Chapter 21
Twenty-One
When the bathroom door opened, and Lydia stepped through the steam, Ethan’s first thought was that he was hallucinating. That the exhaustion and adrenaline had finally caught up with him, and his mind was showing him what he wanted to see instead of what was real.
But then she spoke, “Ethan?” and her voice was real, shaky but determined, and his heart stopped.
“Yeah?” He shut off the water, suddenly very aware that he was naked and she was fully clothed. “Everything okay?”
“Can I … can I join you?”
For a moment, Ethan couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only stare at the frosted glass between them and process what she was asking.
She wanted this. Wanted him. After everything that had happened today, after Tom and the gun and Michael and the terror, she was choosing this. Now. Choosing him.
But he also knew what Tom had done to her. Not physically, not in the ways that left visible bruises, but in the ways that were just as damaging. The emotional manipulation of a selfish, petty man.
Ethan needed to be sure. Needed to know she was really ready for this and not just trying to prove something or running from her fear.
“Are you sure?”
Silence. Long enough that Ethan started to worry he’d said the wrong thing. Then, “I’m sure.”
Her voice was stronger than before. Certain.
Ethan opened the shower door, steam billowing out around him. Lydia stood there in her jeans and shirt, her eyes dark with want and fear and determination all mixed together. She looked at him, really looked, her gaze traveling down his body, and he saw her swallow hard.
“Lydia, we don’t have to—” he started, because he needed her to know. Needed her to understand that this wasn’t expected, wasn’t required, wasn’t something she owed him.
“I know.” Her fingers went to the top button of her shirt, but they were trembling. Fumbling. “I want to. I want you. I’m just … it’s been a long time. And it hasn’t been good with Tom in a long time. He made me feel like?—”
She stopped. Looked away. And Ethan felt rage bloom hot and sharp in his chest at what Tom had done to her. At how he’d taken something that should have been beautiful and made it ugly. Who had neglected her and her kids and likely made her feel that her pleasure didn’t matter.
“Like what?” Ethan asked softly. He stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around his waist because if they were going to have this conversation, he needed her to know he was listening.
That this wasn’t about him getting what he wanted.
It was about her feeling safe enough to tell him what she needed.
“Like I was a chore,” Lydia said, and the words came out crushed.
“An obligation. Something to get through so he could go back to what he was doing. He’d just …
it was mechanical. Rushed. He’d finish and roll over, and that was it.
And I’d just lie there thinking about whether I’d folded the laundry or what I needed to get at the grocery store because at least that was more interesting than what was happening. ”
Ethan’s hands clenched into fists. If Tom hadn’t already been in jail, if Ethan hadn’t already watched him get hauled away in handcuffs, he thought he might have driven to wherever the bastard was and made him hurt the way he’d made Lydia hurt.
But that wasn’t what she needed right now. What she needed was to know that not all men were like Tom. That intimacy could be different. Could be good. Could be about both people, not just one.
“I don’t even know if I know how to …” Lydia continued, tears shining in her eyes. “I’m scared I won’t be good at it. That you’ll be … disappointed.”
“Hey.” Ethan took her trembling hands in his, careful not to crowd her, careful to let her keep the space she needed. “Look at me.”
She did. Looked up at him with those beautiful eyes full of fear and hope.
“You don’t have to perform for me,” Ethan said, and he meant every word with his entire soul.
“You don’t have to be anything except yourself.
If we start and you want to stop, we stop.
No questions, no guilt, no pressure. If something doesn’t feel good, you tell me, and we change it.
If you need to slow down or speed up or change positions or just talk for a while, you tell me. ”
He brought her hands to his lips, kissed her knuckles gently. “This isn’t about me taking something from you. It’s not a chore or an obligation or something to get through. It’s about us giving something to each other. Pleasure. Intimacy. Trust. Okay?”
Lydia nodded, but she still looked uncertain. Still looked like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“And for the record?” Ethan leaned in, kissed her softly, pouring everything he felt into it. “Tom was an idiot. You’re not a chore. You’re a gift. And I plan to spend the rest of my life proving that to you.”
She kissed him back then, and Ethan felt something shift between them. Her fingers started working on her buttons again, and this time he helped her. Slow and careful, undoing each one like it mattered, like she mattered, like this was the most important thing he’d ever done.
When her shirt fell open, revealing a simple cotton bra. Practical, not fancy. Ethan’s breath caught. Not because it was sexy lingerie, but because it was real. Because she was real and here and choosing to be vulnerable with him.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, and meant it.
“I’m not—” she started to protest.
“You are.” Ethan traced her collarbone with his fingertips, reverent. “You’re beautiful and strong and brave, and I’m the luckiest man alive that you said yes to me.”
He helped her with her jeans, steadying her as she stepped out of them. Watched as she stood there in just her underwear and thought she’d never looked more gorgeous.
“Last chance to change your mind,” Ethan said, giving her one more out. One more chance to say no without pressure.
But Lydia met his eyes, and her jaw set with determination. “Get back in the shower, Cole.”
His grin felt like it might split his face. “Yes, ma’am.”
Ethan dropped his towel and stepped back into the shower. Held his hand out to her in invitation.
Lydia took a breath. Then she reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, let it fall. Stepped out of her underwear. And took his hand.
The water was perfect when they stepped under the spray together.
Hot but not scalding, Ethan had adjusted the temperature three times to get it exactly right.
He pulled her closer, into the warmth, and for a moment they just stood there.
Just let the water cascade over them, washing away the fear and blood and trauma of the day.
Washing away Tom’s intrusion on the new life she had been attempting to build for her kids.
Ethan reached for the soap, lathered his hands. Then, moving slowly, he touched her.
His hands slid across her shoulders, slick with soap and water. He wasn’t grabbing or demanding. He was asking. Asking with every touch if this was okay, if she wanted more, if he should stop or keep going.
And she answered. Answered by leaning into his touch, by making a soft sound in the back of her throat, by sliding her own hands across his chest.
Ethan let his hands drift lower. Down her back, feeling the curve of her spine, the slight tension in her starting to ease. To her waist, narrow and soft. He took his time, exploring, learning what made her breath catch and what made her relax into him.
Her hands were on him too, tentative at first but growing bolder. Tracing the muscles of his chest, his shoulders, his arms. Learning from him the way he was learning from her.
“What’s this from?” Lydia asked, her fingers pausing on a long scar on his ribs.
“Kandahar.” Ethan’s voice came out tight, not from pain but from the feeling of her touching him so gently. “Shrapnel from an IED. Piece about the size of my thumb. The medic said another inch, and it would have punctured my lung.”
“You could have died,” Lydia whispered.
“But I didn’t.” Ethan caught her hand, kissed her fingertips. “I’m here. With you. That’s all that matters.”
He traced a thin white line on her shoulder with his finger. “What’s this one?”
“Eli, learning to ride his bike.” Lydia laughed, and the sound was lighter than before. Less afraid. “He was so excited, and I was running beside him holding the seat, and he crashed straight into me. A rock cut me open. Five stitches.”
“Battle scars,” Ethan said softly. “Both of us.”
“Yeah.” Lydia looked up at him, water running down her face, her eyes bright. “We’ve both survived things.”
“And we’ll keep surviving. Together.”
He kissed her then. Deep and slow, his tongue sliding against hers, tasting blueberries and water and Lydia. One hand slid up to cup her breast, his thumb circling her nipple until it hardened, and she gasped into his mouth.
The sound she made … surprise and pleasure and want … went straight through Ethan like electricity. He wanted to hear it again. Wanted to learn every sound she could make, wanted to catalog each gasp and moan and sigh so he could recreate them for the rest of their lives.
His other hand slid lower. Down her belly, feeling her quiver under his touch. To her hip. Then, between her legs, gentle and careful, paying attention to every reaction.
“Oh,” Lydia breathed when he grazed her … there. Just one small sound, but it was everything.
“Good?” Ethan asked, needing to know.
“So good.”
He worked her carefully, paying attention to what made her hips buck, what made her breathing quicken, what made her grip his shoulders tight enough to leave marks.
He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t trying to get to some finish line.
He was learning. Discovering. Finding out what Lydia liked, what made her feel good, what she needed.
This was what intimacy should be. Not a race to completion. Not one person using another’s body for their own satisfaction. But this … two people exploring each other, learning each other, giving and receiving pleasure in equal measure.