Chapter 27 JADE
JADE
I return to my bedroom, heart pounding in my chest, skin flushed with emotion. Did I really just do that? Did I really just walk away from Ethan after throwing down that challenge?
This time, if you really want me, come and find me.
I pace the length of my bedroom, unable to stay still. The adrenaline from our confrontation still courses through my veins, making my hands tremble slightly. I reach the window, turn back, reach the door, turn again. A caged animal. That's how I feel. Trapped between hope and doubt.
One minute passes. Two. Five.
He's not coming.
The realization sinks in, disappointment a lead weight in my stomach. Of course he's not coming. I practically threw myself at him, and he still couldn't bring himself to cross that line. All those excuses he listed: his age, his past, his friends' feelings. They were just that. Excuses.
I exhale a ragged breath and head to the bathroom. A shower. That's what I need. Hot water to wash away this frustration, this want, this need.
I strip off my clothes, leaving them in a careless pile on the floor.
The hot spray hits my skin, and I close my eyes, letting it sluice over me.
Water has become my enemy, the source of panic and flashbacks, but in this controlled environment, it's a comfort.
Something to focus on besides the hollow ache in my chest.
I take my time, scrubbing my skin almost roughly, as if I could wash away the feeling of rejection along with the city grit. By the time I turn off the water, my skin is pink and tingling. I wrap a towel around my body, another around my hair, and wipe the steam from the mirror.
The woman who stares back looks different somehow. Flushed. Raw. Exposed beyond the lack of clothes or makeup. This is what truth costs, I think. This is the price of finally admitting what you want. Who you want.
I drop the towel from my hair, combing through the damp strands with my fingers. Taking a deep breath, I open the bathroom door...
And freeze.
Ethan stands in the center of my bedroom, as still as a predator before the strike, drenched in shadow and moonlight.
His chest rises and falls like he ran the whole way up the stairs.
His jaw tight. His hands clenched. His gaze locked on me with something feral, dark and intense, filled with something I've never seen before. Not from him. Not from anyone.
His gaze rakes over me with the intensity of a man at war with himself, the tension in his body vibrating across the air like static before lightning strikes.
Hunger. Pure, undiluted hunger.
"You told me to come find you," he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate in my bones. "Here I am."
My pulse jumps in my throat, so hard I'm sure he can see it fluttering beneath my skin. I can't speak. Can't move. Can only stand there, clutching my towel, feeling more exposed beneath his gaze than I've ever felt on any runway or photoshoot.
"I've been thinking about everything you said." He takes a step toward me. "About being scared. About making things complicated when they don't need to be."
Another step. The room seems to shrink around us, the air growing thicker, charged with electricity.
"You were right," he continues, his eyes never leaving mine. "I've been hiding behind excuses. Control. Duty. Professionalism."
He's close now, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with something darker, muskier.
"But I'm done hiding." His voice drops to a near-whisper. "I'm done running from what I want."
"And what do you want?" I manage to ask, my voice barely audible.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, to where the towel covers my body. "You," he says simply.
In that moment, something shifts inside me. A certainty, a courage I didn't know I possessed. I let my towel fall to the floor.
It slips down in a whisper, and I stand there, bare and breathless, letting him see everything. My skin flushes beneath his gaze, hot and exposed, but I don't look away. I want him to see me. All of me.
I watch his expression change, pupils dilating, jaw clenching as he takes in my naked body. I should feel vulnerable, exposed. Instead, I feel powerful. Wanted. Seen.
He moves with a speed that startles me, closing the distance between us in one fluid motion.
His hands cup my face, tilting it upward as his mouth descends on mine.
This is possession, claiming, devouring.
I gasp as his mouth slants over mine, fierce and reverent, the kiss bruising and beautiful in equal measure.
I respond with equal fervor, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I moan at the invasion, at the taste of him.
He backs me against the wall, his body pressing against mine. I can feel every hard plane of him, the heat of him burning through his clothes. His hands move from my face to my waist, sliding upward to cup my breasts. When his thumbs brush across my nipples, I gasp against his mouth.
"Ethan," I breathe, arching into his touch.
He breaks the kiss, his breathing as ragged as mine. "Tell me you want this," he demands, his voice rough. "Tell me you're sure."
"I want this," I say without hesitation. "I want you. I've never been more sure of anything."
Something flashes in his eyes. Relief, triumph, desire all mixed together. He steps back just enough to pull his shirt over his head, revealing a torso covered in lean muscle and scattered scars. I reach out, tracing one that curves around his ribs.
He lifts me then, as if I weigh nothing, and carries me to the bed. The sheets are cool beneath me, but he's fire, heat and steel and hunger pressed against every trembling inch of me.
His jeans and boxer briefs follow his shirt to the floor, and I drink in the sight of him. He's magnificent. Powerful. Scarred but unbroken.
When he joins me on the bed, the first touch of his naked skin against mine pulls a sound from my throat I've never heard myself make before.
"I've wanted this," he murmurs into the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. "God, I've wanted you."
His hands map me like he's memorizing a topography he's dreamt of for too long.
One large palm cups my breast, his thumb brushing my nipple until I cry out, the sound raw and too honest. His mouth follows, warm lips and stubble that scrape and soothe, his tongue teasing until my back arches, pressing me closer.
And then his hand is between my thighs, finding how wet I already am for him. A strangled moan escapes me as his fingers slide through slick heat, circling, stroking, coaxing.
"You're so sensitive," he says, watching me. "So responsive."
When he slips a finger inside me, slow and careful, my hips jerk. I grip the sheets, trying to stay grounded, but everything inside me is unraveling. He adds another finger, his thumb working gentle circles over my clit as his mouth returns to mine, kissing me through every flicker of pleasure.
My breath breaks into fragments.
The pleasure builds quickly, almost embarrassingly so.
He watches my face like every flicker of pleasure is a language he's learning.
Tension builds low and hot, a tight coil ready to snap. I whimper, grinding into his hand, chasing something I've only ever found alone in the dark, silent and unseen.
"Let go," he whispers. "Come for me."
I shatter.
It's his command that sends me over the edge, the orgasm crashing through me with an intensity that leaves me trembling, crying out his name. As I float back to awareness, I realize he's watching me with something like wonder.
"I've never..." I start, my voice hoarse, "not with someone else. Only ever... myself."
His expression softens, then hardens with determination. "Then let me show you," he says, voice thick with emotion, "what you deserve to feel."
He shifts down my body, trailing open-mouthed kisses along my belly, then lower. I gasp as he parts my thighs again, the sudden rush of cool air on wet skin making me shiver.
"Ethan, you don't have to..."
"I want to," he cuts me off, his hands spreading across my thighs. "I need to taste you."
The first touch of his tongue against me has me arching off the bed.
He holds my hips down, licking into me with the same focused intensity he brings to everything he does.
It's too much and not enough all at once.
His tongue circles my clit, then flattens against it, then dips inside me.
I'm a mess of sensation, of pleasure so acute it borders on pain.
The second orgasm hits me harder than the first, a supernova exploding behind my eyelids. I cry out, hands fisting in the sheets, in his hair, anywhere I can hold on as the waves of pleasure crash through me.
He rises above me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking so smug and satisfied that I would laugh if I had the breath for it.
"I've wanted to do that since the first time I saw you," he confesses, positioning himself between my thighs.
"Protection?" he asks, voice gravel and restraint.
"I'm on the pill," I whisper. "I'm clean. I haven't been with anyone in years."
He nods, his gaze holding mine. "So am I. And I've never done this without one. But I want to feel you. All of you."
"Yes," I breathe. "I want that, too."
He slides into me in one slow, devastating thrust, and it's everything. Stretch. Heat. Fullness. My breath catches, eyes locked on his as he settles deep.
"Jesus," he groans. "You feel... perfect."
I can't speak. I can only clutch at him as he begins to move, slow at first, then deeper, harder. Every thrust knocks sound loose from my lips, soft cries, gasps, his name like a mantra.
I feel his hands on me. One tangled in my hair, the other gripping my hip like he'll never let go.
And I don't want him to.
He leans down, forehead to mine. "Look at me. I want you to see who's touching you."