17. All Of You （Hattie） #2
Usually, our dynamic shows me what he wants. He uses his body to communicate, and I give it to him.
But today, it’s different.
This time, I show him what I want.
I’m the one guiding him back until he’s backed against the counter.
He’s big enough to stop me, but he doesn’t. Maybe because he needs this too.
Me.
I want him to need me.
Yes, I know that’s selfish, but there’s no innocence when there’s so much emotion erupting out of a man who has your heart in his palms.
He’s already hard when I slide my hand down his body.
When I grip him, I shudder.
I run my hand up the length of his magnificent cock, letting his groan melt in my mouth. His hips jerk forward, seeking the pressure, the friction.
I fumble with the button to his pants, and instead of helping me out, he lets me move at my own pace.
He helps me pull open his pants, yanking them down.
Then his boxers.
Then his shirt, until he’s naked and ready to be worshipped.
I take him in my hand, loving how his eyes flare.
“Hattie.” He whispers my name gruffly, but I see his naked desire, burning like a flame.
My own lust must be kerosene.
I give him another long stroke, watching his muscles flex.
His chiseled abs ripple, and I can almost sense the restraint he needs not to push himself into my palm.
I don’t care what’s going on with our fake engagement—there’s nothing make-believe about this.
Nothing fake about the fairy-tale way he looks at me now.
My throat closes as I pull off my dress.
This mutual lust is a visceral thing, a stormfront demanding release, and there’s something inevitable about the wind, the lightning, the way he’ll soon be pelting every inch of my body with passion.
Once I’m naked, I hop up on the marble island.
I’m almost the same height as him up here, and he rewards me for being so eager, sliding a hand to my clit as I stroke him again.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “You keep this so wet and hot on demand, Pages. Never fucking stop.”
I shudder.
“I need you inside me.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
This is for both of us, a need for more.
With one hand at the nape of my neck, he pushes a finger inside, then two, and I arch against him.
My breasts brush the wall of his chest, sending electricity arcing through me.
Heat pools between my legs.
Oh, it won’t take much today.
With my free hand, I take his cock again and stroke him, this time faster.
Moisture beads at the tip, and he’s almost painfully hard now, pulsing in my hand like an angry animal.
We kiss, teeth nipping, breaths catching as we work each other over, until I can’t take it anymore.
I need him to fill me.
I’m obsessed since we dropped the condoms, crazed to have him skin-on-skin, to feel him pour out inside me.
“Now!” I whisper, biting his bottom lip. His growl sends fire through me. “Now, Ethan.”
He removes his fingers, putting them to his mouth so he can taste me.
With eyes cut from pure midnight locked on mine, he pushes inside my pussy.
Filling me.
I groan at how good, how right, how worthy he makes me feel.
This is what I need, more than my next breath.
This is where he should be—where he belongs.
This is where we consummate a truth we’re only starting to put into words.
“Yes,” I whisper as he drags my mouth back to his. “ Yes! ”
Growling, he nods, cupping my face in his hands as he pushes into me and finds his rhythm.
“Hattie, fuck,” he whispers, right before his curses become incoherent desire.
We kiss like we’re starved, holding each other so tight, our bodies melding together in a new symphony.
This doesn’t feel like fucking anymore.
It hits all the right notes for that, yes, but it’s so much more. Too intimate to be so limited.
With my nails dragging down his back, I open my legs wider and let him take me.
Today, Ethan makes love to me for the very first time.
When his hips crash against mine and drive deep, when his groan becomes a roar, when he thrusts in to the hilt and the first rope of his come douses me in flames, I’m so gone.
I close my eyes against the pleasure, the emotion, the bittersweet hope and heartache and humility overflowing in my chest.
Like it or not, it’s happening.
I’m falling for this tortured man, and it scares me senseless.
“What do you think?” Margot asks, holding up a handful of deep red roses.
Each one looks so perfect from petals to stem, it feels like they can’t be natural. Even the color is crazy vibrant and uniform.
But my mind can’t stop and smell the roses today, let alone come up with original puns. Standing in the finest floral shop in Portland doesn’t help.
Ethan wanted to tell me his secret.
I didn’t drag it out of him.
He came home from work early with his confession ready, and we made love three more times that night, staying up well past midnight without even talking much.
Just being together in the afterglow was enough.
It still feels like one of those beautiful dreams you never want to end.
Like at any moment, I’ll wake up, the illusion will vanish, and I’ll be plunged back into reality, where he’s distant and growly and only tolerates my existence as a means to an end.
But so far, it hasn’t happened.
In the dreamland that’s becoming our life, he’s still this wonderful, hurting, precious man. And I’m just Hattie Sage, new bookstore owner.
I’m no one special.
Possibly not even special enough to carry his secret with the care it deserves.
I can barely keep up with living.
How can I handle this dark shadow hanging over his life, and by extension mine?
How can I shelter him?
It was easy when I believed this was nothing.
Everything was easy when we only expected make-believe with a six-month countdown to get back to our real lives.
But somewhere along the way, lines blurred.
Ethan Blackthorn chose me to be more than his partner in this fake marriage crime.
In over a decade, he hasn’t told a soul, until he chose me.
Overwhelming.
Dizzying to have his trust.
Now, I can’t help wondering if he’s made a mistake, if I can trust myself.
What if I slip up and say something? What if something else happens that won’t keep this tragedy buried forever?
“Hey!” Margot snaps her fingers under my nose. “Earth to Hattie. Come in, book babe. Do I need to break out the smelling salts? Where are you today?”
“Um.” Quite literally world-altering secrets and heartbreaking sex with her brother is not the answer she’s looking for. “Right. The bookstore. There’s so much to sort out. I’ve barely just started on the financials. Thank God for the CPA or I’d really be lost.”
“Bookstore later. Flowers now.” She shakes the roses at me. “What do you think about these ?”
I rub one velvety leaf. “Are they real?”
“Oh, yeah! Best florist in town, I told you this place doesn’t disappoint. You couldn’t find roses this red if you painted them yourself…” Her voice falters as she lowers the roses to her lap with a frown. “Hattie, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. Just a little stressed over the big day. You know I suck at being the center of attention and all, but I guess pretty flowers take the pressure off a little.” I look around the florist’s shop—approved by both Margot and Mrs. Anne Radish, our wedding planner—and try to absorb the sheer number of flower options.
Unfortunately, lilies are out no matter how much I love them. They’re just not marriage material.
Margot keeps reminding me how much flowers mean at big, fancy weddings. They’re a statement piece and in her words, ‘they need to scream.’
Not what I love to hear when my heart prefers low-key and elegant.
“Not the roses,” I decide. “They’re a little too…” Much . “Perfect.”
Margot frowns at them, a tiny wrinkle forming between her eyes. “Hey, it’s your wedding day and you can basically afford anything. But don’t you want perfect?”
“I want natural. Modest, too. I know that’s a crazy concept for a billionaire wedding, but you asked.”
“Okay, okay. How about we look at the peonies then?” She waves her hand at a bunch of peach flowers. My gut knots at the sight of them.
Flowers.
For a fake wedding.
Before, planning a Potemkin wedding sounded like fun, but now I’m just stressing over everything.
What if we screw up and people see right through it?
And if I’m not good enough for him to trust me?
“Sure, let’s keep moving.” I try to keep my voice casual.
Margot throws me another suspicious look, like she knows I’m hiding something, but she goes back to scanning pretty flowers.
I want to ask her about Ethan’s past so badly without sounding like I’m weird or prying. Trouble is, with Margot, there’s no subtlety.
She drags any hint of it out by its feet, kicking and screaming.
Still, I have to try.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I say. “Remember when we were kids? Imagine me being fake-engaged to Ethan .”
“And going at it like rabbits!” Margot reminds me with a feral grin.
“Yes. And that.” I try to be brave but my cheeks flush anyway.
“I didn’t see it coming,” she says, pursing her lips. “I mean, I obviously always figured you’d get married, but not to my brother.”
Ah, the opening I hoped for.
“Surprise. Pretty crazy considering what it was like when we were kids,” I say, hoping my voice seems calm. “And he was always dating around.”
“Yeah.” Margot laughs.
“I wonder…” I hesitate. “Did he ever say much about his summer dates? Just curious.”
Real smooth, Hattie. Why are you really probing?
“Not really.” Margot leads us down another aisle, bursting with more colorful premade arrangements. “He kept things pretty low-key. I don’t think he wanted me knowing who he was boning, you know? I’m his sister. It’s weird.”
That’s not what I was looking for, but I nod, touching the bouquets absently to pretend I’m interested.
“That makes sense.”