Chapter 23
What are you doing what are you doing what are you doing—
Julia’s internal monologue provided zero help or solace when it came to the decision she was currently making.
It felt like eight years ago all over again. She wanted to kick herself for even initiating anything, knowing what had happened in the past. Not learning from one’s mistakes—it was the stuff of fools. Wasn’t that the whole point about making them? Making sure not to repeat them?
But no, instead she was leaning into it. Leaning into it so hard that it felt exactly like the same mistake all over again, as if she hadn’t had all this time to dwell on the last one and how spectacularly wrong it had gone.
And why? Why?
Because she wanted it? Wanted him? Probably always had, if she were being honest with herself. And whatever happened, whether he rejected her completely in the end or they went through with it this time, at least she would have her answers.
After all, she knew it wasn’t going to go anywhere, regardless. They had no future together no matter what happened in this shed, away from the house and sheltered from the rain.
But at least in this moment, if they did go through with it, she would have him.
He would be hers—not for a lifetime, maybe, but at least for her dreams. It was where he had stayed for so long that it felt like home for him now anyway.
She kept it locked up inside her heart, pulling out the old memories like pictures in an album to sift through in the times when she was the loneliest or the saddest. This would just be another photo to add.
A snapshot that would, perhaps, change the theme of the album from nostalgia and regret to something a bit warmer.
Not happier, per se, but…gratifying. The bittersweet pleasure of coming to the ending of a good book.
And although she couldn’t say for certain the direction things were going to take right then and there, she had a pretty good guess.
The way he was looking at her, eyes running over her body as though his hands wanted to do the same, with a hunger that she had only seen before in glimpses, the peripheral vision of a sidelong glance but now fully developed for her to take in.
Still, he kept his fists clenched at his sides, seemingly trying to get his fill with just his gaze.
He was worried, she realized. Worried, maybe, that he had somehow misinterpreted her words or gestures.
That he was going to do the wrong thing.
His uncertainty made her want him all the more—made her believe that he wanted this just as much as she did, but was worried about what the future would hold for them.
All we have is now, she wanted to tell him. It’s all we’ve ever had. And that’s okay.
The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she realized she’d been waiting for him to speak, to say something, anything, before she did. In the end, she’d waited for nothing. Because instead of speaking, he finally grabbed her and pulled her to him, winning the war with himself over touching her.
Hands ran up her back, gliding over her bra and then under the straps, not moving or removing, but instead just feeling. Taking inventory of all the remaining clothing and skin and impediments and advantages.
She leaned into him, burying her face in his neck and breathing him in, and he held her even tighter, drawing her closer to him, over his legs, until she straddled him where he sat on Norman’s old workbench.
“God, Gem,” he groaned into her hair as he bit down lightly on her shoulder. “You have no idea…”
I think I have some idea, she wanted to respond dryly, but she was too wrapped up in the moment to ruin it with sarcasm.
The nickname felt right now, and she no longer wanted to correct him.
Her heart pounded heavily in her chest as he slid a strap down her shoulder, kissing the spot where he had just bitten, and then he hesitated.
She looked at him, into his eyes, and saw uncertainty there.
Hopefulness and desire. But concern as well.
“Is this okay?”
Should we be doing this? Will this change anything?
That was what he was asking. They were questions she didn’t want to deal with now, so instead of answering, she kissed him again, perhaps an answer in and of itself, unhooking her bra in the back with one hand, showing a gracefulness and aptitude that she knew would never be duplicated in her life.
Shrugging out of the flimsy material, she allowed it to fall to the floor.
Ethan had pulled back and was staring at her like he was seeing her for the first time.
And maybe he was. He had never seen her like this before, that was for sure.
Bared to him in a way that was meant to be both intentional and provocative.
This wasn’t her changing under a beach towel as she’d done in their youth. This was something so much more.
The air felt charged. Something zipped between them that fired up the space and gave it an electric quality, almost like being suspended in time.
Then Ethan ducked his head and took one of her nipples into his mouth.
She gasped, her hands coming up unconsciously to run her fingers through his dark golden hair, the clipped locks still damp and curling around them.
The electricity that she had felt in the air now zinged through her body, curling her toes and running through her like a current, gathering deeply in the base of her stomach.
“Ethan.” She couldn’t help but say his name, the word coming out on a breath as he laved the turgid peak.
She could feel how stiff he was beneath her, between her legs, feel the press of his hands on her back and against her ass, pulling her to him and pushing her down, holding her close.
She had imagined this that night after they’d kissed, even though she’d tried not to.
The reality was far better than what her mind had conjured.
He was driving her crazy with want, and soon she moved restlessly, trying to dig her hands into the waistband of his pants, under his shirt, so she could lift it up over his head and feel him, too.
His clothes were still damp from the rain, and when she ran her hands under his shirt and up his back, the bare skin rose in gooseflesh underneath her palms. There was something about his reaction to her that made her feel powerful.
As though she held some modicum of control in the situation despite feeling like she was spiraling from sensation and the culmination of so many years of… what? Wanting this?
Wanting him?
There was no denying there had been some level of endgame in her mind when she’d considered Ethan back in the day. The circumstances that had led up to that fated moment so long ago. The idea that he had always been the one who was there for her, who she could rely on, who was family and even more.
A moan caught in her throat as her hands snagged on his shoulder blades, nails digging in, while he kissed her neck, nipping and then soothing with his tongue, pulling her closer to him and bringing his hands forward to squeeze and knead her breasts.
“So perfect,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss the tops of them, each a perfect handful in his large hands, yet another example of how well they fit together.
She had always known, deep down, that they would be good, that this would be good.
She now knew it would never work; they would never last. Too much history—they knew too much about each other.
It wasn’t viable. How could a relationship flourish between two people whose secrets had already been revealed, whose lives had already been so closely intertwined then torn apart?
Like a vase that had been broken—and fuck that kintsugi shit.
Broken was broken. No amount of golden glue could fix it.
But this—this moment.
At least they had this.
With that, Julia stood and peeled off her damp jeans and underwear and stood before him, fully nude and shameless about it. Despite this new venture in their relationship, the old comfort remained.
Ethan took her in, and she saw his breath catch in his throat as he caressed her with his gaze, up and down, for what felt like an eternity.
“It’s me,” she finally said, starting to feel slightly self-conscious as the seconds ticked by and he still hadn’t made a move.
He looked up at her then, his eyes meeting hers, and she was shocked to see that there was a sheen of emotion in them that she had never seen before. Not quite tears, but still—he was clearly moved in a way he wasn’t yet able to verbalize.
Instead of speaking, he stood and grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to him, rough but tender, cradling her face and kissing her in a way that took her breath away, slow and soft, demanding and warm.
He lifted her up in his arms then with a suddenness that took her by surprise, and she gasped and laughed breathlessly.
Then he laid her back on the bench, Norman’s workbench, a surface he thankfully kept meticulously clean, only a spare fleck of sawdust here or there that the swooping motion of their bodies had brushed away.
She lay back, squirming and laughing, feeling herself go pink at how exposed she was lying there, one leg on either side of the bench, as it was too narrow to support them both together unless she kept them tightly closed, which—