43. Forty-three
When we finally leave the bedroom, it’s after dark and the rain has stopped. I’m wearing one of Ethan’s long-sleeved shirts that hits the middle of my thighs, and he’s only wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. The scene we create is familiar—easy—and it doesn’t seem possible that we’ve never been here before.
I guzzle down a glass of water as he minces garlic on a cutting board.
“Are we supposed to talk about what just happened?”
The question comes out in an awkward blurt, but I’m so far removed from this kind of scenario I have no idea what protocol is.
He shoots me an amused look over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows.
“I would love to talk about what just happened.”
“Ha. Ha,” I say dryly. “I’m serious, Ethan. Are we supposed to have some kind of discussion or make any weird speeches about what it means or doesn’t mean?” I spin the empty glass on the counter. “What do you usually do in these casual situations of yours?”
I’m being serious—I genuinely don’t know what I’m supposed to do and desperately don’t want to get it wrong.
He drops the knife on the cutting board and covers the small space between us in two quick steps.
“Stop right there.” He lifts my chin with his index finger until my eyes meet his. “You were amazing. We were amazing. I’m very happy to talk about all the things I thought were amazing if you want.” He dusts a light kiss on my lips, absorbing some of the tension pulling at my shoulders. “But my casual situations are nothing like this, Penelope. Women don’t meet the boys, and I definitely don’t mince garlic for them in my sweatpants.”
I smile deliriously from how his words make something warm pump through my veins.
“Do you want to talk about what just happened?” he asks, rubbing his palm against my bicep.
“I liked it, if that’s what you mean.” My cheeks flush with the confession, and I have to look away as all the things I liked so much start dancing in my head.
“Good.”
He kisses me, deeper this time, before pulling away and getting back to work at the stove.
***
With a satisfied belly full of shrimp scampi, I wave the bottle of vodka at Ethan.
“The Moscow mule might have peaked a few years ago, but it’s still popular enough I think you should know it.”
I pull a recognizable copper mug out of my box and hand it to him.
“I remember,” he says looking at it. “We have sets of these at both restaurants.”
“The reasoning behind the copper material is it keeps the drinks colder, but its novelty makes a lot of people order the cocktail. The mug alone makes it feel like a different experience. I would say if you are going to serve the Moscow Mule in your bar, the mug is non-negotiable. If you have the space, some people like to keep them in a freezer, so they are chilled when they serve the drink in them, but we don’t have that space at our bar, so they are always used at room temperature.”
I spread the rest of the ingredients across the counter before filling both mugs with ice.
He nods but doesn’t say anything.
“I always recommend a better-quality liquor whenever possible, but every bar is different, and you have to learn your customers and the price they are willing to pay. I like Tito’s. It has a more subtle flavor that doesn’t overpower the other ingredients, but you can also explore flavored vodkas or something from a local distillery. I know how you don’t like to deviate from Maine.” I tease, pouring a shot of vodka into my mug before passing it to him.
He chuckles, then does the same.
I hold up two limes. “Now the lime.”
We each cut and squeeze the juice over the ice and the familiar smell of the bright citrus smells like a million hours in the Florida sun.
“The easy way to make the drink is a bottled lime juice, but it is absolutely worth it to use fresh ingredients wherever you can, including limes, a sentiment I’m sure you can relate to in the kitchen. I guarantee it’s worth the time and effort to use fresh juice. I have no proof, of course, but I would bet money that people are more likely to order a second drink when a fresh lime is used over a bottled mix. It’s that powerful.”
He silently nods, but there’s an amused look on his face.
“Ginger beer comes next,” I say, popping the top of the small bottle. “There are a few popular brands, but I always try to find one that isn’t overly sweet or syrupy. Corn syrup is never my friend, but sometimes it’s hard to be that picky. If you are going through the effort of juicing a fresh lime, it’s for nothing if the main mixer tastes artificial and overly sweet.”
I top off my mug with it and pass it to Ethan to finish his before stirring the drinks with spoons.
“Last but not least, we come to the garnishes. This is where I see a lot of bartenders get carried away. My rule of thumb is if it doesn’t add to the flavor or experience of the drink, don’t use it. Some people put mint on a mule, but a single leaf isn’t going to add flavor to the drink, and most people aren’t going to eat it straight, so I consider it worthless. I use a lime wedge.”
I hug a green sliver onto the rim of the mug.
“And a piece of candied ginger.”
I open the bag and inhale the spicy scent that follows before grabbing a piece and nestling it next to the lime. Ethan mimics my movement, still in silence.
I hold up my finished drink proudly before taking a sip and smacking my lips in approval. “And there you have it.” I smile proudly, watching him quietly study his mug before shifting his gaze to my face, an emotion I can’t read in his eyes.
My eyebrows pinch together. “Why are you being so quiet and weird? Drink it.”
“You lit up.” He neither picks up his mug nor looks away.
“What’s that supposed to mean? I did not.” I pull my chin back.
“When you talked about every ingredient and how the cocktail was built, you lit up. Like you were doing something you loved. I’ve never seen someone talk about lime juice with such passion,” he teases.
“Okay,” I say, drawling out the word and rolling my eyes.
The pit in my stomach tells me this is leading to something I’m not ready to address.
“So, I like limes? Are you serving canned green beans in your kitchen, Mr. Mills?”
“You know that’s not what I’m saying. You don’t just like talking about limes, you like talking about what the limes can do. You told me yesterday you don’t know if you are doing what you should be. I’m saying from where I’m standing, this looks like what you should be doing.” He finally takes a sip of his drink and grins. “And you just taught me to make a drink that doesn’t taste like piss.” The implications of what he’s saying are radical.
Leave my dad’s bar?
The thought alone feels like a punch in the gut, no matter how much I love the idea of seeing where something different might lead.
His tone softens. “I’m just saying that if you are looking for confirmation this is something you could do, I know it is.”
The soft ping of raindrops against the boat picks up again as we stand in a quiet that feels charged.
“It’s raining again,” I say the obvious because I don’t know what else to say.
“Mhm.”
I face him, leaning back on the counter and press my palms against it. “Now what?” I ask, my gaze hooking with his.
“I can think of a few things,” he says as he maneuvers around until he’s leaning against me.
The scruff on his jaw rubs against my neck as he kisses a slow, savory line until his mouth finds mine. He tastes like ginger and lime, and his tongue is cold from the ice.
His fingers slide down my waist and grip the back of my thighs—picking me up effortlessly. Our mouths stay fused as my legs wrap around him. He walks us across the room.
It’s three quick steps before my back hits a wall, feet dropping to the floor.
With a hook of his fingers and a flick of his wrists, my underwear slides down my legs, and I squeak with a laugh.
“Pants. Off.” I gasp between hungry kisses.
“Are you going to use my leg to get what you need again, Penelope?”
His voice is a low gravely sound that makes my brain break.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
His mouth is so close to my ear that between his hot breath and deep voice, I almost pass out. I’ll be embarrassed by the reference later, but in this hot moment, the reminder of how his leg had given me exactly what I needed winds me tighter than a spring.
His sweatpants are off, and he’s so ready that my thighs squeeze in a vain attempt to ease the ache that throbs.
“Open.”
It is one, deep, demanding word I absolutely obey.
My legs spread, and within seconds, he’s stretching me open with his first delicious inches and digging his fingers into the back of my thighs. One leg around his waist and the other pushing against the ground on my tiptoes, my body trembles.
The carnal look in his eyes lets me know this isn’t going to be a sensual journey of learning each other’s bodies, this is going to be a hot, quick fuck, and it has me burning.
I’m already sore. Earlier, I wondered if I’d ever be able to sit again after our time in his bed, but back to the wall, I will gladly beg this man to destroy me. I let him stretch me open and slam into me with enough force we might take down the wall.
We strike a rhythm—his life-altering thrusts pinning me to the wall with the grinding of my hips—and he hits a spot inside of me that’s so deep, I can’t see straight. It’s an aching kind of bliss that vibrates through me with every filling slam.
When he speaks, it’s only to have the sentences broken by the movement of his hips.
“The way… you’re moving… is the hottest thing… I’ve ever felt.” His teeth are clenched in restraint like he’s holding himself back, and it’s the last thing I want.
My back arches off the wall, and when our eyes meet, I nod—he knows.
His next thrust is so unhinged I feel it in my throat.
Between the rain and the breathing and the slamming against the wall, it’s an erotic symphony that sounds like angels singing. Dirty, filthy, smutty angels.
He trembles—he’s close. I use the wall as leverage and drive my hips against him as hard as I can. With one final soul-shattering thrust, we climax together, exploding like two asteroids crashing in the night sky. The only thing I can do is let out an unpracticed, unfiltered, unrestrained cry.
His movement slows but doesn’t stop, rocking slowly until we both ride out the last waves of bliss. My body goes limp at the same time his forehead drops against the wall.
If he wasn’t holding me upright, I would have dripped into a puddle on the floor.
“Apparently, I like sex against the wall more than against your leg,” I say in a husky voice with a laugh.
His mouth hovers over my skin as his whole body vibrates.
“I’ve never met anyone like you, Nel,” he says, making me grin like the idiot he turns me into. Then, “You’ll be hard to say goodbye to.”
He says it like he means it, and my grin is replaced by the urge to cry.
“You’ll be hard to say goodbye to, too,” I say softly.
Then we’re quiet.
Because ultimately, that’s all there is to say.