. His gaze flicks from my damp hair to the way I’m clutching the robe like armor, and then, as if deciding not to call me out on it, he simply nods toward the mug sitting on the counter. “Made you something.”
I step forward, suspicious. “Is this some kind of elaborate ploy to knock me unconscious?”
He smirks, pouring the warm liquid into the mug. “You think I need a ploy?”
The corner of my mouth tugs up before I can stop it. “Fair point.”
I wrap my fingers around the cup, letting the heat seep into my skin, and take a tentative sip. It’s rich, slightly spiced, a little sweet—but not too much. The kind of drink that lulls you toward sleep without your realizing it.
I blink up at him. “What is this?”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with an infuriating degree of satisfaction. “Warm milk, cinnamon, a little honey.”
I raise a brow. “Did you just grandmother me?”
“Consider it preventative care.” He nods toward the cup. “Your pupils were blown from more than just what I did to you. Coming down from an adrenaline high like that messes with your nervous system.”
I stare at him, a little caught off guard by his attentiveness. The way he noticed, the way he’s trying to fix it without prying, without making me explain.
There are no words in me for what he’s just done, so I take another sip, the warmth curling through me, relaxing parts of me I didn’t realize were still tense. “It’s good,” I admit.
His smirk tilts. “Don’t sound too shocked.”
I roll my eyes and lean against the counter beside him, both of us silent for a moment. It should be awkward, standing here in nothing but this robe, sipping warm milk like we didn’t just devour each other against a wall, but it isn’t.
And then he speaks.
“Are you gonna tell me?” His voice is quieter now, the teasing gone, replaced with something gentler.
I glance up at him. “Tell you what?”
He doesn’t blink. “Why you really came back.”
The words land with a dull ache in my chest, and I look away, focusing on the swirl of cinnamon in my drink.
Because I’m tired of running. Because this is where I was born, and I want… I want to see if there’s anything here worth returning to or staying back for, or if I should escape forever.
The truth hovers on my tongue, pressing against my ribs, but I do what I always do and smile instead.
“What makes you think there’s a reason?”
He exhales, long and slow, like he’s already preparing for my deflection. “Because I know you, Ivy.”
I take a sip, avoiding his gaze. “Not anymore. I’m not who I used to be, Ethan.”
“No,” he agrees quietly. “You’re not.” He doesn’t say more, and neither do I, instead settling on finishing the last of my drink. Once it’s all gone, I place the mug on the counter before shifting back, ready to put some space between us before he makes me feel too much.
“Well,” I say, exhaling as I adjust the robe, already stepping toward the stairs, “thank you for the night, Ethan. Truly.”
His eyes darken slightly, unreadable, as if he doesn’t like the finality of that.
“That’s it?” he asks, tilting his head.
I force a small smirk. “What, you want me to write a Yelp review?”
“Wouldn’t hurt,” he deadpans, and it amuses me enough to pull a quiet chuckle from my chest, the sound slipping out before I can stop it.
It’s unguarded, real in a way I don’t expect, and for a second, his expression changes.
His features soften, his eyes flickering with an emotion I can’t name, a hesitation that lingers between us, a pull neither of us should acknowledge.
I ignore it. I have to.
So I turn, heading up the stairs, feeling his gaze on my back the entire way. The ache in my chest remains, but I push it down, force it into the part of me that knows better.
This was just a night. A perfect, earth-shattering, unforgettable night.
And in the morning, I’ll pretend that’s all it was.