EPISODE 9- Naked In The Moonlight
(Ethan's POV)
The phone felt like a block of ice in my hand. The video kept playing. That loop of my mouth on hers, my hands in her hair, the raw, public hunger I'd been so fucking stupid to unleash. The view counter ticked up. 5,000. 5,100. A poison spreading in my veins.
Layla was staring at me, her eyes wide in the dark, the scent of our sex still thick in the air. She looked vulnerable. Mine. And I'd just painted a target on her back.
"Ethan?" Her voice was small.
Gregory Marshall can't see this. The thought was a drumbeat of pure dread in my skull. Don't make headlines. His last words to me before I left for Avalon. A calm, cold warning. And what had I done? I'd made a fucking spectacle.
"Get dressed." The words came out harsh, but the panic was a live wire under my skin. I swung my legs out of bed, the polished concrete floor freezing under my feet. My body was still humming from her, from the feel of her coming around me, the way she'd sobbed I'm yours. Now, all that was ash.
I scrolled through my contacts with trembling thumbs, ignoring the texts starting to ping in from people I hadn't spoken to in years. Saw the vid, dude! Nice! I found the number I needed. Marcus. Not my best friend anymore—that ship had sailed after the incident with his sister last summer—but he was connected. He knew how to make problems disappear in the digital sludge.
He answered on the second ring, voice thick with sleep or weed. "Marshall? It's three in the fucking morning."
"I need a cleanup. Now. Social media. A video from The Beacon. It's going viral."
A beat of silence. Then a low whistle. "The kissy-face one with the brunette? Yeah, I've seen it. It's already on three platforms."
Fuck. "Make it gone. All of it. Whatever it costs. Use your people. DMCA, server pressure, buy the accounts—I don't care. Just erase it."
"That's not a cleanup, Ethan. That's a fucking exorcism. It'll take time. And a lot of your daddy's money."
"You have my authorization. Use the firm's discretionary fund. The offshore account. Just do it." My father's money, his systems, used to hide my mistake. The irony tasted like bile.
"On it," Marcus said, already sounding more awake. "But if it's hit the big aggregators… there might be traces. Screenshots. You can't un-see the internet, man."
"Do your best." I ended the call and stood there, naked, staring at the glittering town below. The kingdom I was supposed to inherit. The cage I was supposed to live in.
I felt her before I saw her. Layla had pulled the sheet around herself and was standing a few feet away. "Will he be able to fix it?" she asked.
"He'll try." I turned. The sheet was tucked under her arms, highlighting the lush curve of her breasts, the shadowed valley between them. Even now, with my world teetering, my body reacted. A sharp, insistent pull. The panic and the desire were a twisted knot in my gut. I needed to feel grounded. I needed to feel in control. And she was the only thing in this sterile house that felt real.
I closed the distance between us. Her breath hitched. I cupped her face, my thumb stroking her cheek. "This changes nothing," I said, the words a vow to myself as much as to her. "You're still mine."
I kissed her. It wasn't soft. It was a brand. A reassertion. Her lips were pliant under mine, opening with a little sigh that went straight to my cock. The taste of her—sweet, familiar, addicting—drowned out the metallic fear for a second. My hands slid down to her hips, gripping through the sheet, pulling her flush against me. I was already hard again.
I walked her backward until her knees hit the bed. "The sheet," I commanded, my voice rough.
She let it fall.
God. Naked in the moonlight from the wall of glass, her skin glowing, her curves soft and inviting… she was a fucking dream. My dream. And I was going to lose it all over her.
I pushed her down onto the mattress and followed, covering her body with mine. The heat of her skin was a balm. I buried my face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and her perfume and us. "I need you," I growled against her skin, the admission ripped from a place deeper than pride.
"I'm here," she whispered, her hands coming up to slide into my hair.
It was all the permission I needed. There was no finesse this time. No slow seduction. It was pure, desperate need. I kissed my way down her body—the swell of her breast, taking a nipple into my mouth, sucking hard until she cried out and arched beneath me. My tongue traced the line of her ribs, the dip of her navel. I pushed her thighs apart, settling between them.
She was still wet from before, swollen and glistening. The sight drove the air from my lungs. I lowered my mouth to her.
She gasped, her hands fisting in the sheets. "Ethan!"
I didn't tease. I licked a broad, firm stripe through her soaked folds, then zeroed in on her clit, sucking the sensitive bud into my mouth. Her hips jerked off the bed. A high, broken moan echoed in the quiet room. I licked and sucked, using my tongue in firm, relentless circles, mapping the responses that made her thighs tremble. I pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, finding that spot that made her scream.
Her pleasure was a tangible thing. It was the only thing that mattered. The video, my father, the future—it all receded under the sounds of her gasps, the taste of her on my tongue, the clench of her inner muscles around my fingers. This was real. This was power.
"I'm… I'm going to…" she choked out, her body tensing.
"Come," I ordered, lifting my head, my fingers still working inside her. "Look at me and come."
Her eyes, dark and dazed, found mine. The connection was a lightning strike. Her orgasm tore through her, a silent scream on her lips as her body bowed, trembling violently. I watched every second, drinking in the helpless, beautiful surrender on her face.
Before the last tremor had subsided, I was moving up her body. I was beyond thought. I needed to be inside her. To feel that connection, that possession, in the most primal way. I positioned myself at her entrance, the head of my cock nudging against her slick heat. Her eyes were still unfocused, her body pliant.
I pushed in.
A deep, guttural groan was ripped from my chest. She was so tight, so perfectly hot and welcoming. She wrapped her legs around my hips, pulling me deeper, and the feeling was like coming home. I set a brutal, driving pace immediately. Each thrust was a punctuation mark. Mine. Stay. Mine.
The bed rocked against the wall. Our skin slapped together. Her moans were a continuous, breathy soundtrack in my ear. I was chasing my own release, trying to fuck the anxiety out of my system, to lose myself in the pure physicality of her.
"Harder," she pleaded, her nails digging into my shoulders.
I obeyed, slamming into her with a force that shook the headboard. Her inner muscles clenched around me, milking me, pulling me toward the edge. The coil in my belly tightened, a sweet, unbearable pressure.
"Tell me," I gritted out, my forehead damp against hers. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You," she sobbed, her body beginning to tighten around me again. "Only you, Ethan."
Her second climax triggered mine. With a roar that was part triumph, part surrender, I drove deep and came, pulsing inside her, my vision whiting out. For a few, blissful seconds, there was nothing. No fear. No consequences. Just her heat and my release and the shattered sound of our breathing.
I collapsed on top of her, spent, our hearts hammering a frantic duet.
And that's when my phone rang. Not a text. A call. The specific, shrill tone I'd assigned to only one contact.
The screen, face-up on the floor, glowed with the name: Gregory Marshall.
The ice flooded back, colder than before. I went utterly still inside her.
Layla felt it. "Ethan?"
I didn't answer. I just stared at the pulsing screen, the panic now a solid, frozen mass in my chest. The video. He'd seen it.
I slowly, carefully, pulled out of her and rolled off the bed. My hand shook as I reached for the phone. I swiped to answer, bringing it to my ear.
"Father." My voice was flat. Empty.
The silence on the other end was more terrifying than any shout. Then, Gregory Marshall's voice, calm, precise, and colder than the concrete under my feet, filled my ear.
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