EMMA
Saturday Night, September 30
I know.
I know.
We're not supposed to be doing this anymore.
What's more, this was my rule. My decision that if we agreed to play pretend relationship, we'd cut our enemies-with-benefits out of the equation.
A rule I decided to break the second he reached for me.
For that matter, I think I decided to break it the moment I asked him to stay for a cup of tea instead of sending him right back out into the rain.
My brain's screaming, Fool. My heart's screaming, Maybe.
But my body . . . . it knows what it wants—what it needs—and it has always needed him.
I've tried to find the same elusive pleasure with someone else, but nobody makes me feel as cherished as he does.
Even through the anger, the frustration—or maybe because of those feelings—Ethan Dolan's hands on me deliver a sort of pleasure that's somehow both soothing and earth-shattering.
His mouth moves restlessly over mine, one hand on the back of my head, the other pressed between my shoulder blades, holding me close.
"I've missed this," he murmurs, his lips gliding under my chin, nuzzling my jaw.
"I've missed you."
His words send a thrill through me, and though I'm not brave enough to say them back out loud, I've missed him, too. I show it as best I can, my head dropping back to give him full access to me, my back arching into him.
"Where'd you get this awful sweater?" he murmurs, pulling the thick turtleneck to better get at my neck.
"Thought you could use a challenge. Builds character," I say a little breathlessly as his warm hands slip beneath the sweater.
"Right. As though you haven't been a challenge from the very beginning."
He gently pushes me back on the couch and moves down my body, shoving the sweater upward and pressing a kiss just below my belly button. He scrapes lightly with his teeth, and I moan.
He presses soft kisses along my rib cage as the sweater inches higher still, and I hear him groan at the realization I ditched the bra when I changed my clothes. He kisses the undersides of my breasts, lingering there until my fingers knot in his hair.
Rough hands shove the sweater higher, his tongue dragging slowly over my nipple before taking it in his mouth. He palms my other breast, kneading firmly in the way he's learned over the years that I like.
My turn.
I push at his shoulders, trying to wiggle out from beneath to get on top, but he refuses to budge, his lips and tongue relentless.
"Ethan," I moan. He presses a kiss to the valley between my breasts, and I feel him smile in victory.
"I like when you say my name, especially when you're half-naked."
"I'm not half-naked yet," I argue, trying to get the upper hand however I can.
"Excellent point," he says. He pulls me up, then tugs the sweater over my head and throws it aside. "Much better."
It's the opening I need to get my hands on him, but the second they find his chest, his fingers wrap around my shoulders, easing me back to the couch.
He slides down my body, lips and hands not missing a single erogenous zone as I squirm beneath him.
His fingers hook into the waistband of my yoga pants, his eyes holding mine as he tugs both those and my underwear down my legs. My socks come off with the pants, and he tosses the last of my clothes aside.
His eyes are dark as they look over every inch of me, and my breath catches with want and the unexpected vulnerability of being completely naked in front of him while he's still fully clothed.
I start to sit up, but he places a hand against my stomach as he lowers to his knees beside the couch.
His mouth is warm on the inside of my calf, his fingers insistent, demanding my thighs part as his lips skim up my leg.
The first touch of his tongue nearly undoes me, but he's not done. Not even close. He takes his time, savoring me with long licks and teasing flicks until my fingers are tangled in his hair, silently begging him for release.
As with everything between us, though, sex is a war, and Ethan's determined to win this battle.
"Tell me," he murmurs, pulling back slightly. "Tell me what you want."
I stay silent, and he pulls back another inch. "Come on," he teases, only his breath touching me.
I bite my lip and arch into him, trying to bring his mouth closer, but his hand spreads low over my belly, holding me still. He gives me a light lick, and I cry out. So close . . .
"Tell me," he urges, his voice rougher now. "Let me know you want it to be me, love."
It's the unexpected endearment that unravels me—the vulnerability of it lets me be vulnerable. I run my fingers softly through his hair and hold his gaze.
"Ethan."
He closes his eyes on a groan, and this time when he puts his mouth on me it's with purpose. He presses his tongue to me, circling with gentle insistence, knowing exactly what I need.
A sharp cry slips out as I let go—a surprise, since I'm usually more of a silent type.
Ethan's hands and mouth gentle as I come down from my orgasm, his touch light and soothing.
I push myself to a seated position as he stands, even as my limbs feel heavy and sated.
I start to reach for him, but he gently grabs both hands. "You don't have to."
I frown in puzzlement. Ethan's always been a generous lover, but normally by now he'd be on top of me. Inside me.
He smiles and catches my chin. "I just meant that I wanted to do that. Not because I wanted anything in return. Because I wanted you."
The words are a rush. "Noted. And appreciated. But don't even think about being greedy, Mr. Dolan." I reach for his belt buckle. "Because I want you, too."
Ethan's eyes darken with desire, and together we shed his clothes in record time.
I mean to suggest we move to the bedroom, but he's already lowering over me.
His hands are rough and needy as he pulls a condom from his wallet, then spreads my legs. His erection is hot and hard as he nudges me.
Ethan lets out a groan and nips my shoulder before lifting his head and locking eyes with mine. "I need you. Now."
I cup his face with my hands, spreading my legs wider in invitation.
His lips capture mine at the precise moment he thrusts inside me, and I gasp against his mouth.
"Damn you," he whispers hoarsely. "Damn you for what you do to me."
Back at you.
My hands move over his broad back, my hips meeting his every thrust.
He kisses me, and I forget everything. Our messy past, his parents, the stupid contract, the fighting. There's only him, only us.
Ethan hooks an arm behind my knee, changing the angle just slightly so that every thrust hits me just right.
I cling to his shoulders, my nails digging in in warning.
"Come," he growls against my throat. "Come again."
I do, and he comes with me, our cries unapologetically echoing throughout the quiet living room.
We catch our breath together, neither moving or saying a word. Thank God. I'm not sure there's anything to say.
I'm both dismayed and relieved when the moment's realized by Juno, who comes back into the living room and shoves her rabbit squeaky toy against Ethan's hip.
Ethan chuckles and gently pushes the dog's face away, which only makes Juno more insistent.
"All right, all right, you win," Ethan says, pulling away and standing up. "I knew there was a reason we usually do this at my place."
Actually, the reason we usually "do this" at his place is because it feels safer. Having him in my home is unnerving enough.
Having him naked in my home is a whole other thing entirely.
We both gather up our clothes, not meeting each other's eyes as we get dressed.
"Okay," Ethan mutters to the dog as he zips his pants. "Now I can play with your damn toy." He winces as he pulls the bunny from Juno's snout.
"Yeah, they get a little . . . slobbery," I say as he tosses the rabbit across the living room, to Juno's delight.
He smiles and wipes his palm against his pant leg, but Juno returns with the toy for another round.
Ethan repeats the process, playing fetch with my dog's disgusting toy as though it's the most natural thing in the world.
He picks up the abandoned tea and winces as he takes a sip. "I hate tea."
"But you stayed for a cup."
He smiles. "I did, didn't I."
I swallow, wanting to know what it means but too scared to ask. "You want something else to drink?" I say instead.
Ethan grins. "You asking me to stay?"
My heart lurches at the question, at what it means. I don't do this sort of thing. I don't ask men to stay for tea and sex and lingering.
And yet here I am, wanting desperately for him to stick around, even as I'm terrified he'll say no.
"I'm asking if you want a drink," I dodge.
He grins cockily. "No, you're asking if I want to stay."
I look away.
"Emma."
"What?" I snap.
He waits until I relent and meet his eyes. Then he smiles, softer this time. "I'd like to. Stay, I mean."
I shrug as though it's no big deal and doesn't matter to me one way or the other.
But it matters. A lot.
And I'm pretty sure he knows it.