21. Mia
MIA
Ichange in the bathroom, trading my ruined clothes for the least-damaged sleep shirt I managed to salvage. The soft cotton feels wrong against my skin, too normal for a night where nothing is normal anymore.
When I emerge, Ethan's waiting in the bedroom. He's removed his shoes and jacket but is still fully dressed, standing near the window like he's not quite sure what protocol exists for this situation.
There is no protocol. We burned through that weeks ago.
I climb into bed, pull the duvet up to my chest. The sheets smell like expensive detergent and something faintly cedar, nothing like my own bed that now exists in shreds two miles away.
Ethan moves to the chair in the corner. "I'll be right here if you need anything."
"No."
He pauses. "No?"
"Come here. Please."
He crosses to the bed slowly, giving me time to change my mind. When he reaches the edge I lift the duvet in silent invitation.
He slides in beside me fully clothed, staying on top of the covers like that distinction matters. His arm wraps around my shoulders and I curl into his side, head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt.
For several minutes neither of us speaks. His hand traces idle patterns down my spine, soothing and grounding me. The adrenaline that's been coursing through my system starts to ebb, replaced by exhaustion so profound I can barely keep my eyes open.
But sleep feels impossible. Every time I close my eyes I see my destroyed apartment, that black rose sitting on my dresser like a promise of worse to come.
"I keep thinking about the quilt," I whisper against his chest. "My grandmother made it. Took her three years, all these tiny stitches by hand. She gave it to me when I got into culinary school, said it would keep me warm when the kitchens tried to break me."
His arm tightens around me. "I'm sorry."
"Derek knew what it meant to me. I told him once, years ago, before I understood what he was. He remembered. Of course he remembered. He destroys the things I love most because that's what gets to me."
"He won't touch Sable."
"You can't know that."
"Yes, I can. Because I'm going to make sure of it."
The certainty in his voice should feel like empty reassurance. Instead, it’s dangerous and intoxicating in how much I want to believe him.
I tilt my head up. His face is closer than I expected, jaw shadowed with stubble, those ice-blue eyes watching me with an intensity that makes breathing difficult.
"Ethan..."
"What do you need?"
The question is simple. The answer isn't.
I shift upward, bringing my face level with his. Our noses nearly touch, breath mingling in the small space between us.
"Make me forget," I whisper. "Just for tonight. Make me forget everything except this."
His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "Mia, you're vulnerable right now. I won't take advantage of that."
"You're not taking advantage. I'm asking."
"You're asking because you're scared and exhausted, and your life just got turned inside out."
"I'm asking because I want you. Because when everything fell apart tonight the only person I wanted was you." I press my palm flat against his chest, feel his heart hammering beneath the fabric. "So please. Make me forget."
His thumb traces my lower lip, the touch feather-light and electric. "Are you sure?"
Instead of answering I close the distance between us, pressing my mouth to his in a kiss that tastes like desperation and need. He responds immediately, his hand sliding into my hair while the other wraps around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
The kiss deepens quickly, weeks of tension and denial pouring into the contact. I swing my leg over his hips, straddling him without breaking the kiss, and he groans against my mouth.
His hands find the hem of my sleep shirt, fingers skating beneath the fabric to touch bare skin. The contact makes me gasp, arching into him while his palms map the curve of my waist, the line of my spine, committing every inch to memory with reverent attention.
I tug at his shirt, needing the barrier gone, needing skin against skin. He sits up enough to pull it over his head, tossing it aside before his mouth finds mine again.
The kiss turns hungry, consuming, all pretense of gentleness abandoned. His hands slide up my ribcage, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through the thin fabric, and I rock against him seeking friction.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark with want but still searching my face for any sign I want to stop.
"Tell me what you need," he murmurs.
"Just you."
My sleep shirt joins his on the floor. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until I'm squirming in his lap. When he leans forward to take one into his mouth I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him against me while pleasure sparks through my nervous system.
His teeth graze the sensitive peak and I make a sound I barely recognize, grinding down against the growing hardness beneath his zipper. He switches to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention while his hands grip my hips hard enough to leave marks.
I fumble with his belt, fingers clumsy with need. He helps me, making quick work of the buckle before lifting his hips so I can push his pants and boxer briefs down his thighs.
His cock springs free, hard and flushed, and I wrap my hand around the length of him. He hisses through his teeth, hips jerking up into my touch.
"Mia—"
"I need you inside me."
"Condom. We should?—"
"I don't care. Please, Ethan. I just need to feel you."
He searches my face one more time, making sure I'm certain. Whatever he sees there convinces him because he nods, hands moving to the waistband of my underwear.
I lift up enough for him to slide the fabric down my thighs. The air hits my exposed skin, cool and startling, but then his fingers are there, sliding through my wetness with a groan of appreciation.
"You're soaked."
"I told you I wanted you."
He circles my clit with maddening precision, watching my face while I rock into his touch. Two fingers slide inside me, curling to hit exactly the right spot, and I clench around him with a gasp.
"So responsive," he murmurs, working me open with steady rhythm. "So perfect."
The praise overwhelms me. I ride his fingers, chasing the building pleasure, but it's not enough. I need more, need him filling me completely, need to feel cherished instead of violated.
"Now," I breathe. "Please, Ethan. Now."
He withdraws his fingers, using my wetness to coat his length. Then his hands grip my hips, guiding me into position, and I sink down onto him in one slow slide that makes us both moan.
The stretch is perfect, overwhelming, exactly what I needed. I brace my hands on his shoulders and start to move, finding a rhythm that has him hitting deep with every roll of my hips.
His hands roam my body, touching everywhere he can reach. Palms sliding up my sides, fingers tracing my spine, gripping my ass to help lift and lower me. His mouth finds my neck, sucking marks into the skin while I ride him with increasing urgency.
"So beautiful," he murmurs against my throat. "So fucking beautiful like this."
I cling to him, face buried in his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin while pleasure builds at the base of my spine. His thumb finds my clit, circling with perfect pressure while I move on him. The dual stimulation makes my thighs tremble, muscles burning, but I don't slow down.
"That's it," he encourages. "Take what you need, Mia. I've got you."
The orgasm crashes through me without warning, pleasure rolling through my body in waves so intense I cry out against his shoulder. He holds me through it, still moving, drawing out every aftershock until I'm shaking in his arms.
Then he's rolling us, pressing me into the mattress while he drives into me with renewed intensity. His forearms bracket my head, caging me in, and I wrap my legs around his waist to take him deeper.
"Look at me," he commands.
I force my eyes open. He's watching me with such focused intensity it steals my breath, like I'm the most important thing in his universe.
"You're safe," he says with each thrust. "I've got you. You're safe."
The words combined with the feeling of him inside me breaks whatever remaining control I'm holding. Tears spill over, mixing with sweat and the overwhelming sensation of being cared for.
He kisses them away, movements turning gentler, more reverent. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together as he makes love to me with devastating tenderness.
When his rhythm falters I feel him getting close. I tighten around him deliberately, watching his face transform as pleasure overtakes control.
"Mia—"
"Inside me. I want to feel you."
That's all it takes. He drives deep one final time, groaning my name as he spills inside me. The intimacy of it, the trust required, makes fresh tears stream down my face.
We stay connected while he softens inside me, foreheads pressed together, breathing in sync. His thumb traces my cheekbone, wiping away tears with such gentleness it makes my chest ache.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For being here. For making me feel like a person instead of a victim."
He kisses me softly, thoroughly, pouring emotion into the contact that words can't capture. When he pulls back his expression is open in a way I've never seen before, all his usual defenses stripped away.
"You were never just a case to me," he says. "Never just part of an arrangement. You're... you're everything, Mia. And I'm going to keep you safe. I promise."
I believe him. For the first time in two years, standing at the edge of something terrifying and exhilarating, I actually believe someone can keep that promise.