By the time the plane finally touched down, Vanessa felt like her skin was stretched too tight over her bones.
Her body was a livewire of tension and unspent need, every nerve-ending painfully awake. She'd never in her life been more desperate to get off—a plane, a man, anything. The hours had crawled by, and every second under Ethan's quiet dominance had left her more undone. He didn't even needed to touch her again after the lavatory. His control was more insidious than that. But he had simply sat beside her like a fucking saint, sipping his drink, occasionally brushing her thigh or glancing at her legs, pretending none of it mattered—like he hadn't made her come silently under a blanket, like he wasn't responsible for the ache that had pooled between her thighs and refused to dissipate.
Ethan, meanwhile, had stayed maddeningly calm.
Still in his dark dress shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, jaw tight with smug restraint, he looked like he'd just stepped off a business call. Immaculate. Collected. Powerful.
She, on the other hand, was sitting next to him in his oversized black sweatshirt and sneakers—with nothing on underneath. Not a bra. Not panties. Not even dignity.
The thick fabric draped past her thighs, warm from her own body heat and still faintly carrying his scent—clean, masculine, with an edge of dark spice. It was maddening, the way it clung to her skin. Every breath filled her with more of him. And every shift reminded her of how naked she was beneath it.
She felt exposed. Humiliated. Claustrophobic in her own skin.
And Ethan knew it.
As the plane taxied to a stop, she unbuckled her seatbelt and shot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood. "I hate you," she muttered, low enough for only him to hear.
He didn't flinch. Didn't even glance at her. Just reached up, grabbed their bags from the overhead like he hadn't spent the last twelve hours dismantling her piece by piece.
"Whatever you say, princess," he murmured, smooth and disinterested—except for the glint in his eyes when she snatched her backpack from his grip a little too roughly.
Her eye twitched. Her clit throbbed.
She was dangerously close to making a scene. So close. But instead, she spun on her heel, chin high, and marched off the plane with as much dignity as one could muster while practically naked in a sweatshirt that smelled like sex and sin.
The airport lights were too bright. The floor too cold beneath her bare thighs. She hated how her nipples rubbed against the fabric with every step, how she could feel the whisper of air teasing at her folds when she moved too quickly.
She needed space. Control. Something.
But the moment they stepped into baggage claim and the cool air of the terminal kissed the backs of her thighs, a darker idea coiled in her mind like smoke.
He thought he could tease her, torment her, make her melt and come apart in silence—and walk away untouched?
Not a chance.
Her bag slid toward them on the carousel, and Vanessa saw her opportunity unfold in real time.
With exaggerated calm, she stepped forward. Deliberate. Controlled.
And then she bent down.
Slowly. Gracefully. Wickedly.
She didn't squat. She arched.
Back bowed, hips tilted, knees just slightly parted, she reached for her bag with the kind of poised languor that wasn't meant to look accidental. The hem of Ethan's sweatshirt lifted—barely—but just enough to flash the tops of her thighs and threaten so much more. So much.
She could feel the cold air kiss her bare skin.
Could feel his eyes.
Burning. Branding.
The tension hit her like a second climax, low and hot and pulsing deep in her core. She lingered, letting the moment stretch, pretending to adjust her grip on the handle.
When she finally stood, her blood buzzing with adrenaline and heat, she turned slowly to glance over her shoulder.
And there he was.
Ethan stood still as stone, a suitcase in hand—but his jaw was clenched. His mouth tight. His eyes locked on her like a predator deciding whether to devour or punish.
On the surface, he looked the same—impossibly calm, indifferent.
But she saw it.
The small shift in his posture. The flicker of something raw and restrained behind his gaze. The way his fingers flexed around the handle of his luggage like they were imagining it was her throat. Or her hips. Or her wrists.
Vanessa tilted her head, feigning innocence, letting her hair fall over one shoulder. "Something wrong?" she asked, voice soft, syrupy sweet.
He didn't answer.
Didn't have to.
Because in that split-second, in that stolen look, she knew.
She got him.
Vanessa's lips curled. It wasn't a smile—it was a declaration. She had scored. Made him break—if only for a moment.
The game was on again.
But this time?
She was going to play dirty. No more silent surrender. No more letting him lead.
The night air was sharp and clean as they stepped out of the terminal, but it did nothing to cool the simmering pulse that had been burning beneath Vanessa's skin since the plane. Ethan walked beside her with that same maddening composure, his stride easy, posture relaxed—as if he hadn't spent the entire flight turning her body into his playground and leaving her teetering on the edge of sanity.
She slid into the back seat of the waiting cab without a word, the cool leather shocking against her bare skin. The sweatshirt still hung off her like a claim, swallowing her curves but doing nothing to conceal what she wasn't wearing underneath.
Ethan followed, settling beside her.
Too close.
Vanessa turned her gaze out the window, letting the neon blur of the city distract her, mentally trying to cool the heat still radiating through her core. She needed to reset. Reclaim control. She could win this round. She would.
But then—
A touch.
Light. Lazy. Intentional.
His hand slid onto her thigh like it belonged there.
Her breath caught in her throat. Heat surged up her spine.
His fingers moved in slow, idle patterns over the sensitive skin above her knee—absentminded, as if he were just... resting there. As if the low ache growing in her belly wasn't deliberate.
Vanessa's lips parted, pulse thudding.
"Ethan," she said tightly.
A soft hum from beside her. "Hm?"
"Your hand."
"Yes?"
Her jaw clenched. "Move it."
He chuckled, deep and quiet. A sound that reverberated through her bones. "You didn't seem to mind it back on the plane."
She turned to glare at him, but he was already watching her, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth curved with that unbearable smirk. He was enjoying every second of this.
She shifted, crossing her arms, trying to will away the heat building between her thighs.
But then his hand squeezed—just above the knee. A gentle, maddening pressure that sent a jolt of fire through her stomach.
Vanessa inhaled sharply, her glare faltering.
She felt his smirk grow without even looking at him.
The taxi rumbled through the city, the buzz of nightlife seeping through the glass. Her skin prickled under the hem of the sweatshirt, every inch of her feeling too tight, too hot, too aware of him.
And then—without warning—the car slowed. Pulled over.
Confused, Vanessa blinked. "Why are we stopping?"
Ethan didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached down into his duffel bag—the same bag that had devoured her clothes hours ago like a magician's hat.
From its depths, he withdrew her skirt.
And then—her panties.
Vanessa's breath caught.
Her heart lurched violently.
"Put them on," he said softly, casually, like he was offering her a drink of water. Not handing her the final insult to her already-tattered pride.
She stared at him, eyes wide. "You're joking."
His brows rose in feigned innocence. "Would you rather walk into my grandparents' house like this?"
She wanted to scream. To punch him. To crawl into his lap and ruin his entire smug demeanor.
Instead, with her face burning, she snatched the clothes from his hands.
She glanced toward the front of the taxi. The driver was tapping on his phone, utterly oblivious, the hum of the engine the only witness to what was unfolding in the back seat.
Her fingers trembled as she slid the panties up beneath the sweatshirt, struggling not to shift too much, every brush of fabric against her still-raw center drawing out a subtle pulse of memory—of what he'd done to her. Of how good it had felt.
She hated how wet she still was.
Hated that she was trembling.
Hated that she knew he could see it all.
Ethan said nothing. Didn't move. He simply leaned back, arms stretched across the back of the seat like a king in his throne, watching her with a quiet intensity that made her feel as though she were performing just for him.
And she was.
Every flicker of fabric, every careful movement, every second it took her to slide into the skirt—he owned all of it.
When she was finally dressed again, heart hammering, pride in tatters, she turned to him with fire in her eyes.
"Happy?"
Ethan's lips twitched. "You looked better before."
Her mouth fell open.
Her breath hitched.
The heat between them crackled like static—volatile, pulsing, a live wire neither of them dared touch yet couldn't look away from.
This wasn't over.
Not even close.
As the taxi pulled back onto the road, the city lights thinned into the calm quiet of a residential neighborhood. Vanessa sat stiffly in her seat, hands folded tightly in her lap, her pulse refusing to settle. The scent of him still clung to her skin, soaked into the sweatshirt, the memory of his fingertips ghosting along her thigh like an echo she couldn't silence.
Next stop: his grandparents' house.
She stared blankly out the window, but her body wouldn't stop remembering—how close he'd leaned, the low timber of his voice when he teased her, the bold press of his hand where it absolutely shouldn't have been. There had been no shame in his touch. No hesitation. Only that maddening, arrogant confidence she both loathed and couldn't stop craving.
And now, she was expected to smile politely, sit through dinner like she hadn't nearly come apart in the backseat of a taxi.
When the car finally slowed, Vanessa barely noticed at first. Her thoughts were still stuck in that intimate fog, that infuriating mix of humiliation and desire that only Ethan seemed able to conjure. But then she looked up.
The house was large, elegant, its old-world charm glowing beneath warm exterior lights. Ivy crawled up the brick walls like veins, and tall windows shimmered with a soft amber glow. It was the kind of place that whispered wealth and legacy.
And Vanessa felt absurdly underdressed.
Her skirt clung to her thighs in all the wrong ways. Her top—well, his sweatshirt—hung loosely over her curves, a branded reminder of how exposed she'd been all evening. The heat from earlier still lingered in her skin, tucked between her legs like a secret that refused to go cold.
Ethan had already stepped out, stretching his arms like a man who hadn't just unraveled her with a touch and left her simmering in the aftermath. His shirt pulled tight over his shoulders as he rolled them back, and the movement stirred something in her belly that she immediately tried to smother.
Get it together.
She swallowed hard and reached for the door handle, but paused as his voice slid into the space between them.
"Vanessa."
Just her name.
She looked up. As he pulled open her door for her as if a gentleman.
He stood beside the open door, one brow raised, that devil's grin twitching at the corner of his lips. A private joke lingered in his eyes—you're still thinking about my hands, aren't you?
"Are you coming?"
She wanted to shove him. Right there. Just one hard push. But her legs moved instead.
She stepped out, the cool air wrapping around her bare skin like a slap. Her thighs tingled. The sweatshirt shifted over her hips with each step, brushing her sensitized skin, reminding her of everything she had just barely recovered from. She adjusted her skirt as they walked, every movement feeling deliberate, exposed.
And he was still watching her.
She didn't have to look to know it. She felt it—like a hand trailing up her back, unseen but searing.
The front door opened before she could get her head on straight.
"Ethan!"
A warm voice rang out, and in the doorway stood a woman with silver-streaked hair pulled into a soft chignon, her posture regal despite the cozy knit cardigan she wore. Vanessa blinked.
This was his grandmother?
Elegant. Sharp-eyed. Radiating that calm command only matriarchs seemed to possess. She pulled Ethan into a hug, wrapping arms around him with a softness that contrasted the man who had spent hours being anything but soft.
"Oma," Ethan murmured, his voice shifting—gentler, familiar. He smiled into her shoulder, and not the usual smirk. Real. Fond.
Vanessa, still near the walkway, froze for half a second too long. She watched him—this new version of Ethan—and her chest tugged with something strange and unwanted.
His grandmother pulled back, studying him, hands cradling his face. And then her gaze shifted.
Straight to Vanessa.
Sharp and knowing.
The kind of look that could read your secrets in seconds.
Vanessa instinctively smoothed her skirt again.
There was no way—no way—this woman could know what had happened in the car. Or in the bathroom. Or on the plane. And yet...
"And you must be Vanessa," she said, stepping forward. Her voice was warm, but there was a glint in her eye, something perceptive that made Vanessa's stomach twist. "So lovely to finally meet you."
Vanessa extended a hand, hoping her smile didn't look as tight as it felt. "It's lovely to meet you, too."
Her fingers were enveloped in a soft grip—gentle, but firm. There was a strength in it that didn't need to be loud.
"You must be exhausted. Long trip, yes?"
Vanessa nodded, praying her cheeks weren't visibly flushed. If you only knew how long. "Yeah. It was... fine."
From behind her, Ethan let out the faintest exhale. Not quite a laugh. Not quite innocent.
She wanted to elbow him.
His grandmother looked between the two of them, and the glimmer in her eyes shifted from polite curiosity to quiet amusement—like she could feel the current between them.
"Come in, come in," she said, stepping aside to usher them inside.
Vanessa moved forward, aware of Ethan's presence just behind her, close enough to feel the heat of his body again. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to.
Because the smug satisfaction rolled off him in waves.
Vanessa barely managed to keep her expression neutral as Ethan's grandmother led them deeper into the house, her heels echoing softly against polished wood floors. The interior was warm, inviting—rich mahogany beams stretched overhead, and golden chandeliers spilled a soft, antique light over the carefully curated decor. The scent of cinnamon, clove, and something roasted drifted through the air, wrapping the space in a kind of cozy nostalgia.
But Vanessa didn't feel cozy.
Not even a little.
Not with the way her skin still tingled under the sweatshirt. Not with the ghost of Ethan's hand still imprinted on her thigh. Not with the memory of him watching her dress in the back of that taxi—smiling—seared into the back of her mind like a brand.
She hadn't even had time to gather her thoughts before the comment landed like a grenade.
"So, you're Vanessa," Ethan's grandmother said, her tone laced with fondness and something sharper—something knowing. "We've heard so much about you."
Vanessa's steps stuttered.
Wait. What?
Her thoughts screeched to a halt as her eyes snapped to Ethan.
He was beside her, calm as ever, hands in his pockets, face unreadable save for the telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth. That damned smirk—restrained, coiled behind a mask of politeness.
He knew exactly what that comment would do to her.
"You… have?" Vanessa asked, slowly, trying to keep her voice level even as her heart spiked. Her skin prickled with sudden heat, and her fingers curled into fists at her sides.
From across the room, Ethan's grandfather chuckled, deep and warm, as he set aside a leather-bound book. He looked like an older, grayer version of Ethan—same jawline, same intensity—but without the mischievous glint. Still, his words made her stomach twist.
"Of course. Ethan's been writing to us about you for quite some time now."
She blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then turned to Ethan so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.
"You wrote to them about me?" she hissed under her breath, her voice sharp with disbelief.
Finally—finally—Ethan reacted. A slow, deliberate smirk unfurled across his face, the kind that made her want to slap him and straddle him all at once.
"Hm," he said simply, like he was thinking about it for the first time. "I suppose I did."
You suppose? Her brain nearly exploded.
She could feel her cheeks heating, flushing deep, betraying her reaction no matter how hard she tried to clamp it down.
Ethan's grandmother, meanwhile, looked positively delighted.
"Ethan doesn't usually talk about people," she added, utterly unaware—or pretending to be unaware—of the silent meltdown happening beside her. "But you? Oh, my dear, he's been very thorough."
Thorough.
The word dropped into Vanessa's chest like a pebble into water, sending ripples of embarrassment—and something else—through her.
"Thorough?" she echoed faintly, unsure if she wanted to run out of the house or throw Ethan into the nearest wall and demand specifics.
The older woman beamed at her. "Yes, dear. It's clear how important you are to him."
Vanessa's jaw worked soundlessly. She glanced at Ethan again, who now looked every bit the predator disguised as a gentleman. Polished. Controlled. Smug as sin.
"Oh," she said weakly, her voice coming out higher than she meant.
Ethan's grandfather chuckled again, the sound like a final twist of the knife. "You must be tired from the trip. Ethan, why don't you show her to the guest room?"
Vanessa barely had time to process that before Ethan's hand slipped gently to her back. The touch was maddeningly light—just enough pressure to guide her, to remind her he was there, that he was in charge.
Her breath caught. Her thighs pressed together without her permission. Her body remembered him far too well.
They moved toward the stairs, her pulse roaring in her ears, the heavy silence between them thick with tension. The moment they rounded the corner and slipped out of sight, she snapped.
"You wrote about me?" she hissed, spinning to face him as soon as they were alone. Her heartbeat pounded in her throat.
Ethan leaned lazily against the wall, as if she weren't trembling with frustration. As if her world hadn't just been upended by a few casually delivered words.
He smirked. "Mm."
Her scowl deepened. "What did you say, Ethan?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer—so close she could feel his body heat, smell the soft notes of his cologne mixed with something him. Then, slowly, he reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the pad of his thumb brushing her cheek in a way that made her legs weaken.
Vanessa's breath hitched, her mouth parting just slightly.
"That," he murmured, voice rich and low, "is for you to wonder about."
Her entire body buzzed, nerve endings singing. That voice—that voice—always hit too deep, wrapped around her spine and dragged down, down, down to places she wasn't ready to admit she needed him.
She clenched her fists, wanting to push him, slap him, kiss him. Anything to wipe that maddening smile from his lips.
"You are so—" she started, but the words caught in her throat.
Insufferable.
Infuriating.
Irresistible.
He tilted his head, eyes glittering. "And yet... here we are."
She huffed, crossing her arms, trying to shield herself from the rising tide inside her. "I don't exactly have a choice, do I? We're in Germany. With your grandparents. Who now know way too much about me."
He shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. "They should. You're important to me."
That stopped her.
Dead in her tracks.
Her heart tripped over itself, caught off guard by the sincerity—if only for a second. Important.
She hated when he said things like that. Not because it wasn't what she wanted to hear, but because he knew what it did to her. He always did. He wielded those words like a blade, carving her open with ease.
She swallowed hard, her fingers curling tighter into the fabric of the oversized sweatshirt—his sweatshirt. The one that had clung to her, hidden her, exposed her.
"You are so annoying," she mumbled, unable to look away from him.
Ethan leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear as he whispered, "And you're blushing."
Her knees nearly buckled.
She was caught.
Wrapped in him. Tangled in this web of teasing, emotion, arousal—and she wasn't sure she wanted out.
Vanessa stared at the wardrobe, her stomach twisting with a strange mix of dread and... something else.
"You have got to be kidding me, even here also"
The polished wooden doors stood slightly ajar, revealing neatly arranged clothes in her size. Skirts, blouses, dresses—nothing outright scandalous, but undeniably chosen for her. The realization sent a shiver down her spine.
Ethan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her with that insufferable tilt to his mouth. That half-smile that knew exactly what it was doing. That smirk that said I win before she'd even opened her mouth.
"What?" he said, his voice all casual sin. Like he wasn't unraveling her one string at a time.
She turned slowly, fury simmering behind narrowed eyes. "You planned this."
He didn't even blink. No denial. No apology.
Just a slow shrug and that maddening calm.
"I just like seeing you well-dressed," he said smoothly, his voice like velvet and danger. "And prepared."
Vanessa bit back the growl clawing up her throat. Her fingers dug into the oversized sweatshirt she still wore—the one thing he hadn't selected. The one barrier left between her and the fantasy he clearly intended to wrap her in. A reminder of what she had chosen.
Except even that wasn't hers.
Not really.
Her suitcase.
Her heart lurched.
She'd grabbed it at baggage claim—she remembered that clearly—but Ethan had taken over at the cab. She walked around the room in a blur, searching for her suitcase looking around with energy that had nothing to do with travel fatigue.
And then the realization hit.
The final nail in the coffin.
No jeans. No leggings. No t-shirts. No sneakers. No armor. No suitcase
Just more of the same—soft, curated things. Lace-trimmed camisoles. Silky slips. Delicate bralettes and panties in muted, tempting tones. Things she might have packed for a romantic getaway—if she had chosen this. But she hadn't.
He had.
Her breath came shallow and fast as she stood, the edges of her vision tinged with red.
"Ethan—" she said, her voice low and dangerous, shaking with fury she didn't know how to contain.
"Yes?" he replied, all amusement and calm, as if he wasn't watching the storm build in her chest.
She turned to him, fists clenched, eyes flashing. "Where is my suitcase?"
His lips curled like they'd been waiting for the accusation. "well it might still be sitting at the side of a road," he said innocently, "But you do have options" gesturing to the wardrobe behind her
Her hands trembled with the effort of holding back the scream rising in her throat.
"You—" she started, stepping forward, every inch of her body buzzing with the need to do something. To hit him. To shove him. To kiss him until he forgot every smug thought he'd ever had.
But he moved first.
He crossed the space between them in two slow, measured steps—close enough that the heat of him invaded her air, filled her lungs, settled low in her belly. His hand brushed her wrist, fingers light, teasing, electric. The contact was barely there, but her body lit up like a struck match.
"You'll look beautiful in all of them, Vanessa," he murmured his eyes on her and the wardrobe, voice dipped in honey and sin, smooth enough to slide right under her skin and lodge there.
She sucked in a breath, spine stiffening, but her knees threatened to give way. Her chest rose and fell too fast, too sharp.
His gaze flicked downward—just for a heartbeat—and when it returned to hers, it was darker, more intimate. Dangerous.
"But..." he continued, his voice now a whisper that curled against her ear like smoke, "if you'd rather stay in just that sweatshirt..." His eyes lingered at her hemline. "...I won't complain."
Her body betrayed her.
Heat surged through her in a violent, unbearable wave. She could feel her nipples hardening beneath the thin fabric, feel the weight of his eyes dragging over her like a caress. She tugged the sweatshirt down instinctively, heart thudding, lips parted.
She hated how he did this.
Hated how he turned everything into a game—how she couldn't tell where the teasing ended and the truth began. Most of all, she hated how much she wanted to let him win.
"You're insufferable," she whispered, voice raw.
Ethan chuckled low in his throat and stepped back at last, peeling himself away like he hadn't just left her trembling in the middle of the room.
"I'm in the room next to yours," he said casually, already halfway down the hall. "My grandparents are downstairs. They don't do stairs anymore, so..." His voice dipped again. "...no unexpected interruptions."
She stared at him, jaw clenched, refusing to let her expression betray the riot of emotions inside her.
"Sleep well, Vanessa."
And then he disappeared, footsteps fading, leaving only the ghost of his touch, his voice, and the maddening swirl of feelings he always left in his wake.
Vanessa stood alone in the middle of the room, hands clenched at her sides, heart still racing like it hadn't realized the danger was gone.
Sleep?
Yeah. Like that was happening tonight.
Not when her pulse was still throbbing in all the wrong places.
Not when her reflection in the wardrobe mirror looked like a woman on the verge of either snapping... or surrendering.
And definitely not while the man next door was sleeping just feet away, behind a brick wall, knowing exactly what he'd done.
Vanessa lay on her side, rigid beneath the unfamiliar weight of too-pristine sheets, staring blankly into the dark. Sleep hadn't just eluded her—it had sprinted in the opposite direction the second her head hit the pillow. Her mind wouldn't quiet, wouldn't let her rest. It spun in circles, a relentless cyclone of thoughts and impressions from the day, each one sparking off the next like a chain reaction.
Ethan's smirk.
His voice, low and knowing.
The feel of his fingers grazing her wrist.
The wardrobe full of curated clothes.
Options, he'd said, like it was generous. Like it wasn't the most infuriating power play she'd experienced.
She rolled over, groaning softly into the pillow. The scent of clean linen offered no comfort.
Not like this did.
The sweatshirt wrapped around her frame still smelled faintly of him—cedarwood and something warm, masculine, impossible to name but uniquely his. The fabric was soft against her skin, too soft, too intimate. She curled tighter beneath the covers, tugging the sleeves down until they swallowed her hands, clinging to them like a lifeline.
It should have made her feel safe.
Instead, it made her feel claimed.
Her suitcase would be at the road but Ethan wouldn't thrown away her clothes. That wasn't his style. No, he would've packed them away somewhere methodically. Neatly. Like a wolf storing the bones of his latest hunt. He'd give them back when it served him, not her. When he decided the game had gone on long enough.
And the worst part? The part that sent heat rising up her neck and made her hate herself just a little?
A traitorous part of her didn't even want them back.
Because this... this delicious, maddening sense of loss of control—it made her feel alive. Every nerve was on edge, every breath just slightly too shallow. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff, toes curling over stone, heart hammering in her chest, and knowing if she jumped—he'd catch her. Or maybe he wouldn't. And maybe that was the point.
She tossed again, the sheets twisting around her legs like vines. Her skin felt too hot, too sensitive, like it remembered his voice in the hallway. The low murmur of "Sleep well, Vanessa," curling against her spine like a hand.
God, he was infuriating.
She exhaled hard through her nose and sat up, rubbing her palms over her face. She wasn't going to sleep. Not like this. Not with the echo of his touch still ghosting over her skin. Not with the memory of the way his eyes had lingered—possessive, playful, precise.
She stood.
Bare feet met the cool wooden floor, grounding her for one breath. Two. But not enough.
The hallway was dim and quiet, painted in long shadows and the soft, distant ticking of a grandfather clock downstairs. The house was still. Asleep.
But Vanessa was wide awake.
She crossed the short distance to his door, pausing only a second before pressing her fingers to the handle.
Unlocked.
Of course it was.
The room was dimly lit by the soft, silver glow of moonlight streaming through the window. It painted Ethan in soft contrast—less predator now, more... dream.
His bed was unmade, the covers pushed halfway off his lean frame, one arm resting above his head. His white hair was tousled from sleep, falling slightly over his brow, and his expression—so often unreadable—was loose in the quiet pull of unconsciousness. Vulnerable. Human.
The silence in the room felt different than her own. It was heavier. Thicker. Charged.
Vanessa hesitated at the threshold, her hand still on the doorknob.
She could turn around. She should turn around.
But then he shifted in his sleep, a low murmur slipping from his throat, the whisper of her name so faint it barely reached her ears.
Her heart stuttered.
That was all it took.
Her body moved before her brain caught up, legs propelling her forward until she was standing beside the bedher hands moving to remove her skirt and leaving her in her underwear. Her breath caught in her chest as she lifted the covers and slowly, carefully slipped beneath them, the warmth of his body wrapping around her like a second skin.
She settled behind him, her arms sliding around his waist, the oversized sleeves of his sweatshirt brushing against his bare skin.
It was too much. His heat, his scent, the sheer closeness of him—it flooded her senses, burned through her chest, stole every coherent thought from her head. Her forehead pressed lightly to the space between his shoulder blades, her breath coming in soft, shaky exhales.
He didn't stir—not really. Just shifted slightly, instinctively, his back fitting tighter against her front, the hand at his side twitching once like it wanted to reach for her. That single movement made something in her chest crack open.
Because even like this—even asleep—he knew how to undo her.
Her throat tightened, her lips pressing into the warm skin of his shoulder for one fleeting second before she could think better of it.
Damn you, Ethan.
She should be furious. She was furious.
But here, in this moment, in the quiet darkness of his bedroom, she just... wanted. Wanted this contact. Wanted the comfort of it. Wanted him. Or maybe she'd already had him, in every way that mattered—and that was what scared her most.
~~~~~