Maybe he's bored of me.
The thought is a splinter under my skin as the gondola rocks gently, carrying us higher into the pink and gold sunset. Maybe Jake fucked me and realized he didn't want seconds. Maybe he took what he wanted and decided he could live without it. Maybe he's already moved on, laughing with his wife, while he left me to rot in this glass box with a boy who could never compare.
The self-loathing mixes with the heat that's been pooling between my legs all day, ever since he looked at me in that linen shirt at the entrance. Now, trapped here with Ethan, my arousal feels like a disease. He wants to cure it. He wants to burn it out.
"Jessica," Ethan says, his voice strangely thick.
He blinks, pulling my gaze from the blurred silhouette of Jake and Cindy's car ahead of us. Ethan is looking at me with those soft, hopeful eyes, his hands gripping his knees like he's anchoring himself.
"I've been wanting to tell you," he continues, his voice trembling but determined. "I like you. More than… more than just friends. I want to be your boyfriend. I want to take care of you. Properly."
He's saying the right things. He's safe. He's sweet. He's not my brother-in-law.
And God help me, I'm so empty. So desperate to feel something — anything — that might fill the hole he left behind.
"Okay," I whisper, the word tasting like surrender. "We can try."
Ethan's face lights up, disbelief and joy warring across his features. He leans in, slowly, giving me time to pull away. But I don't. I close my eyes and let him bridge the gap.
His lips touch mine — soft, hesitant, nothing like Jake's brutal claiming. It's… nice. Safe. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, gentle, trembling. I open my mouth under his, letting his tongue slip inside, not because I crave him, but because I'm trying so hard to want something normal.
"So sweet," he murmurs against my lips, emboldened. His hand slides down, over my shoulder, finding the strap of my yellow sundress. I don't stop him. I want him to undo me. I want him to erase the memory of Jake's rough fingers and whispered filth.
His hand cups my breast through the cotton, and I arch into it — a silent, desperate plea. Please, I think, please make me feel what he made me feel.
"God, Jessica," Ethan groans, his thumb brushing over my nipple through the fabric. It hardens under his touch, but it's a mechanical response, a betrayal of my body's hunger for a different man's hand. He squeezes gently, reverently, and I feel his breath hitch, his arousal pressing against my hip through his jeans.
He's being perfect. Respectful. His touch is everything I should want.
And yet...
His mouth moves to my neck, kissing softly, and suddenly I freeze. The sensation is too light, too careful. It's not the teeth and tongue that bruised me in the laundry room. It's not the command that Jake gave to make me wet at the dinner table.
I open my eyes and stare out the glass window. We're at the apex now, the city glittering below. But all I see is Jake's face. I feel the ghost of his weight pinning me down.
Ethan's hand slips lower, tentative, toward my thigh, and reality crashes in.
This is wrong. Not because I don't consent — I gave consent, I gave permission, letting him touch me — but because my body is screaming for a different god.
"Stop," I gasp, tears suddenly burning my eyes. "Ethan, stop—" Sobbing, I pull away, pressing my back against the cold glass of the gondola, my hands flying to cover my mouth, then my chest. "I'm so sorry, I can't… I can't do this…"
He stops immediately, his hands jerking back like he's been burned. His face is flushed, his lips swollen, his eyes wide with alarm. "Jessica, did… did I hurt you? I'm so sorry, I thought… I thought you wanted…"
I did. Or I thought I did. Or I wanted to want it.
But now I'm crying, messy and humiliating, my lipstick smudged not from passion but from despair. My dress is wrinkled where his hands were — hands that touched me with kindness, not corruption — and yet I feel more exposed now than when Jake had his fingers inside me at the dinner table.
"Not your fault," I choke out, hugging my knees to my chest, hiding my face. "I'm just… not… not the girl you think I am. I'm broken. So messed up, Ethan."
He reaches for me again, gentle, concerned. "Hey, hey, it's okay. We can slow down. We don't have to…"
"I can't," I whisper, shaking my head violently. "I can't be your girlfriend. I can't be anyone's girlfriend. Not… not when I'm like this."
Like what? Obsessed. Soaked. Hungry for a man who used me and threw me away.
Ethan sits back, his face falling, hurt etching deep lines around his mouth. But he nods, respecting the boundary even as his eyes shine with disappointment. "Okay. I'm sorry, Jessica. I misread… I should have known."
You did, I think bitterly. I gave you every signal. I let you kiss me. I let you touch my breast. And even then, even with your sweetness and your patience, all I could think about was the bruising grip of a man who treats me like a toy.
The gondola begins its descent, carrying us back down to the pier, to the lights and the noise and the normal world. But I'm not normal. I'm tainted. Addicted.
And as I wipe my tears and smooth my wrinkled dress, I know the truth with sickening certainty:
Even if Jake never touches me again, even if he ignores me forever, my body will only ever sing for him. Ethan is everything I should want — kind, eager, available — but my cunt only weeps for its master.