For one electric moment, Vanessa held all the power. Her fingers teased the hem of Ethan's shirt, her smirk bold, a silent dare written across her flushed lips. She could feel his restraint cracking beneath her touch—the hard tension coiling in his abdomen, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly as her nails skimmed over skin. She reveled in it. That brief, precious second when she knew he wanted her desperately and she had the reins.
And then, in the span of a heartbeat, the world tilted.
With no warning, Ethan swept her into his arms—effortless, decisive—like she weighed nothing. Her breath caught, lungs tightening with shock as her body collided against his. His mouth was on hers before she could form a thought—hot, demanding, possessive. No finesse. Just claiming.
Vanessa gasped against him, the sound swallowed by his kiss as her fingers clutched his shirt in a frantic fistful. Her mind lagged behind the sudden shift in power. Her hips shifted instinctively, pressing into the hard ridge of his arousal as he walked, unhurried and utterly in control, deeper into the shadows of the hedge-lined path.
"Ethan—" she started, her voice breathy and uncertain.
His lips hovered near her ear, a devil's whisper.
"Should've chosen the skirt…" His breath was hot, every word soaked in intent. "Would've been easier by now."
A flush exploded beneath her skin.
The cool morning air did nothing to cool the heat licking up her spine. Her nipples tightened beneath her top. Her thighs pressed together in helpless anticipation. She turned her face to glare at him, but the effect was ruined—the blood thundering through her veins, the breathlessness in her chest, the soft tremble in her hands clinging to his shoulders.
"You—!" she tried, but the accusation died in her throat when she caught the look in his eyes.
That smirk. That goddamn smirk. Confident. Dangerous. Bordering on cruel.
His hands shifted, strong and deliberate, adjusting her against him with ease—and far too much familiarity. His fingers skimmed the curve of her ass, anchoring her to his chest. There was no hiding what he wanted. The thick line of his cock was pressed between her thighs now, throbbing through his jeans, unapologetic and eager.
She sucked in a shaky breath.
The garden was still. Empty.
Birdsong drifted in the distance. Leaves rustled overhead. But here, between the dense hedges, they were invisible. Hidden. Alone.
And he knew it.
She knew it too—and the awareness hit her with a jolt of reckless adrenaline.
Her pulse was a wild thing now. Her body a livewire. Every inch of her skin ached with hypersensitivity, acutely aware of where his fingers trailed—the firm glide over her waist, the subtle grip at her thigh, the impossible restraint in his touch. He wasn't rushing. He was savoring. Teasing.
"You planned this, didn't you?" she whispered, half a challenge, half a breathless accusation. Her fingers curled tighter into his shirt, needing something to hold on to.
Ethan's eyes glinted—dark, feral, knowing. "I don't plan," he murmured, leaning close. "I adapt."
Goddamn him.
Her breath hitched.
The way he said it—low and slow, like every word was a promise, a threat, an invitation—sent a pulse of arousal straight to her core. He was still holding her, pressing her back against the dense greenery, letting her feel the weight of his body without fully pinning her. Yet.
She should push him away.
She wanted to tell him off. To be angry.
Instead, she tilted her chin up and whispered, "Then what's stopping you?"
There it was—the invitation.
He stilled.
One beat.
Two.
Vanessa didn't have time to gasp.
His mouth was on her neck, dragging heat and wet over the soft column of her throat. His tongue traced along her pulse point, slow and maddening. Her knees buckled slightly, but he held her easily, one hand sliding beneath her top with practiced ease. Calloused fingers grazed over her bare stomach, up to the edge of her top, dragging a whimper from her lips.
"Vanessa," he murmured, voice rough now, frayed with restraint.
Her name felt like a command.
Then—cool air.
Fabric shifted.
And she realized her top had been pushed up. Her nipple hardened instantly in the breeze, peaked and vulnerable.
Her heart stuttered.
"Oh God…"
She was exposed. Out here. Outside. Behind nothing more than a wall of leaves.
Her breath came fast, sharp. She glanced around—no one. But the danger thrummed. The risk only made the fire burn hotter.
She bit back a moan as his hand closed over her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple with agonizing slowness.
And then—his hand clamped gently but firmly over her mouth.
"Shh…"
The sound was velvet-drenched steel.
Her eyes fluttered closed. Every nerve in her body went taut, coiled tight under his palm and the pressure of his hips grinding into her. His cock pressed against her jeans, hard and heavy and right there. Her thighs clenched, her body desperate and slick.
One hand gripped the hedge behind her, the other clung to his wrist, nails digging into his skin as if to anchor herself.
And then—
Her jeans shifted. Undone. Peeled just enough.
And he was there. His fingers found her soaked panties. Paused. Savored.
"You're dripping," he whispered.
She whimpered against his hand.
Then he moved her underwear aside, and in one slow, devastating push, he slid inside her. Her body clenched around him, greedy and desperate. The stretch made her gasp—muffled still by his palm—but her body arched, welcomed him, needed him.
Each thrust was slow. Deep. Purposeful.
He held her in place, utterly controlled, his hips rolling into her with cruel precision. Her mind fractured. Nothing existed beyond this moment—the pressure, the pulsing need, the unbearable pace.
The risk made everything sharper. Each tiny noise outside their bubble made her clench harder. Made him thrust deeper.
He was enjoying this. Drawing it out. Holding her on the edge until her legs trembled and her walls fluttered around him in tight, frantic spasms.
And when he finally let go—when he buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside her with a groan against her neck—she came undone.
Her orgasm tore through her like fire, leaving her wrecked, breathless, shaking.
They stood there for a moment, both panting, hearts slamming against each other's ribs.
Then Ethan's hands moved—gentle now—fixing her clothes, smoothing her jacket.
"You liked that," he murmured against her ear, that damn smirk audible in his voice.
"Shut up," she muttered, cheeks burning.
He leaned in, lips brushing hers in the ghost of a kiss.
"Next time," he whispered, "I won't be so gentle."
A full-body shiver stole through her.
They stepped from behind the hedge, side by side, as if nothing had happened.
As if she wasn't still trembling from everything they didn't say.
Heat still lingered—coiling low in Vanessa's belly like a slow, decadent burn. A phantom pulse, echoing each place Ethan had touched. Claimed. Her skin felt hypersensitized, a taut wire stretched too tight, humming with aftershocks. Every nerve was alive, strung out on the razor-thin edge between pleasure and collapse.
The park around them hadn't changed—but she had.
What was once charming, serene, and forgettable now felt thick with tension. The air wasn't just cool anymore—it was biting. It licked at the damp spot between her thighs, whispered over her exposed collarbone like a taunt. Mocking, almost. As if nature itself had become complicit in her unraveling.
The rustling leaves, the birdsong, the gravel crunching softly beneath their steps—it was all too quiet. Every accidental brush of Ethan's arm against hers landed like a lightning strike, her breath catching, her body coiling tighter.
She didn't speak. She couldn't.
Words would've cracked open the fragile hold she still had on her composure. She was trembling inside, pulsing with the raw ache of being used, filled, taken—and loving it more than she dared admit.
It terrified her.
But not the kind of fear that told her to run.
No, this fear dared her to stay.
To want more.
To fall further.
Vanessa risked a glance upward.
He was walking beside her like nothing had happened. Calm. Quiet. That same smug stillness in his shoulders, that maddening calm in his jaw. Like he wasn't the reason she was struggling to walk straight. Like he hadn't just bent her over in broad daylight and ruined her with a pace so slow and precise it made her sob into his hand.
Smug, unbothered bastard.
And yet… every now and then, she'd feel it.
His fingers.
Trailing the inside of her wrist.
Light. Teasing. Barely there.
But oh, God—he knew. That simple brush was a message. A reminder.
She wanted to scream. Or kiss him. Or drag him behind another hedge and dare him to do it again—harder, rougher, until her legs couldn't hold her up.
They wandered further through the park, her steps slower than his, pulse still slamming against her ribs. She needed time—to breathe, to think, to remember how to function without aching between her thighs. But Ethan? He was completely at ease. Relaxed, as if he hadn't just wrecked her in the most scandalous way imaginable.
And then—he stopped.
Vanessa blinked, her mind scrambling to catch up. She turned to look at him just as he walked toward a nearby vendor. Fast, smooth, like he'd spotted something important. Money changed hands. A soft rustle.
And then—
Roses.
Deep red. Lush. Gorgeous.
Thrust unceremoniously into her hands.
She stared.
He didn't even look at her when he passed them over. No flourish. No dramatic gesture. Just—here. Like they were a snack. Like it was nothing.
"Really?" she deadpanned, tightening her grip around the stems. Her voice was thin, cracked, still hoarse from the gasps he'd stolen from her throat.
Ethan's mouth quirked.
A twitch. Barely a smile. Just enough to make her fists clench.
"What?" he asked innocently. "You don't like roses?"
Her jaw locked. Her heart stuttered.
The nerve.
The same man who'd just made her grind against the bark of a damn hedge now had the audacity to gift her roses like he was a gentleman?
"You're ridiculous," she muttered, shaking her head.
"And yet…" His voice dipped low. Intimate. His palm slid to the small of her back—firm, warm, possessive. "You're still holding them."
Her fingers flexed involuntarily around the bouquet.
She didn't know what the hell was wrong with her.
She didn't resist when he guided her toward the car, his hand never leaving her lower back, thumb brushing in slow, hypnotic arcs. It was a silent command: I'm not done with you yet.
The hum of the engine was nothing compared to the noise inside her own body.
Her thighs pressed together the moment she sat down. Too late. The friction only made it worse. Her panties were still damp—sticky with proof of how deeply he'd taken her and how badly she still wanted more. She shifted, squirming against the leather seat, hyper-aware of every movement, every ripple of pleasure-turned-torment sparking across her skin.
Beside her, Ethan drove with maddening ease.
One hand on the wheel.
The other?
Resting on the center console, close enough for his fingers to occasionally—casually—brush against her thigh.
So faint. So maddeningly innocent.
Except it wasn't innocent at all.
He knew what he was doing.
He could probably smell her from where he sat. Feel the heat radiating off her. Her body still throbbed around nothing, clenching on emptiness, aching for more of him.
She risked a glance.
His shirt clung to him in all the right places—black cotton molded over muscle, the collar slightly askew from when she'd tugged on it earlier. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, exposing the veins along his forearms, his fingers relaxed over the gearshift.
He looked like sin in daylight.
And it wasn't fair.
She bit her lip, tearing her gaze away to stare out the window. If she kept looking, she'd throw herself at him again—right there in the car. Straddle him, unzip him, ride him until they fogged up every window in a ten-mile radius.
Her fingers clenched tighter around the bouquet in her lap.
Then—
Buzz
The sudden buzz of Ethan's phone cut through the quiet hum of the car, sharp as a blade. Vanessa jumped slightly at the sound, her skin still prickling with the phantom trace of his fingers on her thigh. She didn't miss the way he moved—calm, controlled, effortless—as he pulled the phone from his pocket and lifted it to his ear.
"Hello?"
His voice was low, clipped. But then—
A pause.
A twitch at the corner of his lips.
"Oma."
She let herself relax into the seat, her gaze drifting to the window, but something about Ethan's posture shifted. Not drastically. Just enough to catch her attention. A subtle straightening. An edge that hadn't been there a second ago.
"He's there?"
Vanessa's eyes flicked toward him. Ethan's tone was still composed, but there was something in it now—a quiet curiosity, maybe even… anticipation?
Another pause. A low hum of acknowledgment. Then:
"Alright. We'll be there soon."
Click.
He tucked the phone back into his pocket with that same unhurried grace, as if the call hadn't disturbed a single ripple in the air.
"Who was that?" she asked, keeping her voice light, casual. But she already had an idea.
Ethan glanced at her, his eyes unreadable. "My uncle."
That made her blink.
"Your uncle?" she repeated, surprised.
"Mhm." He turned the car onto a side road, the sun slipping in and out between the trees above. "My mother's brother. He's at Oma's place. Wants to meet us."
Us. Not me, Vanessa noted. A small, strange detail that sent a flicker of warmth through her chest before she could swat it away.
She furrowed her brow. "Every time you talk about your relatives, it's usually followed by some brooding silence."
That earned her a smirk.
"True," he admitted, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. "But my uncle's different. I don't mind him."
That alone was shocking. Vanessa gave him a sidelong glance, trying to gauge how rare that admission actually was.
"What's he like?"
"You'll see soon enough," Ethan said, in that maddening, evasive tone that made her want to shake answers out of him.
And just like that, he shut her out.
Fine.
She crossed her arms, leaning back in her seat, still trying to shake the burn of his earlier touches and now—this strange, unpredictable shift in their day. Her nerves buzzed. She was too aware of him again. Every brush of his sleeve, every exhale from his lungs, was a physical weight pressing against her skin.
It didn't help that her thighs were still pressed tight together, her body aching from earlier and still no closer to settling.
When they pulled into the driveway, her stomach twisted—not in dread, but in anticipation. Whatever this was, it was about to get interesting.
The door opened before they reached it.
And there he was.
Vanessa almost stumbled.
Holy—
For a split second, her brain stopped functioning.
The man leaning against the window looked like a slightly alternate universe Ethan—an Ethan with softer edges, a bulkier frame, a looser smirk. Tousled brown hair, long enough to curl slightly at the ends. Blue eyes that cut straight through her, assessing and amused.
He didn't say a word at first. Just watched.
Then—that smirk.
The exact same one Ethan wore when he was inside her mind,and he knew it.
"So," the man said, voice smooth as silk and sin, "this is Vanessa."
His tone was teasing, knowing.
Vanessa blinked, lips parting, but nothing came out.
"We've heard a lot about you," he added, his eyes raking over her in a slow, deliberate sweep that sent heat crawling up her neck.
Ethan sighed beside her, the sound already resigned.
And then it came.
"And when's the wedding? Seeing as you already wear clothes of his choosing."
The words landed like a slap and a caress at the same time.
Vanessa's entire body flushed.
She turned, wide-eyed, to Ethan.
That smug bastard was smirking.
"Uncle," Ethan drawled, voice dry.
But he didn't deny it.
Vanessa's brain stuttered, her voice pitching up in sheer defensive panic. "I—I wear my own clothes!"
Ethan's uncle—of course he didn't back off. He raised an eyebrow, amused. "Is that so?" he mused, tapping a finger against his chin. "Tell me, Vanessa… how many outfits have you worn on this trip that weren't chosen by dear Ethan?"
Her blood ran cold.
She scrolled through the memory—frantically.
The airport. Dinner. The park. Even the underwear.
Oh God.
Not. A. Single. One.
Her face must have given her away because his uncle burst out laughing.
"That's what I thought."
She whirled toward Ethan, hands on her hips, seething. "You—!"
But Ethan just placed a hand on her lower back, firm and steady, his fingers pressing just enough to remind her exactly where she stood.
"Come on, Vanessa," he murmured, voice laced with dark amusement. "Let's not keep my uncle waiting."
The touch. The tone.
It wasn't just a guide—it was a warning.
Behave.
Or don't.
Either way, he was in control.
His uncle whistled low. "Oh, she's trouble, huh? This is adorable."
Vanessa's head was spinning. Ethan was practically vibrating with satisfaction, his hand dangerously low on her back as they stepped outside into the garden where Oma had set up a sprawling lunch on the patio.
The sun was soft overhead, dappling through leaves and scattering gold across the table. But all Vanessa could think about was how close Ethan's hand was to the curve of her ass.
"Still mad?" Ethan whispered, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear as they stepped out onto the terrace.
Vanessa stiffened.
"Mad?" she hissed. "Mad doesn't even begin to cover it, Ethan."
That damn smirk of his was back in full force.
"Hm." His fingers ghosted lower—just a breath away from inappropriate. "Should I make it up to you?"
The question was innocent in wording. But the way he said it—low, deep, rich with promise—made her knees lock and her throat go dry.
Make it up to her?
She knew exactly how he meant.
She imagined it instantly—his mouth on her again, slower this time. His hands pushing her knees apart while he knelt between them, murmuring soft apologies as he kissed his way into her core. He'd tease her for how quickly she came. He always did.
"Make it up to me?" she echoed, arms crossed to anchor herself. "Maybe start by letting me pick my own damn clothes."
Before Ethan could respond, his uncle—still watching—chimed in from his seat with a grin so wicked it could've belonged to the devil himself.
"Oh, don't be fooled, Vanessa. He's not dressing you out of possessiveness. He just enjoys unwrapping his gifts."
Vanessa choked on air.
Her entire body lit up like a bonfire. Ethan's only response was to calmly pull out her chair like a gentleman—like he hadn't just been completely and shamelessly exposed.
"Subtle," Ethan said dryly, taking his seat beside her.
"I wasn't trying to be," his uncle replied with a wink.
Vanessa sank into the chair, the heat in her cheeks unbearable.
She should've felt humiliated.
Instead?
She was wet.
Unreasonably, inexplicably wet.
And Ethan knew it.
Of course, he did.
Because the second he sat, he reached for the breadbasket, and his fingers just so happened to brush against hers.Deliberate. A stroke of knuckle against her wrist.
A shiver shot down her spine.
Her eyes snapped to his.
"Something wrong?" he murmured, voice low, intimate.
Vanessa clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.
She wasn't going to let him win.
Not here. Not in front of his uncle.
But she could feel it—his presence next to her. The press of his thigh. The quiet tension that had begun building again beneath the table.
She picked up her napkin and twisted it in her lap, trying to breathe through the storm.
She was going to kill him.
he was going to pay.
By the time lunch finally wound down, Vanessa was a barely-contained mess of nerves and overheated thoughts.
Not tired in the usual sense—her body was fine. Alert, even. Too alert. But her mind? Her mind was a battlefield of glances and brushes, of teasing voices and half-hidden smirks. She felt stretched taut, like her very skin had been pulled too tight over her frame.
Ethan, of course, had orchestrated the entire ambush with silent glee.
Every time she tried to reclaim a shred of composure, he would steal it back with something maddeningly subtle—a knuckle grazing her thigh under the table, his breath against her ear, or that slow drag of his eyes across her face, down her neck, lingering just long enough to make her thighs clench beneath the tablecloth.
And his uncle.
Dear God, his uncle was just as bad. Maybe worse.
He had zero shame. Zero filter. Every time she flushed or faltered, he'd seize the moment, throwing in another double-edged remark—each one a sharp reminder that Ethan wasn't the only predator at the table.
Vanessa had barely touched her food. How could she, when every word felt laced with innuendo and every sip of wine just made her more aware of her own body? Ethan's hand hadn't left her thigh once during the entire meal, and his touch—soft, lazy, possessive—felt like it was burning through the fabric of her dress.
Even Oma hadn't spared her.
"Oh, Ethan's always been difficult," the old woman had said, with a knowing smile. "But he's softer with you. That means something, dear."
Vanessa had wanted to disappear under the table. Or launch herself into Ethan's lap and demand he deal with the problem he was so obviously creating.
But somehow, somehow, she survived.
At least, she thought she had—until Ethan's uncle leaned forward, and the energy at the table shifted without warning.
"Vanessa," he said. No smirk. No teasing lilt. Just her name, gentle and direct.
She blinked, mind still fogged from the low, sultry chaos of the last hour. "Hmm?"
"You're good for him."
The words cut through the noise in her head like a blade—clean, unexpected.
Beside her, Ethan went still. The circles he'd been lazily tracing on her inner thigh with one finger paused mid-stroke. Just that—nothing more—but the absence was enough to draw a cold shiver in contrast to the heat he'd been building all afternoon.
His uncle held her gaze, the tease gone from his face. "I know we give you a hard time. We push buttons. But if it's ever too much—if we cross a line—you just say the word. We'll stop."
Vanessa's heart twisted. The weight of that kindness settled into her chest with quiet force.
It wasn't just about the teasing anymore. It never had been.
There was acceptance in his tone. Not a performative kind. Not lip service. It was simple. Matter-of-fact. As if, without her having to earn it or fight for it, they'd already decided she belonged.
And that terrified her more than all the teasing combined.
Ethan's gaze was on her now—not amused, not mocking, but quiet and waiting. Watching. He hadn't said a word. He didn't have to. The stillness of his hand, the faint pressure of his fingers against her thigh—it all said enough.
She swallowed hard. "I'll… keep that in mind," she murmured, her voice quieter than she meant.
His uncle gave her a nod. "Good."
But of course, sincerity never lasted long with that man.
"Now, about that wedding—"
"We're leaving," Ethan said smoothly, already rising to his feet.
His hand slid into hers, fingers curling with effortless authority.
Vanessa didn't even think—she just followed. Her body obeyed his like it always did, her palm warm in his. It wasn't the first time he'd held her hand… but this time, under the eyes of his family, it felt different.
More exposed.
More real.
She should've pulled away. Should've reclaimed a little pride after everything they'd just put her through.
But she didn't.
Because Ethan didn't let go. Even now, as they stepped into the hallway, his grip remained firm—anchoring her with a quiet, wordless command.
And somehow… that did something to her.
A flutter. A deep ache. A pull she couldn't define but couldn't resist either.
She wasn't used to this—the intimacy wrapped in something so casually possessive. His touch wasn't desperate or showy. It was quiet and assured. Like she already belonged to him, and he saw no need to question it.
That thought alone made her stomach tighten.
"You got quiet," Ethan murmured, low and velvety, his voice stirring the hairs at her nape.
Vanessa rolled her eyes, though her heart was racing. "Yeah, well. I just got completely roasted by your entire bloodline. I'm recovering."
Ethan's chuckle was dark, lazy. "You held up well."
"Oh, did I?" she shot back, narrowing her eyes at him.
"Mhm." His grip on her hand shifted—subtle, but firmer now. His thumb began dragging slow, hypnotic circles over the soft skin of her wrist. "Though I did enjoy watching you squirm."
Her breath hitched.
That smirk—the one he'd inherited, clearly—was back, but it was darker now. Slower. Like he was tasting every word before he said it.
She opened her mouth to retort, but he stopped walking. Just—stopped.
And then?
He turned.
Before she could react, her back was pressed to the nearest wall, cool and hard against her spine. Ethan stepped into her space, caging her in without touching more than her waist—but it was enough.
Her entire body lit up like a fuse.
"Ethan—"
He didn't speak. He didn't need to speak.
His mouth crushed against hers in the next second, the kiss deep and consuming, swallowing her words, her breath, her mind. One hand slid into her hair, the other gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him.
Vanessa melted into the heat, her arms instinctively winding around his neck as her mouth opened beneath his.
The taste of him— the wine and sin and something darker—flooded her senses.
She moaned softly, and he groaned in response, pressing his hips forward just enough to let her feel what she'd been doing to him all through lunch.
Hard. Hot. Unapologetic.
Ethan kissed like he touched—possessively, thoroughly, with the full intention of breaking her apart and putting her back together again piece by piece.
By the time he pulled away, her lips were swollen, her breath ragged.
His eyes, half-lidded and dark with want, held her in place far more than his arms did.
Then, without a word, he released her.
Turned.
And walked toward their room.
As if nothing had happened.
Vanessa stood frozen, her back still pressed to the wall, heart hammering. The hallway was silent now, but her body thrummed with raw, restless need.
She stared after him, still breathless.
Her spine pressed to the cool wall, chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged pulls, the taste of his kiss still clinging to her lips. Her legs refused to move at first—locked in place by the echo of his mouth on hers, by the low, devastating sound he'd made when her body arched into his. Her fingers were curled into fists, nails digging into her palms as if she needed the sharpness to anchor herself.
Three heartbeats passed.
Then four.
And finally, like a tide pulling her forward, she pushed off the wall and followed.
She didn't rush. She couldn't. Her whole body was humming—on fire from his touch, from the unbearable restraint of how he'd just walked away after kissing her like that. He hadn't looked back. Hadn't said a word. He didn't have to. His silence was a challenge. A promise. An invitation she couldn't refuse.
When she stepped into the washroom, the air was cooler, quieter—her reflection waiting in the mirror, eyes wide and dazed. Lips still swollen. Pulse fluttering visibly in her throat.
She needed a moment. Or ten.
Running cold water over her wrists, she tried to collect herself. Tried to breathe. But as she lifted her gaze again, her fingers drifted almost without thought to the chain around her neck.
The necklace.
Her fingers brushed over the pendant—warm now from her skin, though the chain itself still held a faint chill. She let it fall into her palm, the weight of it solid and intimate.
He'd given it to her the day before. Quietly. No grand speech. No pressure. Just… fastened it around her neck with a touch so gentle it had left her throat aching.
And yet, it hadn't been nothing.
It wasn't just jewelry. It felt like more.
As good as a proposal.
The thought lodged itself in her mind before she could stop it. And once there, it refused to leave. Because deep down, she knew—this wasn't some casual gesture. Ethan didn't do casual. Especially not with her.
As she turned the pendant between her fingers, the memory of his hands at her nape played over her skin again. The way his fingertips had lingered... like he wasn't just fastening it, but claiming her.
That look in his eyes. The way he'd stepped closer after the clasp had clicked, his mouth brushing her ear, lips barely parting as he whispered, "Mine."
She drew a shaky breath, heart pounding against her ribs.
It was too much.
And yet, somehow… still not enough.
She let the pendant fall, watched it settle just above her cleavage, then slowly, almost reverently, tucked it beneath her top. Pressing it to her skin where no one else could see—but where she could feel it.
Still unsteady, she stepped out of the washroom.
By the time they made it downstairs, Ethan's uncle was already pulling on his coat, moving with that same irreverent ease that made it impossible to tell whether he was truly in a hurry or just looked like he never had to be anywhere on time.
"Leaving already?" Ethan's voice was deceptively casual, but Vanessa caught the subtle raise of his brow.
His uncle gave a lazy grin. "Unfortunately. Would've stayed longer, but I'd rather not overstay my welcome."
"You could never overstay," his grandmother called over his shoulder, adjusting a delicate porcelain figurine on the shelf.
And then she turned.
And froze.
Time slowed, the air shifting. Vanessa followed her gaze instinctively, and dread hit her a heartbeat before her brain caught up.
The necklace.
The damn necklace was out.
The pendant hung outside her top—gold glinting in the soft afternoon light like a brand. Her fingers shot up too late. Her pulse nosedived.
"Oh, shit," she whispered under her breath, fumbling to stuff it back under her shirt—but it was too late.
The room had seen it.
They had seen it.
Ethan's uncle gave a long, low whistle. "Well, well," he drawled, eyes gleaming. "Guess I was right to ask about wedding plans."
Vanessa's face went up in flames.
Her skin prickled with heat, every nerve ending suddenly on edge as she felt the weight of their stares—Ethan's uncle's smirk, his grandmother's narrowed eyes, the shared understanding spreading silently through the room.
She turned, slow and stiff, to glare at Ethan.
Say something, she thought furiously. Say something to fix this.
But Ethan?
Ethan was the picture of calm.
He slid his hands into his pockets, shrugged one shoulder, and said flatly, "What about it?"
Vanessa nearly choked.
What about it?!
Ethan's uncle laughed, that deep, rich kind of laugh that promised mischief and secrets. "You really are your father's son, aren't you?" he said, shaking his head. "Don't do anything halfway."
Ethan's mouth curved, subtle but unmistakable. She could feel the smirk like a hand on her skin. "Why waste time?"
Oh, I'm going to murder him.
His grandmother gave a long, weary sigh, but Vanessa caught the twitch of her mouth—amusement, barely contained.
"You boys," she murmured, then turned her attention to Vanessa, her expression softening. "It's a family tradition, dear. Giving a necklace to the one you love."
Vanessa's breath caught.
The words dropped into her chest like stones, heavy and irrevocable.
So it wasn't just a gift. It wasn't some impulse. He knew exactly what it meant when he'd fastened it around her neck. Knew. And hadn't said a word.
Her hand drifted back to the pendant, brushing it with trembling fingers.
"It suits you," his grandmother added gently, eyes never leaving hers.
She wanted to say something—anything—but her throat wouldn't cooperate. Her mouth went dry. Her thoughts tangled.
And then Ethan, still infuriatingly calm, answered for her.
"It's hers now."
Three simple words.
So definitive.
So devastatingly possessive.
Her pulse skipped—then surged.
It wasn't the words themselves that undid her. It was the way he said them. Low. Steady. Like a fact, not a declaration. Not a question. Just truth.
His.
His uncle laughed again, slower this time. More thoughtful. "Damn, kid. You don't mess around, huh?"
Ethan didn't even blink. "Never."
Her skin was flushed, her breathing shallow, and her heart would not stop hammering. That necklace—its presence, its symbolism—was a weight she felt now, a pressure between her breasts, against her skin… and somewhere deeper.
Somewhere far more dangerous.
Because this wasn't just about affection anymore.
It was ownership.
And she was in so much fucking trouble.
~~~