19. Mainshock
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MAINSHOCK
Ethan
The next day, the kiss with Brooke follows me downstairs.
Claire is already dressed for work, standing at the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee. She doesn’t look up as I walk in.
“Morning. Are you coming to the ranch after work today?”
“I’m going to try.”
She nods as though she’d expected that answer.
That evening, I sit in my office long after everyone else has gone home, watching the sunset bleed into twilight. The hallways go dark. I can’t face Claire. I can’t stand there while she thanks me for being a good husband. The hypocrisy would choke me.
When I finally leave, I drive to the theater instead, and find Brooke picking up oversized flowers.
Grabbing the rough handles of the croquet mallets, I follow her backstage.
When she enters the prop storage room she turns around and says, “I missed you tonight. I was afraid you were skipping out on me.”
Raking a hand through my hair, I try to force out the words I’ve practiced all day. “I thought we could talk.” I take a step toward her, but she pulls back—not far, just enough to tell me she’s reading my expression.
That’s when the first tremor hits beneath our feet, a low rumble that vibrates through the old theater’s wooden floorboards.
At first, I don’t understand what’s happening. Then a table rattles, its metal legs chattering. A tall ladder shifts with a groan against the brick wall. Then the floor beneath us moves in a slow, rolling wave. It’s a deep tremor, and I know what’s coming next.
“Brooke!” I yell.
The second tremor is stronger, a violent shudder that sends a ripple through the air. She loses her balance and stumbles. I catch her just as another wave of shaking rolls through the building, accompanied by a creaking protest from the old rafters.
Instinctively, I wrap my arms around her tighter. Just outside the room, the heavy stage lights swing on their rigging, throwing the walls into darkness and then flooding them with light in slow, uneven pulses. Somewhere in the theater something crashes to the floor with a deafening clang.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, her breath hot against my ear.
“It’s okay.” The words leave my mouth before I have time to think, a desperate attempt to quell the rising panic. I don’t know whether they’re true but saying them feels necessary.
We stand locked in an embrace, while the building wails around us. The walls sound like they’re groaning.
Her fingers twist into the fabric of my shirt, bunching it tight at my chest. Every instinct tells me to protect her. Then, as suddenly as it began, the violent shaking stops. An unnerving silence settles over the theater, broken only by the slow creak of a lighting rig swaying overhead.
We are so still that I can hear both of us breathing. Her heart pounds against me as she presses closer. I notice the warmth emanating from her body. Slowly, she lifts her head, and our eyes meet.
The world outside the theater fades, surrounded by the earthquake’s aftershocks of silence. Fear is still there, coiled tight in my chest, but it’s shifting into something else—relief, maybe, or the desperate need to feel alive while we still are.
I press my lips to hers. She wraps her legs around me as I lift and carry her across the room.
I set her down on an old vinyl couch that sits against the far wall and begin kissing her neck.
When I move to her shoulders I taste the salt on her skin.
She pulls her shirt over her head, and I trail soft kisses along her collar bone.
Her skin is soft under my lips. I pause a second and take her in, catching the curve of her hips. “God, you’re beautiful.”
“Don’t stop,” she replies, in a husky whisper.
Reaching around, I unclasp her bra, hearing a delicate click. Her erect nipples are taut and inviting.
“Perfect,” I hear myself say, my voice rough with desire. I latch onto one nipple, sucking greedily, alternating between pulling and circling it with my tongue, the soft wet sound filling the space. She lets out a low hum as I alternate back and forth.
When her hum turns into loud moans, I move inch by inch down her body. I run my tongue along her inner thigh, eliciting a sharp gasp. I move closer to her center, paying attention to her reactions. “Is this—okay?” I ask, looking up into her eyes, searching for an answer in their depths.
She breathes out a throaty reply, “Yes.”
That’s all the answer I need. I slide my hands under her skirt, the silk cool against my fingertips, exposing her white lace panties.
I move them to the side before lowering my face, finding the warmth between her thighs with my tongue.
I swipe up and down her folds—once, twice—before I dive in.
She tastes sweet and sharp all at once, and I breathe her in.
I explore every inch of her wetness, teasing her with soft flicks of my tongue. Adjusting my pace and intensity based on her sounds. She grabs my hair and pulls, her nails scratch my scalp, her hips beginning to move in rhythm with my mouth.
I slip a finger inside her, working my mouth and finger in tandem.
The taste of her is an intoxicating combination I can’t get enough of.
Her moans grow louder, more intense, and I know I’ve found the spot that will send her reeling.
I increase the pressure with my tongue, my fingers finding that spot inside her, and she begs for release, her voice raw.
She cries out and I love the way she trembles beneath me, her skin slick with sweat. When I look up, I see that her cheeks are flushed.
I move and sit on the couch, the worn fabric squeaks against my skin, and I pull her to straddle me. She struggles to unbuckle my belt, her fingers fumbling with the metal. Once free, I lift my hips and slide my pants down, the denim rustling as I release my straining cock.
She glides her wet pussy along my cock, then positions herself and slides down in one quick motion, causing both of us to cry out.
“Oh God, Brooke,” I say, as I grab her hips. It takes everything in me to still her body so I don’t embarrass myself.
I kiss her gently, holding her still as we explore each other, my fingers tracing the curve of her spine.
Every moan she makes tightens something low in my stomach until I can’t hold back, and I thrust up into her.
Her breasts bounce in my face, and I grab a nipple with my mouth, switching back and forth between each.
“More,” she pleads. I grab her hips and take over, driving her down onto me again and again until all I can hear is her breath punching out of her in short, broken gasps.
I circle her clit with my fingers. She cries out, a sharp gasp and her hips quicken there rhythm. Matching her pace, I increase my speed. I can feel her clench around me, and we’re both shouting, our voices strained, as we release.
We cling to each other, slick with sweat, my pulse loud in my ears. As the intensity fades, reality comes rushing back. The musty theater air, thick with old makeup and dust, presses in. There’s no defense for what we’ve done.
My hand stills on her back when the thought hits me. “We didn’t use a condom.”
Her body tenses under my palm. “Oh.”
“I’m clean,” I say, the words sitting wrong in my mouth. I taste copper, realizing I’ve bitten my cheek.
When did I last even think about this?
“Me too,” she replies.
My gaze drifts to the door which now hangs slightly ajar. A chilling awareness hits me: anyone could have walked in. The cheap wood paneling seems to mock our recklessness.
Brooke follows my eyes, her own widening with dawning panic. “We should get going.”
She’s right. I nod once, the movement stiff, as she pushes herself off me.
We find our clothes scattered around the room. The rustle of fabric is loud as we dress. Each step toward the exit feels wrong, yet staying feels even more so. The silence is filled with unspoken consequences.