Chapter Thirty-Two #2
His teeth scraped her bottom lip like he wanted to devour the doubt from her mouth.
She melted into him with a shuddering moan, arms wrapped around his neck, all pain and heat and punishment.
When he finally pulled back, lips slick and parted, he rasped against her cheek, “Because if I ever lose you again, Amara—I won’t survive it.”
The silence held.
“Now tell me,” he said, pulling her flush against him again, voice like thunder in a bottle, “what the fuck is your answer gonna be to him?”
Amara licked her lips, her chest heaving. Whiskey still burning in her veins.
“I could use that money,” she gasped. “Ethan… I could start over. I could run.”
“I know,” he said. “I know, baby.”
And then his hand slid down—firm, hungry—and found the edge of her waistband. She should’ve stopped him. But she didn’t. Couldn’t.
“You deserve it,” he murmured, kissing the hollow beneath her ear. “But not like this. Not his money. Not on his terms.”
She shuddered when his fingers slipped lower, brushing heat, fire, need. Her hips bucked.
“I got a plan,” he said, breath fanning over her collarbone. “That camp of mine? We’ll build it out. Big open kitchen. A baby room, Amara. You hear me?”
Her knees nearly gave out.
“You don’t need to run. Just come with me,” he said, fingers coaxing another gasp from her lips. “We’ll turn that ridge into a real home. Yours. Mine. Ours—our damn future, Amara.”
Her breath caught. He kissed her again—rougher this time, groaning into her mouth like she was salvation.
“I’ll buy the farm if I have to. Outright.
We’ll find someone decent to run it. No more backroom threats, no more burnt-out houses, no more devil grins from whiskey kings.
” His hand moved with purpose now—claiming, reverent, breaking her.
“Anything, Amara,” he growled. “I’ll give you anything. Just don’t sell to that bastard.”
She didn’t have an answer. Not one that made sense.
Her mind screamed one thing. Her body another.
His mouth was on her neck now—open, hot, dragging down to the curve of her collarbone like he needed to brand her.
Like he couldn’t get enough. His breath was fire and pine, his hands everywhere—rough palms gripping her hips, sliding down to cup her thighs, lifting her off the ground like she weighed nothing.
“Ethan—” she gasped as her back hit the wall and he pressed in, the hard line of him unmistakable between them.
“I know,” he groaned, voice torn open as he shoved up her shirt and filled his palms with skin. “I know, baby. But you can’t do this.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he kissed her—God, he kissed her. Tongue sliding past her lips, a low sound deep in his chest, his thumb feeling the waistband of her jeans.
She was fire. She was drowning.
Her head fell back against the wall, breath hitching as Ethan’s mouth slid lower, trailing heat down the side of her throat, between her breasts, rough palm up her shirt like he needed her skin or he’d lose his goddamn mind.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he said, fingers working her jeans open, pulling them open enough for his hand to slip beneath her underwear—God, he was already there, slick and slow and devastating, rubbing circles that made her knees buck.
“I want to give you a way out,” he rasped between kisses, his hand slipping under, finding the heat of her, the slickness waiting for him.
She gasped, her head falling back.
He buried his face in her neck, lips trailing heat up to her ear. “Give me this, Amara. Give me you.”
She made a sound—part whimper, part curse—and grabbed at his shoulders, nails biting through his shirt. She ground into his hand and he groaned again, deep and guttural, forehead pressed to hers.
“You’re so wet for me,” he murmured, sliding his fingers deeper, curling just right. “Goddamn, darlin’. You gonna let me make it better?”
She could barely breathe. Could barely think.
But she nodded. Helpless. Hunted. His.
And when he kissed her again—deep, brutal, desperate—it was with the taste of promises made in the dark. It was with the hunger of a man who’d finally come home.
“Ethan.”
“You’re mine,” he said. “Say it.”
“I’m—” Her voice broke. “God, Ethan—”
“Say it.”
“I’m yours,” she gasped. “I’ve always been—”
The door slammed open.
Everything stopped.
In one violent blink, the heat shattered. Ethan ripped away from her, spinning like a soldier mid-battle, one arm instinctively thrown wide to shield her.
And there he was.
Thetus Hollis.
No smile.
No mask.
Just ice-blue eyes gone deadly and dark as thunderclouds, jaw clenched, storming in. He took one look at Ethan—his hands, his mouth, his shirt half undone—and snarled.
“You,” he spat, stepping forward like a bull seeing red.
Ethan didn’t hesitate. He shoved Amara back, out of the way, growling, “Get behind me.”
Then he surged.
Thetus reached for something—maybe a weapon, maybe not—but Ethan didn’t wait to find out. He slammed him back through the staff door, the two men crashing into the bar, knocking over chairs and bottles and drawing gasps from the handful of customers frozen mid-sip.
Amara staggered forward into the doorframe—heart thundering, legs still trembling from where Ethan’s mouth had just been.
This was war now.