Vanessa stood at the edge of the bed, arms locked tight across her chest, her fingers digging into her skin. Her eyes were pinned to the outfit he'd laid out like a challenge—like a claim.
A brown leather tube top. Flared black jeans. A cropped black jacket. Platform boots.
She knew exactly what this was.
Not a suggestion. A move.
Ethan's move.
Her jaw tensed. "You know, normal people ask before picking out someone else's clothes."
Her voice cut through the room like a blade, but Ethan—damn him—didn't even flinch. He stood by the dresser, fingers calmly fastening the cuffs of his black shirt, the fabric clinging to his frame like it had been tailored just for this particular kind of sin.
"Mmm," was all he gave her.
That was it. No apology. No explanation. Not even the decency of a full sentence.
Her teeth sank into the inside of her cheek. "Ethan," she said again, sharper this time, her voice cracking with frustration. Her name, in his mouth, would've come out as velvet and smoke. But when she said his, it was pure friction.
Still—nothing. Just the whisper of fabric as he rolled up his sleeves, exposing the smooth line of his forearms like he knew exactly what kind of damage he was doing.
Vanessa growled under her breath, marching to the bed and snatching the tube top up with a kind of violence that barely masked her flustered pulse. "You are insufferable."
"And yet," he murmured, still not looking at her, "you're going to wear it."
God.
She hated how calm he was. How smug. How right.
Her mouth opened to argue, but nothing came out. Because the moment she let her fingers brush over the buttery leather, she knew. Of course it was perfect. Of course it would fit like a second skin. Because Ethan didn't just pick clothes. He studied her. Watched her. Understood the slope of her curves better than anyone had a right to.
She wanted to be furious. She was furious. But not enough to stop herself from sliding the tube top over her bare skin, the cool leather a shocking contrast to the heat already building in her chest. It molded to her like it was custom made, dipping dangerously low, clinging in all the ways that made her feel half-dressed even fully clothed.
The jeans came next, hugging her hips too well. Too intimately. She didn't need a mirror to know they made her ass look criminal. And Ethan—of course he knew that too.
She threw the jacket on like armor, her eyes narrowing as she turned to face him.
"Satisfied?" she asked, planting a hand on her hip, pretending the confident pose wasn't hiding the ache building low in her belly.
Ethan finally turned.
And looked.
God, did he look.
It was slow. Purposeful. A crawl of his green gaze from the toes of her boots, up her legs, lingering obscenely at the tightness of her thighs in those jeans. His gaze dragged higher—pausing at the exposed sliver of her waist, the swell of her breasts beneath leather—before meeting her eyes.
And then he smiled.
That slow, wicked curve of his mouth that said I know exactly what I've done to you.
"Very."
Heat bloomed in her chest and shot straight down, molten and maddening. She swallowed hard, pulse thrumming behind her ribs. How the hell did he manage to light her up like this with just a single word?
She hated him.
She loved him.
She wanted to strangle him.
She wanted to straddle him.
Her thoughts were chaos, a snarl of want and fury, and somehow, that only made her skin feel tighter in the clothes he'd chosen.
Vanessa stepped forward, head tilted, voice low and simmering. "So what—do you just wake up every morning and decide to ruin my life?"
Ethan, nonchalant as ever, finished buttoning his shirt—leaving the top two open. Just enough to show the edge of his chest, the fine line of muscle leading to more things she had no business thinking about right now. "It's not my fault you look good in everything I pick."
The bastard.
Her breath hitched—barely—but his eyes caught it. Of course they did.
Vanessa clenched her jaw, the thrum between her legs pulsing to life with irritating clarity. "This is cruel."
Ethan made a noise in the back of his throat, amused and lazy. "And yet," he said, stepping just close enough that she could smell the dark spice of his cologne, "you're still standing there. Blushing."
"I'm not—"
Except she was.
She could feel it in the tips of her ears, down her neck, a flush rising beneath her skin like a secret she couldn't bury.
Vanessa let out a frustrated sound, brushing past him, her heels clicking sharply on the floor. Her stride was a little too fierce, her chin a little too high—but it was all just a flimsy cover for the heat coiling in her stomach.
"I hate you," she muttered, reaching for the door.
Behind her, Ethan laughed. Quiet, amused, infuriating. He followed at a leisurely pace, as if he had all the time in the world to watch her unravel.
"You love me," he said, voice dark silk.
"No. I don't." Her words were defiant. Raw.
His hum followed, soft and maddening. "Hmm."
That sound. That smug, knowing, impossibly hot sound.
She hated him for it.
She hated how it made her feel.
And she hated even more the wicked little thrill that slid between her thighs when she caught her reflection in the hallway mirror and realized—damn him—he was right.
Vanessa barely had time to recover from the way Ethan's gaze had stripped her bare when they stepped into the warmth of the kitchen, the scent of fresh coffee and buttery pastries offering a brief, deceptive comfort.
Then—his grandmother looked up.
One glance at Vanessa, from the tube top hugging her chest to the flare of her jeans and the unapologetic platform boots—and she laughed. Not cruelly. Not in judgment. No, this was something else. Knowing. Sharp.
"Ah—so it is Ethan who picks out your clothes?"
Vanessa froze. A slow flush crept up the back of her neck, high and hot, as if she'd been caught mid-act.
Next to her, Ethan was the picture of ease. Hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders relaxed, smugness radiating off him in lazy, masculine waves. He didn't deny it. Didn't even try.
"I—" Vanessa's mouth opened, her words stuttering on the shameful truth. "Yes."
Just one word. And it echoed louder than a confession.
That was all Ethan's grandmother needed.
"Mein Gott, Junge," she said, grinning as she pointed a spoon at him, "you really are your mother's son, aren't you?"
Ethan arched a brow, pretending interest. "How so?"
"Because your father never got to pick his own clothes either. Every event, every dinner, every trip—your mother controlled his entire wardrobe. And now—" her eyes slid to Vanessa, glittering with mischief, "you've inherited the same fate."
Vanessa blinked. "I wouldn't say—"
"Oh, hush, dear." The old woman waved her off, far too delighted by what she saw. "You think I don't notice? He picks what makes you look your best, yes?"
The silence that followed was damning. Vanessa felt it in her chest, her throat, the tight clench of her thighs.
Because yes.
Ethan didn't dress her like someone trying to help her blend in. He dressed her like a weapon. Like he wanted people to look. And she wore it—not just because she liked how it made her feel, but because a dark, reckless part of her liked knowing she was his walking temptation.
"And you wear it," his grandmother said, voice softer now, like a woman speaking from experience, "because deep down, you like it."
Vanessa's mouth went dry. Her arms crossed, like she could physically hold her composure together. She hated how seen she felt. Exposed not just in her skin, but in her desire.
Across the room, Ethan still hadn't said a word. But his green eyes gleamed—low, dangerous, amused. His lips curved just enough to make her want to slap him. Or kiss him. Or both.
"It's not that simple," she muttered.
His grandmother's brow lifted. "No? So you hate the way you look in that outfit, hmm?"
The truth was that the leather hugged her like a lover's grip. The jeans made her legs look endless. The boots gave her height, confidence, edge. She looked like she belonged on the back of a motorcycle, or under dim lights, or straddling someone's lap with intent.
Her intent.
"I—" she faltered.
"Thought so." His grandmother winked, wicked and warm.
Ethan chuckled then—low and intimate, like it was meant for Vanessa's ears alone. And she had the strongest urge to smack the satisfaction off his face. Or maybe just grab a fistful of his shirt and ruin the smugness with her mouth.
His grandmother turned on him now, shaking her head. "And you—didn't even try to hide it, did you?"
Ethan straightened from the counter with that effortless grace that always made her legs feel unsteady. "Hide what?"
"That you enjoy dressing her up like a doll."
Vanessa's breath caught. Not because it wasn't true—but because she could see it now. All the little smiles he gave her when she walked out of the bedroom wearing something he'd picked. The slow way his eyes moved over her. How he always lingered longest on her mouth, her hips, the places he liked to leave red.
He didn't just enjoy dressing her.
He worshipped her.
Ethan only shrugged. "It's not my fault she looks good in everything."
Vanessa scowled, but it was paper-thin. Heat was curling between her legs, slowly, steadily, and it was all she could do to keep from squirming in place.
"You see?" his grandmother laughed. "Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless."
"You're not helping," Vanessa muttered.
"Oh, sweetheart," the old woman said with a grin, "I'm not trying to."
She groaned, turning away—but Ethan's gaze was already on her again. Tilted head. Heavy-lidded. That lazy heat that always started slow and ended with her pinned beneath him, gasping, undone.
"Are we done," he said, voice low, dark, "or would you like to further analyze my fashion choices?"
She shot him a glare, sharp and flushed. He took it like a compliment.
But before she could bite back, his grandmother sighed, waving them off.
"Go, before I start telling her all the embarrassing things you did as a child."
Ethan's attention snapped to her, the way it did when he felt power slipping from his grip. "You wouldn't."
"Try me."
Vanessa lit up. "Oh, I'd love to hear—"
Ethan grabbed her wrist, his grip firm. Her breath hitched—God, why did that feel good?
"We're leaving."
Vanessa grinned, letting him pull her. "So soon?"
"Vanessa."
"But I really wanted to have breakfa—"
"Vanessa."
The warning was subtle but clear. It throbbed with promise. She let herself be tugged toward the door, and the way his fingers laced with hers sent a thrill shooting down her spine.
Behind them, his grandmother called, laughter ringing like a bell. "Try not to let him dress you like a scandal, dear!"
Vanessa glanced back, shooting her a mock glare. But it landed somewhere else—because Ethan turned to look at her then, just over his shoulder, with that smirk.
The one that said he wanted her to look like a scandal.
She slid into the car, hands slightly shaking, breath shallow. That damn outfit creaked with every move—a soft stretch of leather over hot skin. Her mind replayed the word again and again:
Scandal.
Her fingers tightened around the seatbelt. Because the truth wasn't that he dressed her like one.
The truth?
He'd already turned her into one.
And of course, the memory hit her when she least expected it.
Two days ago.
Wrapped in nothing but his sweatshirt—oversized, soft, and drowned in his scent—Vanessa had walked through a plane and airport full of people with her head held high, pretending every inch of her wasn't tingling from the truth that lay beneath.
Because under that comforting cotton armor?
She'd been bare.
No bra. No panties. Just his hoodie. His claim. His dare.
And Ethan had known. The bastard had known the entire time. His eyes had followed her with that unreadable calm, watching her squirm while he said things like—
"You look cute like this."
Cute. As if she hadn't been one wrong move from flashing a room full of strangers. As if she hadn't been wet from the tension of it all, thighs pressed tight together every time she passed someone.
Her face burned now just remembering it.
Vanessa forced herself to breathe, dragging her mind—kicking and screaming—back to the present. She was fully dressed. Covered. Composed. A real outfit. No tricks. No teasing.
Not at his mercy.
And then his hand landed on her thigh.
It was casual. So maddeningly light, it could have been mistaken for an unconscious shift—but Vanessa knew better.
Because the heat from that single point of contact seared through her.
She went still, lungs tight, blood rushing in her ears.
That was not casual.
That was a move.
Her gaze snapped to Ethan, but the man didn't even look at her. Eyes forward. One hand on the wheel, the other resting like sin against her bare skin where her jeans ended and the gap beneath her jacket revealed just enough to tempt fate.
"Where do you want to go today?" he asked, smooth and unaffected, like he hadn't just set fire to her with his fingertips.
Oh, he was so doing this on purpose.
Vanessa clenched her jaw, willing her body not to react. Not to lean in. Not to part her legs ever so slightly, like her instincts demanded.
She fought for composure. "I—"
But then—God damn him—his fingers moved.
Just a graze. The barest slide. Skin on skin. There, then gone.
A phantom touch.
A promise.
Her body betrayed her instantly. Her thighs tensed. Her breath hitched. And from the driver's seat came a low, satisfied hum.
That sound.
It wasn't smug—it was possessive.
He knew.
Vanessa exhaled, shaky. Fine. If he wanted to play it like that—then so be it.
"Anywhere," she said, tilting her head slightly, letting the silk in her voice drip slow and dark. "As long as it's fun."
Ethan's eyes flicked to her. That subtle shift in his jaw. That glint in his gaze. He felt it too—the line they were toeing.
One look passed between them.
Heavy.
Loaded.
And then his lips curved. That smile. The one that started small, like a warning, before it turned into something wicked.
"Oh, don't worry," he murmured, shifting gears, voice velvet and sex, "I'll make sure of that."
Vanessa swallowed. Hard.
There was no escape from this. Not from the memory of his hoodie brushing her bare nipples beneath it. Not from the way her body still remembered the pressure of his palm against her inner thigh—this thigh. Not from the scent of his skin that still clung to her from their last night together.
Ethan didn't just haunt her. He saturated her.
And right now, she was drowning.
She crossed her arms, leaning back in the seat, trying to retreat from the wildfire spreading inside her. The outside world flew past the window, a blur of buildings and sky and color.
None of it helped.
Especially not when she looked down and saw his hand again—casually resting, so close to where she throbbed, where she ached, where she needed.
"I swear to God, Ethan, if you touch me again—"
He touched her again.
Knuckles. A light drag.
A whisper of pressure.
Her breath caught, body trembling with the effort not to whimper. She was not going to give him the satisfaction. Not this time.
But Ethan?
He didn't even look at her. Just the faintest twitch of his lips—that smile—betrayed him.
She hated him.
She loved him.
She wanted to climb into his lap and make him pay.
Vanessa's body was humming now, skin electric, thighs pressing tighter together in desperate, silent denial. She could feel the ache blooming low in her stomach, pooling between her legs like a secret she couldn't keep much longer.
She turned to him sharply. "Ethan."
Her voice was warning. Or it should have been.
But it came out breathless.
"Hmm?" he asked, eyes still fixed on the road, maddeningly calm.
"You know what you're doing."
He turned to look at her then.
Green eyes. Calm. Innocent.
Too innocent.
"Do I?"
She wanted to punch him. Or scream. Or crawl across the console and sink her teeth into that smug little smirk playing on his lips.
Instead, she twisted in her seat and glared, letting her fury hold back the flood of lust threatening to consume her. "Keep your hands to yourself."
Ethan paused.
Then—smiling, unhurried—he leaned just a hair closer, voice a whisper, low and lethal.
"Make me."
Vanessa's heart stopped. Then stuttered. Then launched into a sprint.
Her mouth opened, then closed.
No words. Just heat.
She clenched her fists, trying to ground herself, but everything in her felt like it was slipping. He did this to her—this unraveling. This deliberate slow-burn torture.
And the worst part?
She wanted it.
Her thighs were slick now, her breathing uneven, and Ethan—he didn't even need to look at her to know he had her cornered. This wasn't a tease anymore. This was a hunt.
And she was already caught.
The silence that followed was thick with implication. Tense. Ticking.
She could feel it—whatever came next—it would be the breaking point.
But Ethan?
He just smiled, slow and sure.
And drove.
Vanessa sat in silence, the low hum of the engine the only sound between them, but her pulse was a riot beneath her skin. She took a slow, measured breath, forcing herself to look out the window. Not at him. Not at his hand. Not at the places on her body still tingling from where he'd touched her. Not at the ache that was blooming steadily, insistently, between her thighs.
Fine.
If he wanted to play games, then so could she.
Without a word, she shifted in her seat. Slowly. Casually. Just enough to close the small gap between them so that her thigh brushed deliberately against the back of his hand. Warm skin to warm skin.
She didn't even glance his way.
Instead, she turned back to the window, feigning nonchalance—like she hadn't just started her own silent war. But in her periphery, she felt it. The pause. The faint catch of breath. The tension that crawled between them like static before a storm.
The next thirty minutes were hell.
Delicious, maddening, wet-between-the-legs hell.
Ethan didn't speak. He didn't look at her. He didn't react—not overtly. But his hand… his hand moved.
Not constantly. Not predictably.
That was the worst part.
Sometimes he'd stroke slow, lazy circles on the inside of her thigh, fingers whispering across the denim as though her jeans weren't even there. Other times, he'd barely graze her skin, a soft, absentminded feathering that sent full-body shivers spiraling up her spine. A few times, he stopped completely—just letting his palm rest there, firm and hot, the weight of it anchoring her like a brand.
And every time she shifted to pull away—every time she tried to disrupt his rhythm—he read it as encouragement.
Each movement was a taunt.
Each silence, a dare.
By the time they pulled into the parking lot, Vanessa was wound so tight she could have screamed. Her clit throbbed against the seam of her panties. Her thighs were pressed together so hard her muscles ached. And her pride—her stupid pride—was the only thing keeping her from climbing across the console and mounting him right there in the driver's seat.
She all but flung the door open.
Cool air hit her face like a slap, and she sucked in a breath, desperate for anything to bring her body back under control. But nothing helped. Not the breeze. Not the open space. Not even the distance between them as Ethan stepped out of the car with his usual effortless calm.
She wanted to strangle him.
Or ride him.
Possibly both.
He stretched his arms overhead, a casual motion that made his black button-up pull tight across his chest and lift just enough to reveal a tantalizing strip of toned stomach. His abs flexed beneath the fabric, and her eyes locked on the trail of skin like it owed her something.
Her jaw clenched.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
The stretch. The shirt. The muscles. The timing.
And the way his green eyes flicked toward her, glinting with quiet satisfaction—that smug, simmering amusement dancing just at the edge of his expression—it was confirmation. He wasn't just aware.
He was gloating.
"You are evil," she ground out, voice low and flat with heat.
Ethan tilted his head, all feigned innocence. "Hmm?"
Her eye twitched.
"You know exactly what you did," she hissed, storming closer, her chest nearly brushing his as she rose onto her toes and glared into those too-green eyes.
He hummed thoughtfully, like he needed to search his memory. "The drive?" he echoed, tapping his chin. "I was just… driving."
Then his gaze swept down her body—slow, indulgent, borderline obscene. When his eyes met hers again, they were darker, sharper.
"Maybe you were just…" he said, voice dipping low, "overthinking things."
That was it.
She nearly slapped him.
Instead, she inhaled through her nose, forcing the tremor in her hands to still, forcing her knees not to give out from under her.
Then, slowly—deliberately—she leaned up. Lips parted, she let her breath ghost against his jaw, close enough that her mouth just barely brushed skin.
A whisper of contact.
The promise of a kiss without the satisfaction of one.
She felt it. The way his body stiffened. The way his pulse jumped beneath her lips.
She smiled against his skin.
"You're going to regret that," she whispered. Every syllable dripping with a promise she had every intention of keeping.
Then she pulled back and turned on her heel—not running, but walking with precision. Each step a slow, rolling challenge. Her hips swayed, fluid and practiced, because if he was going to tease her for thirty agonizing minutes, she was going to burn the image of her ass into his brain for the rest of the day.
Vanessa didn't look back.
She didn't have to.
She could feel his eyes on her—hot, focused, hungry.
But behind the smug satisfaction, behind the slow, delicious burn of revenge pulsing in her veins… was a problem.
A small, stupid, completely humiliating problem.
She had no idea where she was going.
The park was sprawling. Beautiful, yes—but chaotic. Curving trails. Winding paths. German signage she could barely interpret. Cafés tucked away in corners. Little Markets popped up under the shaded trees like something out of a watercolor painting—quaint stalls with linen tops, soft chatter drifting on the breeze, and the faint scent of bread, roses, and spice in the air. It should've been charming.
But Vanessa was too far gone to appreciate it.
She hadn't thought this through. At all.
She'd walked off in a blaze of confidence, hips swaying like a metronome of vengeance, riding the high of her own frustration. But now, standing in the middle of a foreign park with no idea where she was headed, that confidence had started to fray at the edges.
All because her brain had short-circuited somewhere back in the car—specifically around the moment Ethan's fingers had grazed the inside of her thigh like they belonged there.
Now her panties were soaked through. Her heartbeat wouldn't calm down. Her whole body still hummed with the lingering echoes of his touch, like he'd left static electricity under her skin.
Her strut faltered.
She stole a glance over her shoulder—quick, casual, like she wasn't silently screaming for him to follow.
He hadn't moved.
Still leaning against the car like some goddamn work of art, arms folded across his chest, ankles crossed, green eyes locked on her like she was his personal strip show. No shame. No subtlety.
And his gaze?
Firmly fixed on her ass.
Vanessa flushed, but it wasn't embarrassment that made the heat rise up her neck.
It was want.
Sharp, inconvenient, aching want.
The kind that made her fingers twitch, her thighs press tighter, her entire body coil with frustrated need. The kind that made her imagine dragging him into one of those flower-draped corners, backing him against a tree, and doing something reckless.
She almost sent him a wink. Almost let her hand drift slowly, teasingly down the front of her body just to see if his cool composure would crack.
But she didn't.
Barely.
The market spilled out beneath the shade of the trees—colorful stalls, lace-trimmed canopies, the scent of fresh bread mingling with roses and roasted nuts. People wandered in lazy clusters, laughter trailing like a breeze, but Vanessa barely registered any of it. Her dramatic, purposeful exit had led her straight into the middle of the park without a plan—no destination, no direction, just a cloud of hot, blistering frustration and a body soaked with need.
She clenched her fists, resisting the sudden urge to reach down and press her palm between her legs—just for some pressure, some relief. Instead, she imagined turning on her heel, marching back, grabbing him by the collar, and dragging him into the nearest alley or dense patch of trees. Pressing him against the wall. Tasting him. Riding him until he begged.
She almost did.
Almost threw him a wink. Almost ran a hand down the line of her body just to feel him twitch from across the distance.
But she didn't.
Barely.
She pivoted, jaw tight, and stalked back toward him. Her pride battered but intact. Each step deliberate, loaded with fury and restraint. When she stopped in front of him, she crossed her arms—chin tilted high like she wasn't seconds from combusting.
"Where are we going?" she asked, cool and clipped.
Ethan didn't answer.
Not at first.
He let his gaze trail slowly up her body—starting at her thighs, her waist, her chest—lingering—and finally meeting her eyes. And God, that look—amused, smug, knowing—like he could read every dirty thought she was trying to hide.
"Oh?" he drawled, voice low, teasing. "Done showing off?"
She could have slapped him.
Or kissed him. Hard.
"I wasn't—" she started, but the words died when he took a step forward, the heat of him curling around her like smoke.
"You sure?" he murmured, his mouth far too close to her ear.
His breath kissed her skin.
And her entire body reacted.
Her thighs pressed together. Her nipples tightened beneath her shirt. Her pulse became a living thing, thumping in her throat, between her legs, everywhere.
Because no—she wasn't sure of anything.
Not when he looked at her like that.
Not when she could still feel the echo of his fingers ghosting over her thigh in the car. Not when the memory of his palm on her skin made her hips twitch with want.
She needed to pull herself together.
"Where. Are. We. Going?" she asked again, voice sharp through gritted teeth, because if she didn't focus, she was going to fall apart right in front of him.
Ethan chuckled. Soft. Deep. Infuriatingly calm.
"The rose garden," he said finally, nodding toward a shaded path. "Thought you might like it."
A rose garden.
That actually sounded… beautiful.
But she wasn't about to admit that. Not when he still looked like he was winning.
She rolled her eyes with more attitude than effect. "You could've just said that instead of standing there like a creep."
Ethan smirked. "Could've. But watching you pretend you had any idea where you were going was much more fun."
Her hand twitched.
She was this close to punching him.
Instead, she grabbed his arm—not gently—and started walking in the direction he'd pointed, her grip tight enough to mean something.
He laughed under his breath. The sound slipped under her skin, down her spine, into the ache between her legs like a promise she wasn't ready for.
The garden was quiet. Roses bloomed in every color, vines curling up trellises like lovers clinging to each other. Butterflies fluttered. A fountain trickled somewhere nearby. It was perfect.
Peaceful.
And entirely wasted on her right now.
Because Ethan's hand… was moving.
It had started innocently enough—a light touch against the small of her back. Polite. Gentlemanly. Barely worth noticing.
Except it didn't stay there.
His fingers drifted.
Lower.
Slower.
Each movement deliberate.
He wasn't grabbing her. Wasn't being obvious. Just—hovering—pressing the edge of sensation, dragging it along the curve of her hip, brushing the dip just above her ass.
Vanessa's breath caught.
She tried to focus on the roses. On the light. On the stupid, stupid butterflies.
"I still can't believe I'm actually here," she said, her voice thin. She leaned against him, more to steady herself than anything else.
"Mm," Ethan hummed, lazy and distracted.
His thumb dipped lower, brushing just above the waistband of her jeans. The heat of his touch radiated into her skin like he'd branded her there. A low pulse flared deep in her belly.
She swallowed.
"I mean… I never really thought about traveling," she tried again, fighting for composure. "But now that I'm here, I think I kinda—"
"Hmm."
That was all he gave her.
A non-answer.
Because he wasn't listening.
Not to her words.
He was listening to her breath. To the sharp inhale. The quiet gasp. The tiny tremor that slipped into her voice when his fingers curved in again, pressing against her hip.
She stopped walking.
Lifted her head. Narrowed her eyes.
"Are you even listening to me?"
Ethan looked down, all innocence and smirking arrogance. "Every word."
Liar.
She opened her mouth to say so—to call him out—but before she could, his fingers curled. Just a little.
Right at the waistband.
Her breath hitched.
Loud enough for him to hear.
And his smirk deepened. Shifted. Turned darker.
"Something wrong?" he asked, voice low and thick and completely unfair.
Her hand twitched again—this time not with anger, but with want.
So she stepped in. Closed the space. Slid her arm around his waist and let her hand drift—slowly, deliberately—to the hem of his shirt. Her fingers slipped underneath, nails grazing bare skin. Hard, warm muscle beneath soft fabric. She felt him suck in a quiet breath.
Then she looked up, matching his grin with one of her own.
"Something wrong?" she echoed sweetly.
Ethan's jaw flexed.
His eyes darkened.
And her world tilted
~~~