Chapter 8
Clara woke before dawn, turning on the narrow bed she’d been sharing at Ethan’s place for weeks now. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and laundry soap, a humble mix that had become strangely comforting. She rose quietly, careful not to wake him on the couch, and padded into the tiny kitchenette.?
With what little money they had, they’d bought some eggs, rice, and vegetables the evening before. It wasn’t much, but Clara had learned to make every scrap stretch. She whisked eggs with onion and tomatoes, humming under her breath. The rhythm of cooking eased her worries. At least here, in this cramped space, no one mocked her, no one called her a burden. She knew Ethan must be so uncomfortable sleeping on the couch but he never once complained. Ethan treated her like she mattered.
“Smells like heaven,” his voice rumbled behind her.
She startled, nearly dropping the pan. Ethan leaned against the doorway, shirt rumpled, hair tousled, his blue eyes warm despite the early hour.
“You scared me,” she laughed softly, though her pulse skittered.
“Sorry,” he said, moving closer. “I didn’t mean to. But if you keep cooking like this, I might never let you leave.”
Clara rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the shy smile tugging at her lips. “It’s just eggs and rice. Nothing special.”
“Special enough,” he said, picking up a spoon and stealing a bite from the pan. “God, Clara, you could feed me burnt toast and I’d still think it was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
Her cheeks warmed. There was something in the way he said it—not smooth or practiced, but sincere, raw.
They sat down at the small table, knees brushing. Clara dished food onto two chipped plates. He wolfed down his portion like a man starved, and she found herself laughing at how unpretentious he was.
And yet, every time his hand brushed hers, her breath caught.
After breakfast, Clara started to rise, but Ethan caught her wrist. She froze. His thumb brushed over her pulse, steady but deliberate.
“Clara,” he said, his voice low.
She looked at him, heart hammering.
“I can’t… hold back anymore.”
Clara opened her mouth, but no words came out. Ethan leaned in slowly, giving her a chance to pull back. She didn’t. Their lips met in a kiss that was tentative at first, then deepened when she sighed against him. His hand slid to her cheek, anchoring her.
The world narrowed to the taste of him, the feel of him. She melted into it, into him.
When they finally broke apart, she whispered, “Ethan…”
“I’m sorry,” he said, though his forehead rested against hers. “I shouldn’t rush you—”
“Don’t,” she interrupted, her voice shaky but sure. “Don’t say sorry. I want this.”
The kiss replayed in Clara’s mind again and again through her long day at CGE. Later that evening when she returned to their apartment, Ethan was waiting, pacing as though something had been gnawing at him. She dropped her bag and before she could speak, he pulled her into his arms.
This time there was no hesitation. Their mouths met hard, urgent and hungry, as if they’d been holding back for far too long. His jacket slid to the floor. Her blouse followed, fingers fumbling but desperate to feel skin on skin. They stumbled towards the bed, breaking into soft laughter when they nearly tripped, nerves dissolving into heat.
Ethan’s hands worshipped her body. He cupped her breasts, kissing and sucking each nipple until Clara gasped, her back arching. She clutched at his hair, pulling him closer, trembling at the waves of pleasure sparking through her.
He kissed his way down her stomach, pausing to let her catch her breath. When his tongue found the slick heat between her thighs, Clara cried out, her legs instinctively parting wider. He sucked her clit with steady, hungry precision, then slid one finger inside her, slow and gentle. Her body tensed around him.
“Have you done this before, my love?” he murmured against her.
Her breath shuddered. “No… not yet.”
For a moment Ethan stilled, humbled. The knowledge that she had chosen him for her first time tightened his chest. He kissed her tenderly, then bent again to her center, stroking her with his tongue while easing another finger inside. Slowly, carefully, he stretched her, coaxing her body to welcome him.
When she whimpered his name, he could no longer hold back. He moved over her, positioning himself at her entrance. “Clara…” His voice was thick with emotion.
“Please,” she whispered.
In one sharp thrust, he broke through, swallowing her cry with his mouth. He stilled immediately, kissing her softly while her nails dug into his shoulders. “Breathe, love… just breathe,” he soothed.
Her body relaxed little by little, the pain easing into heat. He moved slowly at first, then with deeper strokes as her moans grew louder. Soon she was clinging to him, meeting his rhythm, crying out his name as her body broke apart around him.
Her climax sent him over the edge, and with a groan, he spilled into her, holding her tight as if he could fuse them together.
They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, his lips brushing her forehead, her cheek, her mouth. He stroked her hair until her trembling eased.
“Are you okay, Clara?” he whispered.
She smiled weakly, eyes shining. “Yes, my love.”
“I love you, Clara Bennett.”
“I love you too, Ethan.”
It wasn’t perfect—the bed creaked, the room was too small—but none of it mattered. For Clara, who had longed for true affection, it was everything. And when Ethan whispered her name like a vow, she believed, for once, that she was worthy of being loved.