EPISODE 19- I Need To Taste You
(Ethan's POV)
The engine's purr is a promise, a rebellion vibrating through the leather seat and up my spine. My hand is tight on the gear shift, tighter around Layla's. I don't look at her. If I do, I'll pull this car over right now and do things that would absolutely make headlines my father would have a coronary over.
Don't make headlines.
His voice is a parasite in my skull. It's been there since I understood what my name meant. Gregory Marshall's greatest triumph and most polished asset. A legacy in waiting. A puppet with very nice strings.
But her hand in mine… it's an anchor. It's the only thing that feels solid. The rest is performance. The lunch, the threats, the cool appraisal. All of it, smoke and mirrors designed to make me doubt what I know in my bones.
I guide the car—a black Audi I keep off my official roster, paid for with crypto I mined years ago—away from the diner, away from campus, toward the anonymous arteries of the city.
"Where are we going?" she asks again. Her voice is quiet, a little breathless. Not with fear. With anticipation. I can hear it. I can feel it in the slight tremor of her fingers.
"Somewhere he wouldn't think to look," I say, my eyes fixed on the road. "Somewhere with no guest list."
The city lights begin to blur past, streaks of gold and white against the deepening twilight. I can smell her. Vanilla and something uniquely Layla, a scent that cuts through the new car leather and wraps around my primal brain. It's in the car with us, that scent. It's in me.
My father's words echo, trying to poison it. A symptom. A passing infatuation. She'll break.
But she didn't break in that study lounge. She came apart, yes. Shattered into a thousand pieces of pleasure. But she didn't break. She held onto me, her nails scoring my back, her cries muffled against my neck. She took everything I gave and gave it back harder.
My cock twitches, thickening against the seam of my jeans at the memory. A sharp, insistent ache. I shift in the seat, trying to relieve the pressure. It's useless.
I chance a glance at her. She's staring out her window, but her profile is tense. The line of her neck, the curve of her jaw. The way her bottom lip is caught slightly between her teeth. She's thinking about it, too. I know she is.
"He brought up Leah," I say, the words coming out rougher than I intended.
She turns her head, those captivating eyes wide. "Marcus's sister?"
I nod, my grip tightening on the wheel. The old shame is a cold knot in my stomach. "As a… case study. In my poor judgment."
"What happened with her?" she asks. Not accusing. Just… wanting to know.
I exhale, a harsh sound in the quiet car. "What happens with everyone in that world. It was a summer. She was beautiful. Bored. I was… proficient." The word tastes like ash. "I liked her. But I didn't feel her. Not like…" I trail off, my eyes cutting to her again. Not like I feel you.
"You broke her heart," Layla states softly.
"I neglected her heart," I correct, the distinction important only to me. "It was a resource I didn't realize was finite. I treated it like everything else—something to be experienced, mastered, and filed away." My jaw tightens. "Marcus saw it. He knew what I was before I did. A hollow copy of my father."
"You're not hollow," she whispers.
The certainty in her voice is a physical blow. It winds me. For a second, I can't breathe. Because she's wrong. I was. For so long. A beautiful, polished shell echoing with my father's directives. Until she walked onto that balcony and looked at me not with awe, but with a challenge. Until she kissed me back like she was trying to drink a truth from me I didn't even know I had.
"I'm trying not to be," I finally manage, the admission ripped from somewhere dark and guarded.
We drive in silence for a few more blocks. The tension isn't gone; it's changed. It's molten now, a slow, thick flow in the space between us. Every shift of her body, every soft sigh, feeds it.
I turn into the underground parking garage of a sleek, modernist high-rise downtown. It's not my family's. It's not on any of our portfolios. I swipe a key fob and a private gate lifts, leading to a secluded section marked Reserved Penthouse B.
"What is this place?" Layla asks as I park in the shadowy, concrete space.
"A safe deposit box," I say, killing the engine. The sudden quiet is profound, broken only by the distant hum of ventilation. "I bought it two years ago. Cash. Through a trust even my father's lawyers can't easily pierce." I turn to face her fully now. The interior light is dim, casting her in soft shadow and highlights. Her eyes are huge, dark pools. "No one knows about it. Not Marcus. Not my father. No one."
The implication hangs there. You are the first person I've brought here.
Her lips part. I watch the tip of her tongue dart out to wet them. A bolt of pure, undiluted lust shoots straight to my groin. Christ.
I get out, the sound of my door echoing. I walk around to her side, open her door. She unfolds herself from the low seat, and the movement is agonizingly sensual. The way her skirt rides up her thighs. The shift of her curves under the simple hoodie. She stands, close to me in the semi-darkness, and looks up.
I don't touch her. Not yet. The not-touching is its own kind of torture. I can feel the heat radiating from her skin. I can see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat.
"Come on," I say, my voice gravel.
I lead her to a private elevator, the fob granting access. The doors slide shut, enclosing us in a mirrored, silent cube. It's just us and our reflections—a tense, beautiful boy in a black sweater and a girl who looks like she's walked into a dream she's not sure she can trust.
I watch her in the mirror. She's staring at her own feet, then her gaze lifts, finds mine in the reflection. Holds.
The elevator rises, a smooth, silent ascent. My heart is pounding against my ribs. It's too quiet. I can hear her breathing. I can smell her desire, sharp and sweet.
My hands fist at my sides. I want to press her against the mirrored wall. I want to taste that pulse point on her neck. I want to hear the gasp she'd make when I finally let my hands roam over her, claiming what feels like it's been mine since that first electric touch on the balcony.
Her eyes are locked on mine in the glass. Her cheeks are flushed. She sees it. She sees the hunger I'm barely holding in check.
The elevator dings, a soft, discreet sound. The doors open directly into the penthouse.
It's not a home. It's a space. Vast, open-plan, all concrete floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, and minimalist furniture. The entire wall facing us is glass, overlooking the glittering grid of the city. It's stunning. And it's completely, utterly empty of history. A blank slate.
Layla takes a hesitant step out of the elevator, her heels clicking on the polished concrete. She drifts toward the windows, drawn to the view. The city lights paint her in blues and golds.
I follow, leaving a few feet between us. I watch her look out, her shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath.
"It's… incredible," she says, her voice hushed.
"It's a cage with a nice view," I reply, the bitterness automatic. Then I shake my head. "No. That's what the other places are. This… this is just space. My space."
She turns to face me. The panoramic cityscape is her backdrop, but she's all I see. The question is in her eyes. Why am I here?
"I brought you here," I start, taking a step closer, "because I'm sick of hiding. I'm sick of borrowed rooms and public parks and the constant feeling that we're stealing something." Another step. The air crackles. "But I also brought you here because I don't trust myself right now."
Her breath hitches.
"If we were anywhere else," I continue, my voice dropping to that low, rough register I know affects her, "I would have had you against the door of that diner booth. I would have your dress around your waist and my mouth on you in the backseat of that car. I am that far gone, Layla."
A soft, shuddering exhale leaves her. Her eyes are dark, pupils swallowing the blue. Her lips are parted, inviting.
"But here," I say, closing the final distance until only a whisper of space separates us. I don't touch her. "Here, we breathe. Here, we talk. Here… we make a choice. Without the world watching. Without his shadow in the corner."
I raise my hand, slow, giving her every chance to pull away. My fingers hover just beside her cheek. I see the goosebumps rise on her skin in anticipation.
"Is this real?" she asks, the vulnerability in her voice spearing me. "Or is this just another part of the rebellion?"
My control snaps. Not into action, but into raw, unfiltered honesty.
"The rebellion is for this," I grit out, my hand finally, finally curving to cradle her jaw. Her skin is so soft, so warm. A shock of sensation rockets up my arm. "The rebellion is so I can have this and know it's not just another trophy. So I can look at you and know I'm not just following a script." My thumb strokes the arch of her cheekbone. "You asked me on the balcony if my reputation was working. It wasn't. Not then. You saw right through it. You've seen through it from the start. That's what's real."
A single tear escapes, tracking a silvery path down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb.
"I'm scared," she whispers.
"I know." I lean in, until my forehead rests against hers. Our breath mingles, hot and shared. "I'm terrified. He has the power to erase you. To erase us. And the only weapon I have…" I pull back just enough to look into her eyes. "The only weapon I have is that I don't care about any of it anymore. Not the money. Not the name. Not the future he painted. The only future I want is one where I get to do this."
And I bridge that last, impossible gap.
My mouth covers hers.
It's not like the balcony. That was fire and claiming. This is… a vow. A slow, deep, soul-searching connection. My lips move over hers with a reverence that surprises me. My tongue traces the seam of her mouth, and she opens for me with a soft, yielding sigh that goes straight to my cock.
I kiss her like I'm trying to pour every conflicted, desperate feeling into her. The fear, the fury, the bone-deep need. My hands come up to frame her face, holding her with a tenderness that feels foreign, essential.
Her hands lift, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck. She kisses me back with equal depth, a slow, sensual dance of tongues that is more intimate than anything we've done. It's a conversation without words. A promise.
We break apart, breathing ragged, foreheads still touching.
"Stay with me tonight," I murmur against her lips. "Just stay. In this space that's ours. No one else exists."
She nods, a slight, definite movement. "Yes."
That one word unleashes something. The careful control I'd erected shatters. The vow gives way to hunger.
My mouth finds hers again, but the tenderness is now edged with a building desperation. The kiss deepens, turns hotter, wetter. My hands slide from her face, down the column of her neck, over the shoulders of her hoodie. I grip the fabric and push it down her arms. She shrugs it off, letting it fall to the floor with a soft whump.
She's in a simple tank top beneath. The sight of her bare shoulders, the swell of her breasts above the cotton, makes my mouth water. I dip my head, my lips finding the sensitive cord of her neck. I kiss, then lick, then suck gently. She arches into me, a low moan vibrating against my mouth.
"Ethan…"
My name on her lips is a drug. I walk her backward, never breaking contact, until her back meets the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. The entire city sprawls behind her, but she's the only light that matters.
I press my body flush against hers, pinning her gently to the glass. The hard ridge of my erection pushes into the softness of her stomach. She gasps, her hips rocking forward instinctively, seeking friction.
God.
My hands find the hem of her tank top. I drag it up, slowly, revealing the smooth skin of her stomach, the delicate curve of her waist. She lifts her arms, and I pull it over her head, tossing it aside.
She's in a simple lace bra. The view is devastating. The full, perfect curves, the shadowed valley between them. My gaze burns over her.
"You are so beautiful," I rasp, the words torn from me. "It hurts to look at you."
I don't wait for a response. My mouth is on her again, kissing her deeply as my hands go to her back, fumbling with the clasp of her bra. It gives way. I peel the straps down her arms, and the lace falls away.
Her breasts spill into my hands. I break the kiss to look down, to watch my thumbs brush over her taut, rosy peaks. She cries out, her head falling back against the glass with a soft thunk.
I lower my head and take one peak into my mouth.
The taste of her skin, the faint salt, the perfect, soft firmness of her nipple against my tongue… it's heaven and hell. Hell, because I want more. I suckle gently, then harder, my tongue swirling. Her hands are in my hair, clutching, holding me to her. Her hips grind against my thigh.
I switch to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention. Her whimpers are a symphony. I can feel her heart hammering against my lips.
One hand leaves her breast, trails down over the frantic pulse in her stomach, over the waistband of her skirt. I find the zipper at the side. My eyes lock with hers as I pull it down. The sound is obscenely loud in the quiet room.
The skirt falls, pooling at her feet. She steps out of it, kicking it aside. She's left in just a pair of simple cotton panties. The damp patch at the center is clearly visible in the city's glow.
My control is a frayed wire, sparking, about to snap.
I sink to my knees before her.
Her eyes widen. "Ethan… what are you…"
I don't answer. I hook my thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pull them down, slow, revealing her to me inch by exquisite inch. She steps out, naked now, trembling against the glass.
I look up at her, my face level with the heart of her. The scent of her arousal is potent, heady. It's the most honest thing I've ever smelled.
"I need to taste you," I say, my voice raw with want. "I need to know you're real."
And I lean forward and press my mouth to the heart of her.
—