Chapter 21 #2
He thought about what she’d said about Tom. About lying there and thinking about laundry. About being treated like a chore. And something fierce and protective rose up in Ethan’s chest.
Never. Never would he make her feel that way.
Never would he take without giving. Never would he make her feel like her pleasure didn’t matter, like she was just a means to an end.
With a low growl, he pushed her back against the tiles, grinding his erection against her as he continued to explore her folds as his desire mounted higher.
He wanted her to know that sex could be different. Could be good. Could be something she looked forward to instead of dreaded. Could be an expression of love instead of just a physical act.
He wanted to thrust into her, but he took his time.
Paid attention. Adjusted his touch based on her reactions.
Held his straining cock in check as her gasps aroused him, her moans rolled through his veins, and nearly lost his breath when he felt her body tense in that particular way that meant she was close.
Her hands were on him too now, bolder than before.
Touching him in ways that made his breath catch, made him have to focus on not losing control.
When she started trembling, when her breathing turned to desperate little pants, when she was right there on the edge, Ethan lifted her.
She wrapped her legs around his waist without hesitation, trusting him to hold her, and he pressed her back against the tile wall for leverage.
He was right there. Right where he needed to be. And Lydia was looking at him with dark eyes, her lips parted, her body open to him?—
“Wait,” she panted. “Protection?”
Reality crashed back. Ethan’s brain, which had been completely focused on Lydia and nothing else, suddenly remembered logistics. Consequences. The fact that they were in a shower with no condoms and life was currently messy enough without adding complications too soon.
“Bedroom,” he managed, his voice rough. “I have condoms in the nightstand.”
He felt heat creep up his neck, felt himself blush at admitting that.
He’d bought them days ago, one embarrassing trip to the pharmacy where he’d convinced himself he was being presumptuous and stupid and Lydia would probably never want him that way.
But some hopeful part of him had bought them anyway.
Just in case. In case of this. In case she said yes.
Ethan set her down carefully, trying to ignore the way his body was screaming at him to not stop, to keep going. “And this water’s getting cold anyway.”
It wasn’t, really. But it gave them both an excuse. A way to transition without it being awkward.
Lydia laughed, a little shaky but genuine. “Then let’s move.”
Ethan shut off the water, grabbed towels from the rack. He dried Lydia first, with the same reverent attention he’d used washing her. Gentle touches with the soft cotton, drying her shoulders, her back, between her breasts. Taking his time even though every instinct was screaming at him to hurry.
She tried to return the favor, taking the other towel and reaching for him, but her hands were shaking too much. The combination of arousal, nervousness, and likely shock from that morning making her movements jerky and uncertain.
“I’ve got it,” Ethan said gently, taking the towel from her. He dried himself quickly—efficient, utilitarian, just enough to not drip water everywhere, and then did something he’d been thinking about since she’d stepped into the shower with him.
He lifted her.
Actually lifted her, one arm under her knees and one around her back, cradling her against his chest. She weighed nothing in his arms, fitting perfectly, and the surprised sound she made was one more thing to add to his collection of Lydia sounds he wanted to hear again.
He carried her to his bedroom. Their bedroom now, he supposed, if she was going to live here, if they were getting married. The bed he’d slept in alone for three years, the room he’d kept pristine and untouched like a museum to his lost love.
But it wasn’t that anymore. It was going to be theirs. A place they’d share. A place they’d build new memories.
Ethan laid her on the bed gently, like she was something precious. Stood back for just a moment to look at her.
Lydia Harper, naked in his bed, her wet hair spread across his pillow, her skin flushed, and her eyes dark with want. Looking at him like he was something worth wanting. Like he was something good.
The sight of her, vulnerable and trusting and his, stole his breath.
“You’re beautiful,” Ethan said, and his voice came out rough with emotion. “Every part of you.”
He saw her start to argue, saw her eyes drop to her stomach, soft from carrying two children, and her thighs, traced with silver stretch marks, and knew she was cataloging every perceived flaw.
Every way her body fell short of some impossible standard.
But to him, they were proof of her life.
Of the children who had brought light back into his life.
Ethan knelt beside the bed and started kissing his way down her body, proving his words with his mouth. Her collarbone. The swell of her breast. The curve of her belly. Each stretch mark, like it was something beautiful instead of something to hide.
“Ethan,” she breathed, her hands tangling in his hair.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured against her skin. “Perfect for me.”
By the time he reached for the nightstand drawer, fumbling for the box of condoms he’d stashed there, Lydia was trembling. Wound so tight that Ethan thought she might shatter if he touched her wrong.
“Please,” she whispered.
Ethan’s hands stilled on the condom wrapper. “Please, what?”
“Please, Ethan. I need—” she pleaded, “I need you.”
Desire shot through him, hot and frantic. Ethan got the condom on with shaking hands. Barely, he was so far gone he could barely make his fingers work. Then he was moving over her, between her legs, looking down at her face.
Ethan lined himself up, and then—slow, so slow, giving her time to adjust … he pushed forward.
Home. The word rang through his head as he slid into her. This was home. This was right. This was everything he’d been missing for three years. Joining with the one he loved more than oxygen. More than the air in his lungs.
Lydia’s back arched off the bed, her hands gripping his shoulders, a sound escaping her that was half gasp, half moan. It was perfect. She was perfect. This was perfect.