Chapter 4
LILA
The city glitters behind him, but it isn’t the skyline that makes me hold my breath.
It’s the way Ethan stands there, sleeves rolled, collar open, eyes already on me like he knew I’d come.
There’s a table set for two beneath the terrace lights, the cloth pressed smooth and the silverware gleaming beside tall wine glasses.
Everything is warm and quiet, like this is normal for him.
It’s not normal for me.
“You’re late,” he says, but there’s no edge in his voice.
“You didn’t give a time.” I hope my tone sounds more composed than I feel.
He gestures toward the chair and waits until I sit before taking the one across from me. A bottle of red wine rests in a decanter, and he pours with the kind of ease that says he’s done this often, though probably not with assistants who live in one-bedroom apartments with leaky faucets.
I glance down at my plate. Tagliatelle, golden and soft, sits beneath a silky sheen of butter, garlic, and sautéed mushrooms, with shavings of parmesan melting into the heat. I lift my fork, then pause. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
He tilts his head slightly. “You said once that pasta is the only thing you trust after a bad day.”
I frown, trying to place it. “When did I say that?”
“Holiday party. One of the interns spilled cider on his tie. You said carbs don’t lie, but people do.”
My face warms, because I barely remember the comment and I certainly didn’t think he was listening.
“I remember what matters,” he adds.
The first bite is rich and light at the same time. The noodles are handmade, and the flavor lingers in a way I didn’t expect. I take a second bite and chew slowly, then glance up to find him watching me again.
“Do you cook?”
“When it matters,” he answers, his mouth curving slightly. “Usually after.”
A warmth slides up my neck and reddens my whole face. I have to break eye-contact just to make sure I’m still holding my own.
For a while, we eat without talking. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, and that somehow makes it worse. It’s intimate, familiar even. I focus on the food, but my mind keeps drifting back to the texts, the voice in my ear, and the way his words still echo in my skin.
He refills my glass and watches me over the rim of his own. “You keep flinching every time I look at you.”
“I don’t,” I say automatically, but I do.
“You still think this is a game?”
“I think it’s dangerous.”
“Only if you pretend not to want it.”
I set my fork down and meet his gaze. “You think because I responded, that means I don’t have doubts?”
“No,” he says, “I think you’re allowed to have both.”
The wind shifts slightly, and I cross my arms to hold in the warmth I’m losing. He sees it and stands slowly.
“Come with me.” He holds out his hand.
I slide mine into his before I can overthink it. His fingers wrap around mine, and they’re solid, warm, absolutely unfair. My whole palm disappears inside his. It’s not just the size, it’s the way he holds me like it means something.
He leads, and I follow, because I can’t not.
Walking beside him makes the difference feel even more obscene—his long strides, his broad shoulders, the way I have to tilt my head just to meet his eyes.
At five feet eight, I’m not short. He’s just a skyscraper of a man, and that plays into every fantasy I’ve ever had about him.
I swear I feel it low and stupidly deep in my belly when his thumb brushes over mine. I follow him to the far edge of the terrace, where the glass curves and the view stretches farther than I can process. It’s remote and cold, but I don’t feel either of those things.
“You hate compliments,” he remarks.
I glance at him. “Not exactly. I’m just careful about how I handle them.”
“Why?”
“Because most of the time, they’re offered like favors. Like I should be grateful someone noticed something I didn’t ask them to look at.”
He nods, slowly. “You’ve been carrying that weight for a long time.”
“It’s not weight.” I shake my head, then pause. “No, actually—it is. It’s every side comment about my thighs and every sales rack that stops at a size eight and every person who told me I’d be pretty if I just tried a little harder.”
His voice is quiet. “You don’t need to try. You already are.”
I shake my head. “You don’t get to say that. Not when you’ve probably only dated models who survive on air and almonds.”
“I’ve dated women who were beautiful,” he says, “but none of them had fire in their beauty. Until now, that is.”
My blush deepens and I look away, but his hand comes to rest lightly on my hip. His other hand slides along my jaw. I know I should step back, but I don’t.
“You think your body’s too much,” he murmurs, “but men don’t want small. Boys want easy. Men want something they can feel.”
I inhale sharply, and his mouth is closer now.
“You were made to be touched,” he says. “And I’ve been thinking about it since the first day you walked into my office.”
His mouth brushes mine once, then again, slower this time. I melt into it before I can pretend otherwise. His hand curls around my waist, pulling me flush against him, and the heat between us surges like it’s been waiting.
He deepens the kiss with a sound in his throat, and I open for him without thinking. My fingers clutch at his shirt, and his mouth moves over mine with a hunger that feels both new and long overdue.
His hand slides lower, gripping my hip harder now, and I gasp against his lips as he backs me toward the wall of glass.
His mouth slants over mine again, firmer this time, and I lose whatever grip I had on control.
He kisses like he means to take something, and maybe he already has, because I’m opening for him without question, without pause, without a single coherent thought in my head.
His tongue strokes mine slowly, and his hand curves tighter around my waist, drawing me in until there’s no space left between us. My breath catches in my throat, and my hands fist in his shirt like I need something to hold onto before I drown.
He shifts, backing me up against the cool glass wall, and the contrast between the cold surface and his heat makes me gasp. His thigh slides between mine, pressing high, and my hips rock against it on instinct. I don’t even mean to, but he groans against my mouth like he felt it everywhere.
I can’t think. I can barely breathe. All I know is the way his lips drag across my jaw, down to my neck, where his teeth scrape lightly before he sucks hard enough to leave a mark.
“You taste so sweet,” he murmurs into my skin, and the words curl deep in my gut. My fingers move on their own, tugging at the buttons of his shirt, even though I know I shouldn’t. He catches my hands before I get far, pinning them gently against the glass.
“Not yet,” he says, voice rough and full of command. “Let me touch you first.”
He kisses me again, slower this time, teasing and thorough, and his hands move to my hips, sliding over the fabric of my dress like he’s memorizing every curve. He palms my ass firmly then trails one hand up to cup my breast through the fabric, and I arch into him without shame.
“You’ve been driving me insane for months,” he murmurs. “Walking into my office in skirts that don’t hide a damn thing, speaking with that sharp little mouth, pretending you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.”
“I wasn’t pretending,” I breathe, but it comes out as a whimper when his thumb brushes over my nipple.
His mouth curves into a smile against my neck. “Even better.”
He steps back, just long enough to grab my hand and lead me inside.
I follow on shaking legs, still dizzy from how quickly I lost control.
We pass through the living space, then the bedroom opens around us—dark wood floors, soft recessed lighting, a king-sized bed with deep navy sheets that probably cost more than my rent.
He stops near the edge of the bed and turns to face me. His eyes are darker now, focused and hungry, but he waits. “Say it,” he says. “Say you want this.”
My throat is dry, but my voice doesn’t shake. “I want this.”
“Good girl,” he says, and my knees nearly give out.
He steps in close again, and this time, his hands go to the top button of my dress. He undoes it slowly, his fingers brushing my collarbone as he leans in to kiss just below my ear.
“One button at a time,” he murmurs. “So you feel every second of this.”
My breath comes faster. He moves to the next button, then the next, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the path he reveals. By the time he reaches the last one, the dress is loose on my shoulders, and his hands slide beneath the fabric, pushing it down slowly until it pools at my feet.
I stand in front of him in my bra and panties, flushed and exposed, and he steps back for one long look. His eyes travel over every inch of me, reverent and unhurried.
“You have no idea what this does to me,” he says.
Then he reaches for the clasp of my bra, and his fingers work it open with practiced ease. The straps fall, and his hands come up to cup me bare, warm and firm, while his mouth claims mine again.
I’m already trembling when he lifts me by the hips and lays me back across his bed. The sheets are cool beneath me, but his body is hot as he follows me down, settling between my thighs with a growl in his throat.
“Touching you through a screen wasn’t enough,” he silkily murmurs against my breast. “I need more.”
His mouth closes around my nipple, tongue circling, and my back arches as his hand slides lower, over the curve of my stomach, down to the thin lace between my legs. He presses his fingers there and finds me soaked.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re ready for me.”
Then he kisses me again. The bed shifts under his weight, and a full-body awareness spreads through me before he even touches me. Something about the way he moves—like he’s done deciding and I don’t get a say anymore—makes my pulse trip.
He kneels between my thighs, spreading them with his palms.
“Keep them open.” His voice is an order that slides over my skin like smoke. “All the way. I want to see exactly how greedy this pussy is.”
Heat flares down my spine at the sound of the word on his tongue. He brushes his knuckles between my thighs, not touching where I need him, just skimming the inside of my leg, and I flinch from how sensitive I already am.
Then I hear the soft crack of something between his teeth.
My eyes flicker open. “What was that?”
He smiles, and it’s fucking wicked. “You’ll find out.”
Then I feel it—cold. A shocking, tingling coolness from his tongue as it slides along my inner thigh. Menthol. Ice and fire in the same breath. My hips jerk off the bed in surprise, and he laughs.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s going to feel real fucking good.”
He leans in, dragging that chilled tongue higher, leaving a trail of sensation that burns after the cold fades. His mouth gets closer to where I need him, and my body’s already arching, chasing it, shaking with want.
“Stay still,” he murmurs. “Or I’ll tie you down and edge you until you cry.”
I let out a choked sound, raw and needy. “Please—”
“Don’t beg yet,” he says, and then his mouth finally lands on me, and it’s everything.
The shock of menthol hits hard, ice-cold at first, and then the heat spreads after, blooming across every nerve. His tongue is slow, firm, confident, licking through me like he has nowhere else to be, like his only job is to devour every inch until I can’t remember my own name.
And I can’t. My mind blanks as the contrast plays out—cool tongue, hot breath, slick lips, rough stubble—a symphony of contradiction that has me sobbing his name before I’m even close.
“You taste fucking perfect,” he groans into me. “Sweet and messy. This pussy was made for my mouth.”
My thighs tremble violently. He grabs my hips, holds me open, and goes deeper, sucking hard enough to make me cry out.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Grind on me. Use my face. Fuck it if you need to.”
I do. I can’t resist. My hips buck against his mouth, and he urges it, tongue working in swift circles, dragging groans out of me I’ve never heard myself make. His praise hits just as hard as his tongue.
“You’re so wet for me. Such a good girl.”
He drags his tongue lower, then higher, then back again, spreading the cold sting and warmth until my whole body is lit up with it. Then—god—he blows on me. Cool air hits where his mouth was just hot, and I scream.
“Sensitive, aren’t you?” he murmurs.
I try to answer, but all that comes out is a broken gasp. My hands claw at the sheets, then at his shoulders, then back to the sheets because I need something to hold.
He flattens his tongue and drags it up slowly, then flicks the tip, sharp and fast. Every movement is as if he’s studying me, using my sounds and twitches like a roadmap to ruin.
His fingers dig in at my thighs to keep me spread, to keep me there for him, then he does something that short-circuits every nerve: he slips one cold, mint-slick finger inside while his mouth stays right where it is.
I scream.
“Yeah. That’s it. Fucking lose it for me.” His voice is hoarse. “You were made to be wrecked like this.”
I’m falling apart. I’m dripping, panting, begging. I don’t know where I end and he begins. He pulls his mouth back just far enough to look at me—his lips wet, eyes dark and gleaming. “Going to say it properly?”
“Please, Sir,” I gasp, voice breaking. “Please let me come.”
His mouth curls in approval.
“There she is.”
Then he devours me.
There’s no teasing now. Just filthy, wet, relentless pressure.
His tongue moves like a weapon—fast, rough, ruthless—and his finger presses deeper, curling inside me while the menthol sting keeps everything sharp and too much.
I cry out again, louder this time, and he moans into me like my desperation is his reward.
“Come on my fucking tongue,” he growls. “Make a mess of me.”
I do.
It hits like a wave crashing over me—pleasure ripping through my spine, my body locking and shaking with it. My voice breaks on his name as I come, and he doesn’t let up. He drinks it down, licking and sucking and riding it out with me like he owns every pulse.
By the time he slows, I’m wrecked—splayed out, trembling, breath stuttering.
He pulls back slowly, licking his lips, then crawls up my body, mouth hovering by my ear.
“Now,” he whispers, “we can start.”