23. Addy
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Addy
“I still think you should come back with me,” Luci says for the third time, leaning against the counter with a coffee she absolutely didn't need given her current energy levels. “I know here's fine, but I have a spare room, and I don’t want to say goodbye…”
“I’m not running,” I remind her.
“I didn’t say running. I said strategically relocating to avoid drama.”
“Which is running,” I say.
“Semantics.”
Oliver is halfway under the table with Captain, attempting to convince him that socks are a form of currency. Ethan is standing near the window, already dressed for work, watching the entire scene with that quiet, observant stillness he does so well.
Luci follows my gaze.
Then she leans closer, lowering her voice. “He asked you to the gala?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t immediately say yes. I still can’t believe it.”
“I told him I'd think about it.”
She stares at me.
“It’s complicated.”
She snorts. “Everything with you is complicated.”
Before I can argue, she pulls me into a hug. “Don’t disappear on me.”
“I won’t.”
She kisses my cheek, ruffles Oliver’s hair, declares Captain “emotionally dependent,” and then she’s gone.
The apartment feels quieter immediately.
I’m still adjusting to it when Ethan says, “You’re off today.”
I look at him. “I am?”
“I arranged coverage for Oliver.”
I blink. “Why?”
He picks up his keys. “Because we’re going out.”
A prickle of suspicion crawls up my spine. “...Is this about the gala?”
“Yes.”
“I said I’d think about it.”
“You have.”
“I haven't decided.”
“You've avoided deciding.”
I narrow my eyes. “I don't have anything to wear.”
“I know.” A corner of his mouth lifts. “Come with me.”
Forty minutes later, I'm standing outside a store that looks like it requires a bank account check just to breathe near the door.
I turn to him slowly. “No.”
“Yes.”
I shake my head. My whole body might be trembling. “I don't look fine for… this,” I gesture wildly at the building, the glass, the people inside who all look like they’ve never experienced financial anxiety in their lives.
Ethan studies me. “Addy.”
“Yes?”
“Come inside.”
He doesn’t move, just waits, which is somehow worse.
“Fine,” I mutter.
We step inside, and immediately, I feel like I’ve entered another dimension. Everything is soft, quiet, expensive in a way that doesn’t scream it.
A woman appears within seconds, perfectly dressed, perfectly composed, smiling like she’s been expecting us. “Mr. Strong.”
“Isabelle,” he says with a slight nod.
“And you must be Addy,” she says, turning to me with a warm smile that somehow makes me feel both seen and mildly evaluated.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m trying not to panic.”
She laughs softly. “You’re in the right place.”
I’m not convinced.
Ethan gestures slightly. “We’re looking for something for the gala.”
Isabelle’s eyes flick back to me with immediate understanding. “Of course. Come with me.”
This is how I die.
I follow anyway.
Isabelle leads us past the main showroom and down a quieter hallway lined with muted lighting and framed sketches.
“I reserved the private suite for you,” she says easily. “You’ll have complete privacy back here.”
Of course Ethan reserved a private suite.
The room she opens into is larger than my first apartment. Plush carpet. Mirrors framed in soft gold. A raised fitting platform. A seating area tucked near the windows with champagne chilling in a silver bucket because apparently, rich people hydrate exclusively through intimidation.
I look at Ethan. “This feels expensive.”
“It is,” he says calmly.
An hour later, I've tried on more dresses than I have in the last five years combined.
“Too much,” I say, staring at myself in a gown that looks like it belongs on a red carpet and not on a woman who once cried in a Target changing room over jeans.
“Too structured,” I say in another.
“Too… shiny?”
Isabelle remains endlessly patient. Ethan sits nearby like this is a business meeting, watching, which is deeply unhelpful.
“Do you have opinions,” I call out from behind the door, “or are you just here for moral support?”
“I have opinions.”
“Great. Share them.”
“Come out.”
Rude.
I step out in the next dress.
And…
Okay. I stop because this one's different. It’s elegant without trying too hard. Soft, but structured in the right places. It fits like it was made for me, which is offensive considering I have never in my life owned anything like this.
I look at myself in the mirror, and I don’t see the girl who got dumped at an airport. I see someone else. Someone who belongs in a room like that, which is terrifying.
“Well?” I say, quieter now.
Ethan doesn’t answer immediately, which is worse than if he had.
I glance at him, and… oh. He’s looking at me like… like that.
Heat floods my face instantly. “This is a mistake. I look ridiculous.”
“You don’t.”
Isabelle, traitor, says, “I think we’ve found it.”
I laugh nervously. “Let’s not get carried away—”
“Addy.”
I look at him again. Big mistake.
“You’re not ridiculous,” he says. “You’re exactly where you should be.”
My stomach flips.
That isn't helpful at all.
“I’m going to change,” I say quickly, backing toward the dressing room before I do something insane like believe him.
The problem with dressing rooms is that they're small and enclosed, and apparently, the place Ethan chooses to follow me into.
“Ethan…”
The door closes behind him, and suddenly the space is very, very small.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Confirming something.”
“That feels ominous.”
“It isn’t.”
Liar.
He steps closer and crashes his lips to mine.
It’s not sweet, at least not at first. He kisses me like there’s no way he could possibly wait another minute, like he broke the second he saw me in this dress, and he’s only just now letting go of whatever thread he was holding onto to keep himself together.
We’re still in the dressing room, but I don’t even care. There’s only Ethan, his hands on my hips, the both of us pressed up against the mirror, breath fogging the glass and lips locked together like we’ve forgotten how to be apart.
He runs his hands over my waist, up my sides, then back down, like he can’t get enough. My pulse hammers in my neck, wild and uneven, and I have to actually remind myself to breathe.
“I think we need to get this dress off you,” he murmurs. “So I can buy it for you.”
I try to laugh, but it comes out as this croaked little gasp, full of static and need. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
He ghosts his mouth along the edge of my jaw, and his hands cradle my ribcage like the two halves of me might fly apart. “You said I should have opinions. That’s mine.”
“You can’t…” I choke as his thumb traces the path down to the small of my back. “You can’t just…”
“Why not?”
I can’t answer because he’s kissing me again, and this time I let myself fold into it.
There’s nowhere else, nothing else, only the too shallow breath I manage between kisses and the awkward, unfamiliar rustle of the dress as he lifts it to his hands.
My back thumps against the mirror. My heart's a strobe light in my chest.
There’s no air, but I don’t care.
He’s everything, the only thing, he’s Ethan, and he’s saying my name against my skin. I didn’t know being wanted could feel like this, like a secret I get to keep long after we’re finished, like something I get to wear under my clothes forever.
The zipper peels down my spine, inch by slow inch, and I make a desperate sound in the back of my throat.
He slides the fabric off my shoulders, palms hot and rough compared to the silk.
I should stop him.
This isn't a place for what we are doing, and nothing about this is right. But at the same time, it's the only thing that has ever been right in my entire life. He laughs into my mouth when I try to shush him, because I'm not very good at saying no to him, and we both know it.
He’s only just managed to get the dress down to my hips when I realize I’m standing here in borrowed shoes and the most expensive piece of clothing I’ve ever touched, and I’m about to let him undress me in a place with mood lighting and a tiny bench that’s apparently just big enough to sit on while someone kisses you breathless. Isabelle is probably still outside.
None of it matters.
His mouth drifts down to my collarbone, then lower, and I think I’m going to combust.
He kneels at my feet and looks up at me. I can’t breathe. He doesn’t rush. He just finds the hem and drags it down, his thumbs trailing heat along my thighs.
My knees wobble. I catch the mirror edge with my palm before I fall.
His lips hover just above my knee like he’s waiting for permission, then he nudges them up my thigh, a fraction too slow to be accidental.
This is criminal. This is insanity. This is the greatest fantasy I never knew I was allowed to have.
He slides his hands behind my knees, guiding me until I’m perched on the little bench, legs draped around his waist. I clench my fists in his hair because I need to hold onto something, need to remember I’m a person and not just a collection of nerve endings desperate for every single thing he’s willing to give me.
He kisses up, up, up, never breaking eye contact.
“Is this okay?” he asks, as if I haven’t already given him all the answers in the way I’m trembling.
I nod, or I try to nod; maybe I’m just shaking, but he reads the answer anyway. My chin dips in wild staccato, a series of gasping yes, yes, yes, and his hands bracket my thighs to hold me still while he brings his mouth closer.
The first brush of his tongue is so light, I almost believe I imagined it. I lock my ankles behind him, desperate to keep him there because if he stops, I’ll die.
He doesn’t stop.
He just ruins me, slow and methodical, tongue coaxing noise out of me I didn’t know I harbored.
Stars explode behind my eyelids. I can’t stop the sounds I make. The pathetic little whines and moans. There’s not a single thing left in this world except the way he looks at me, like he’s memorizing every single second.
He buries his face, devours me, and I'm shaking apart, undone and redrawn and not sure how to ever come back from this.
I want to claw the air, bite my lip so hard it bleeds, leave marks down his neck, howl, anything, just to let the pressure out and survive the way he’s making me feel.
My hand finds the velvet of the tiny bench, and I dig my nails into it, because I need to anchor myself to this moment, never forget it, never let it slip away.
It builds.
It builds in a way that’s almost mean, like he’s keeping me pressed against invisible glass, making sure I see myself before he shatters me. I want to beg. I want to scream. I want to tell him every single thing I've never said in my life.
When I finally come apart, it’s not silent; there’s a sharp, pathetic sound that rips from my throat as I pulse against his tongue, legs clamped tight around his shoulders, breath coming in great ragged bursts.
My eyes pop open, and I realize there are tears running down my face, which is absolutely mortifying, but there’s nothing in me to feel embarrassed about it. He holds me there, mouth gentle now, kissing me through the waves until I’m nothing but shiver and aftermath.
He braves the dead silence that follows.
In that echo, he presses my legs back together, stands, and helps me upright like I weigh nothing.
My heart's slamming in my chest so loudly I’m afraid anyone outside can hear it, and I want to melt into the floor, but he just cradles my face and kisses the swell of my cheek, right where the mascara is smudging under my lashes.
He breathes words into my skin: “You’re fucking beautiful.”
My throat's raw. “You’re a menace.”
His smile crooks. “You like it.”
I do, and I’m not going to lie.
“Now come on,” he says with a cheeky smile. “Get dressed so we can get out of here.”