15. Mia
MIA
Ifinish the last of the prep work in a blur, muscle memory taking over while my brain tries to process what I just agreed to. Ethan waits in the dining room, scrolling through his phone with a patience that suggests he's giving me space to change my mind.
I don't change my mind.
The cab ride to his place is quiet, the city sliding past the windows in streaks of neon and shadow. His hand rests on the seat between us, not quite touching mine but close enough that I feel the heat of it. When his pinky brushes against mine I don't pull away.
His building is exactly what I expected: doorman in the lobby who greets him by name, elevator with actual wood paneling instead of the scratched metal boxes I'm used to, hallway carpeting thick enough to muffle footsteps.
We ride to the twenty-third floor in silence that feels less awkward than anticipatory, like we're both holding our breath waiting for something to shift.
The penthouse is massive. Huge windows overlooking the city, hardwood floors in some expensive timber I can't identify, furniture that looks simultaneously comfortable and prohibitively expensive. Everything is clean lines and muted colors, a space that exists in architectural magazines.
"This is where you live," I say, because someone needs to say something.
"Most nights I sleep at the office, so technically this is where I store my belongings."
"Very practical."
He shrugs out of his jacket, drapes it over a chair. "Can I get you something? Water, wine, bourbon that costs more than it should?"
"Water's fine."
He disappears into the kitchen. I drift toward the windows, press my palm against the glass.
Twenty-three floors down, the city pulses with late-night energy, cabs and pedestrians and lit windows in buildings where other people are living their lives with presumably less complicated arrangements than fake marriages and stalker exes.
Ethan returns with two glasses of water, hands me one. His fingers brush mine in the transfer and I feel it everywhere, that simple contact that shouldn't mean anything but does.
"You have a nice view," I say, aiming for normal conversation.
"I barely notice it anymore."
"That's depressing."
He moves to stand beside me at the window, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. "You could see it every day if you wanted. There's a guest room, plenty of space. You don't have to go back to your apartment until we know Derek's backed off."
The offer is practical, logical, exactly what someone in his position should suggest. It also feels like something more.
"I can't just move in with you."
"Why not? We're married."
"Fake married."
"The certificate says otherwise."
I turn to face him. "This wasn't part of the agreement," I murmur.
"Neither was kissing in doorways. Or late-night kitchen conversations. Or any of this, really. We stopped following the agreement weeks ago, Mia."
He's right. The realization settles over me like a weight I've been carrying without acknowledging it.
Somewhere between the magazine shoot and tonight, between his confession about Jordan Ellis and the way he said I don't want to when I told him to leave, the performance became something else entirely.
I set down my water glass on the nearest surface. Ethan does the same, movements deliberate, giving me time to stop what's about to happen if I want to stop it.
I don't want to stop it.
When I step into his space he's ready for me, one hand sliding into my hair while the other settles at the small of my back.
The kiss starts slow, exploratory, like we're learning the shape of something we've been circling for weeks.
His mouth is warm, taking what I offer while somehow still asking permission.
My hands find his chest, slide up to his shoulders, grip hard enough that I feel muscles shift beneath his shirt.
He makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat pooling in my stomach, and then his hands are moving, one cupping my jaw to angle my head exactly where he wants it while the other maps the curve of my waist.
We break apart long enough for him to murmur against my mouth, "Tell me to stop if you want to stop."
"I don't want to stop."
"Good. Because I've been thinking about this for weeks and I'm done pretending I haven't."
I kiss him harder, deeper, pouring weeks of tension and denial into the contact. His hands slide down to grip my hips and suddenly I'm being walked backward toward what I assume is the bedroom, our mouths never separating, my fingers working the buttons of his shirt.
We make it three steps before he lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist on instinct.
The leverage changes everything, brings us flush together in a way that makes rational thought dissolve entirely.
He carries me down the hallway like I weigh nothing, shouldering open a door that leads to a bedroom dominated by a massive bed with dark sheets.
He sets me down beside it, pulls back just enough to look at me. His hair is mussed from my hands, lips slightly swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the now-unbuttoned shirt.
"Last chance to change your mind," he rasps.
Instead of answering I reach for the hem of my own shirt, pull it over my head in one smooth motion. His eyes go dark, tracking the movement, cataloging every exposed inch of skin.
"I'm not going to," I tell him.
Whatever restraint he was holding onto snaps. His mouth is on mine again, hands everywhere. He unclasps my bra, tosses it aside, and when his palms close over my breasts I arch into the contact with a sound I barely recognize as my own.
His thumbs brush over my nipples, circling with maddening precision until I'm squirming against him, needing more. He seems to understand without words, backing me toward the bed until my knees hit the mattress and I sit down hard.
From this angle he towers over me, shirt hanging open to reveal the lean muscle beneath, belt still buckled but straining.
I reach for it, fingers fumbling slightly with the leather until he takes pity on me and does it himself, shedding pants and boxer briefs in quick movements that leave him standing there completely bare.
I've seen attractive men before. Dated them, slept with them, filed them away in the catalog of experiences that shaped who I am. But Ethan Evans naked is something else entirely, utterly confident in his body in the same way he's confident everywhere else.
My jeans come off next, underwear following, until I'm sitting on his bed wearing nothing but the gold cuff on my wrist and the wedding band I haven't taken off since City Hall.
He kneels between my legs, hands sliding up my thighs with deliberate slowness. When his mouth finds the inside of my knee I gasp, fingers digging into the sheets. He works his way higher, kissing and biting soft enough to tease, hard enough to make me shift restlessly.
By the time his mouth reaches where I need it most I'm already trembling, wound so tight that the first touch of his tongue nearly kills me. He works me gingerly, learning what makes me gasp and what makes me moan, adjusting technique until I'm gripping his hair hard enough to hurt.
The orgasm builds slowly then crashes over me all at once, pleasure rolling through my body in waves that leave me gasping. He doesn't stop, just gentles his touch while I come down, presses soft kisses to my thigh like he has all the time in the world.
When I can form words again I tug at his hair. "Get up here."
He obeys immediately, rising to cover my body with his, settling between my legs with his weight balanced on his forearms. The head of his cock presses against me, hot and insistent, and I arch my hips trying to take him in.
He stops me with a hand on my hip. "Condom."
"I'm on birth control."
"Are you sure?"
"Ethan. I need you inside me right now. Please don't make me wait."
The please seems to be his breaking point. He positions himself carefully, then slides home in one long thrust that makes us both groan. For a moment neither of us moves, just breathing through the overwhelming sensation of being joined completely.
Then he starts to move and thought becomes impossible.
Each thrust hits deep, angled perfectly to make me see stars, his hips rolling with a rhythm that suggests he's done this before and knows exactly what he's doing.
I wrap my legs around his waist, changing the angle, taking him even deeper until we're both gasping.
His mouth finds mine again, kisses turning messy and desperate as the pace increases. One of his hands slides between us, fingers finding my clit and circling while he continues to drive into me.
The second orgasm builds faster than the first, pleasure coiling tightly at the base of my spine. I dig my nails into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks, chasing the edge while he murmurs encouragement against my mouth.
When I come it's with his name on my lips, body clenching around him so tightly that he follows immediately after with a groan that sounds like surrender.
We collapse together, sweat-slick and breathing hard. He rolls to the side, pulls me against his chest, one hand stroking lazy patterns down my spine while we both catch our breath.
For a while we just lie there in the aftermath, tangled together in his expensive sheets with the city glowing through the windows.
Then reality starts to creep back in. The awareness of what we just did, what it means for the boundaries we'd established. The contract we signed that explicitly stated no physical intimacy beyond what was required for public appearances.
This was not required for public appearances.
The panic starts small, a flutter that grows with each passing second. I said no feelings. One year and a clean exit.
And I just slept with him like it meant something.
I extract myself carefully from his arms. He makes a sleepy sound of protest but doesn't try to stop me, already drifting toward actual sleep with the ease that comes from being utterly satisfied.
I find my clothes scattered across the floor, dress quickly in the dark. The penthouse is quiet around me, just the ambient hum of expensive climate control and the muted sounds of the city far below.
My phone says it's two AM. Late enough that I won't find a cab easily, early enough that the subway's still running.
I should leave a note. Something explaining that this was a mistake, that we need to talk, that I'm not running away even though that's exactly what I'm doing.
Instead I just grab my bag and slip out the door, closing it quietly behind me.
The elevator ride down feels endless. When I finally reach the street the air hits me like a slap, humid and heavy with the promise of rain.
I start walking toward the nearest subway station, each step taking me further from Ethan's building and the choice I just made. My body still hums with the aftereffects of what we did, my thighs aching pleasantly, my lips swollen from his kisses.
I wanted him. I still want him, which is the problem.