29. Mia
MIA
Later that same night, Ethan takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom where soft lamplight pools across sheets that smell like cedar and expensive detergent. He closes the door behind us with deliberate care, the click of the latch settling into the quiet like punctuation.
"I want to show you something," he says, voice low and rough in a way that makes heat bloom low in my belly despite the exhaustion still clinging to my bones from everything Derek put me through.
I tilt my head, studying him in the warm light. His ice-blue eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide with want barely restrained. "Show me what?"
"How much I love you. How grateful I am that you're here, alive, mine." He steps closer, fingers finding the hem of his button-down that I'm wearing, thumbs brushing the bare skin of my thighs beneath it. "If you're too tired, if your body needs more time to heal?—"
"I'm not too tired,” she says breathlessly. "I want this. I want you."
His jaw works, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. Then he's cupping my face with both hands, tilting my chin up so our eyes meet in the lamplight. "Tell me if anything hurts. Tell me if you need me to stop. Promise me, Mia."
"I promise."
He kisses me then, soft and reverent, lips moving against mine with tenderness that makes my chest ache. His tongue traces the seam of my mouth until I open for him, deepening the kiss with slow deliberation while his hands slide down my sides to grip my hips.
I reach for his tie, fumbling with the knot until he helps me, pulling it free and tossing it aside before working the buttons of his shirt open one by one.
Each reveal of skin makes my fingers itch to touch, to map the planes of his chest and abdomen the way I've done before but it feels new now, weighted with everything we've survived to reach this moment.
His shirt joins the tie on the floor. I press my palms flat against his chest, feeling the hammer of his heart beneath warm skin and the slight roughness of hair. He watches me with laser focus, tracking every movement like he's memorizing the sight of my hands on him.
"Your turn," he murmurs, fingers finding the buttons of my borrowed shirt and working them free with maddening slowness.
The fabric parts. Cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps across my breasts and stomach. His breath catches when he realizes I'm not wearing anything underneath, just bare skin flushed with heat and anticipation.
"Christ, Mia." His voice cracks on my name. "You're so beautiful it makes my chest hurt."
I should feel exposed, vulnerable, standing here mostly naked with bruises still fading across my ribs and arms. Instead I feel powerful in a way I haven't since before Derek walked into Sable and destroyed everything.
Because Ethan's looking at me like I'm art, something precious and irreplaceable that he's been given permission to worship.
He guides me backward until my knees hit the mattress. I sit, then scoot back to give him room. He follows, crawling over me with movements controlled and predatory, caging me in with his forearms while his hips settle between my thighs.
The weight of him grounds me. Real, solid, safe. I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer, needing to feel every inch of him against me.
"Slow," he reminds me, voice strained. "We're going slow tonight."
"Ethan—"
"No arguing. I'm in charge right now, and I say we take our time.
" His mouth finds my jaw, trailing kisses down the column of my throat with careful attention to avoid the healing cut.
"I'm going to kiss every inch of you. Touch you until you're shaking.
Make you come so many times you forget your own name. "
The promise makes wetness pool between my thighs, muscles clenching around nothing. "That sounds like a threat."
"It's a guarantee." His lips move lower, tongue circling one nipple until it peaks hard and aching before he takes it into his mouth.
I arch into the sensation, fingers threading through his hair to hold him against me. He lavishes attention on one breast until I'm squirming beneath him, then switches to the other while his hand palms the abandoned one, thumb circling the wet peak in rhythm with his mouth.
"Ethan, please." I'm not sure what I'm begging for, just that I need more, need him to touch me everywhere, need the empty ache between my legs filled.
"Please what?" He releases my nipple with a soft pop, breath ghosting across sensitive skin. "Use your words, Mia. Tell me what you need."
"Touch me. Lower."
His smile is wicked and devastating. "Here?" His hand trails down my stomach, fingers tracing patterns across my hip bone.
"Lower."
"Here?" He cups me through my leggings, heel of his palm pressing against my clit with perfect pressure.
I buck into his touch with a gasp. "Yes. There. Please."
He hooks his fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric down my legs in one smooth motion until I'm completely bare beneath him. The lamplight catches on the wetness coating my inner thighs, evidence of how much I want this, want him.
"Look at you." He settles between my legs, shoulders forcing my thighs wider. "So wet for me already."
Then his mouth is on me and coherent thought dissolves into sensation.
His tongue licks through my folds with broad strokes, tasting every inch before focusing on my clit with precision that makes my back bow off the mattress. He alternates between flat pressure and quick flicks, reading my body's responses like a language only he speaks fluently.
One finger slides inside me, then a second, curling to hit the spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. He pumps them steadily while his mouth works my clit, building pleasure in waves that crest higher and higher until I'm trembling on the edge.
"Come for me," he murmurs against my flesh. "I want to feel you fall apart."
The command combined with a particularly well-timed thrust of his fingers sends me over. The orgasm crashes through my system in rolling waves, pleasure so intense it borders on pain, every nerve ending firing at once while I cry out his name.
He doesn't stop. His fingers keep moving, mouth staying latched to my clit, wringing every aftershock from my body until I'm pushing at his shoulders with shaking hands.
"Too much, I can't?—"
"You can." He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, lips glistening with my arousal. "Give me one more."
Before I can protest he's back, tongue circling my oversensitive clit with gentler pressure while his fingers continue their maddening rhythm. The overstimulation makes me writhe, caught between wanting to escape and needing him to never stop.
The second orgasm builds faster, sharper, pleasure coiling tight at the base of my spine until it snaps with enough force to make my vision white out. I'm vaguely aware of screaming his name, fingers twisted in the sheets while my thighs clamp around his head.
When I finally come back to myself, Ethan's kissing his way up my body, paying reverent attention to every inch of skin he encounters. His erection presses hot and hard against my hip through his pants, a reminder that he's been holding himself back while focusing entirely on my pleasure.
I reach for his belt, fingers clumsy with post-orgasm languor. "Your turn."
"This was always about you."
"Then make it about us." I finally get the belt undone, work his zipper down with determination born from need. "I want to feel you inside me, Ethan. I want to fall apart with you, not just for you."
That breaks his restraint. He shoves his pants and boxer briefs down his hips, kicking them off impatiently. His cock springs free, flushed and leaking, and I wrap my hand around the length of him just to feel the weight and heat.
He groans, hips jerking into my touch. "Condom. We should?—"
"No. I want to feel all of you." I guide him to my entrance, notching the head of his cock against my opening. "Please, Ethan."
He searches my face for hesitation, making sure I'm certain despite everything my body's been through. Whatever he sees convinces him because he pushes forward in one slow, inexorable slide that fills me completely.
We both freeze, breathing hard, adjusting to the sensation of being joined without barriers. He's thick enough that there's a stretch, a fullness that toes the line between pleasure and too much.
He withdraws almost completely before sliding back in, setting a rhythm that's controlled and deliberate, every stroke hitting deep while his pelvis grinds against my clit. I wrap my legs around his waist, changing the angle so he's hitting that perfect spot inside with every thrust.
"You feel incredible," he murmurs against my neck. "So tight, so perfect. Made for me, Mia. You were made for me."
The possessiveness in his voice makes something primal and satisfied unfurl in me. "I'm yours, Ethan."
His rhythm falters, just for a second, before he's moving faster, harder, chasing his own release while somehow still mindful of my healing body. One hand finds mine, fingers lacing together and pressing into the mattress beside my head while his other arm supports his weight.
The intimacy of it overwhelms me. Connected everywhere—hands, mouths, bodies moving in perfect synchronization like we've done this a thousand times instead of just a handful. I can feel another orgasm building, slower this time but no less intense, coiling low in my belly with every thrust.
"I love you," I whisper against his mouth. "I love you so much."
"I love you too." He kisses me deeply, swallowing my gasp when his next thrust hits particularly deep. "I love you, Mia. You're everything. You're my entire world."
The confession combined with the perfect angle of his hips sends me over for the third time. This orgasm is different—softer, deeper, rolling through me in waves that make tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I tighten around him, muscles clenching rhythmically, and that's all it takes.
Ethan groans my name, hips stuttering as he comes inside me with forceful pulses I feel in every nerve ending. His face contorts with pleasure, jaw going slack, eyes squeezed shut while he empties himself completely.
We stay joined while he softens inside me, both of us breathing hard, sweat cooling on skin pressed together. He shifts his weight to keep from crushing me, careful of my still-tender ribs, and presses kisses to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For loving me like this."
He pulls back enough to meet my eyes, expression open and vulnerable in ways I never imagined him capable of when we first struck our arrangement. "You don't need to thank me for loving you, Mia. It's something I'll choose to do, every day, for the rest of our lives if you'll let me."
Fresh tears spill over. Happy ones this time, relief and love and overwhelming gratitude for this man who came into my life as a calculated risk and became my home.
"Yeah," I manage. "For the rest of our lives sounds perfect."