CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THIS IS WORK. This is work.
I remind myself of this fact over and over and over again as I head towards Ethan’s townhouse. I tell myself to stop remembering the way he made love to me all night.
I mean all night. I think I probably got an hour’s sleep all in. We didn’t leave the restaurant until late. That surprised me. I was so full of need for him, and yet staring across at him, hearing his beautiful husky accent as he talked about his childhood, his family, his life, I was mesmerised by the details. I was mesmerised by him.
We were the last guests in the restaurant.
I had a glass of Prosecco when we arrived and nothing else, but I felt drunk as we left. No, not drunk. High. And so happy.
The second we got back to his hotel we were ripping one another’s clothes off.
And I slept over again.
Which makes the trifecta of rule-breaking complete.
But with three days to go—three more days of possible Ethan Ash consumption—I don’t much care. I don’t even care that yet another photo of us was running on the gossip sites this morning.
Nor that two of my clients emailed me to ask about my ‘relationship’ with him.
Nothing can dent my mood. And now I’m here, meeting with Ethan to discuss his art selection, and I’m determined to get through the meeting without doing anything inappropriate. Step one: prove that I can separate sex-life from work-life.
Grayson is waiting out front at Ethan’s place. I see him as soon as my cab pulls up.
‘Hey.’ I smile as I tap up the stairs.
‘Miss Douglas.’
‘Please, call me Ally.’
He nods. ‘Mr Ash is waiting for you.’
Yeah, that’s mutual.
‘It’s cold today, huh?’
His smile is tight. ‘Sure is.’
He pushes the door inwards and I move inside, my desire to befriend Grayson instantly consumed by a greater, stronger need to see Ethan. I stride down the hallway and pause just inside the living area.
What the hell...?
First of all, there’s furniture. And that’s fine. It’s great. It’s a welcome addition, in fact. But Ethan’s interior designer Natasha is also there, smiling at Ethan, nodding as he speaks.
I am mentally removing his clothes, and mine—good intentions be damned—and now we have a lovely third wheel to contend with?
‘Ah, Alicia. Wonderful.’ She clips towards me with an authoritative air, as though this was her idea—as though I’m meeting her, and Ethan being here is just a happy coincidence.
‘Natasha.’ I nod, accepting her air kisses even as my eyes lock accusingly with Ethan’s. His expression shows bemusement.
‘You’ll be thrilled to see my progress. Come—have a look,’ she invites.
I tamp down on my resentment. She’s the designer. She obviously feels a sense of ownership over the project. Her behaviour isn’t untoward. It’s only my expectations—first of being alone with Ethan and second of being given the tour by him, preferably naked and with his hands on my body.
‘Great,’ I say through gritted teeth.
‘You guys get started. I have a few calls to make,’ Ethan says.
A few calls to make? Does he, indeed?
Natasha shows me the whole downstairs area—and she has done an incredible job. It’s beautiful. Artistic while still achieving a degree of homely comfort. The fittings are classic and top-quality and I can see Ethan living here. Relaxing here. It suits him.
My gut twists at the very idea of his inhabiting this space full-time. We move upstairs into another living room, then into a guest room. A bed! Hallelujah. Perhaps he’ll start spending more time here, rather than at the hotel? He’d be so close to me...
My phone rings and I pause our tour.
‘Sorry,’ I say, lifting it from my bag, about to decline the call when I see Ethan’s name on the screen. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’
‘Take your time. I need to measure the windows again for the drapes,’ Natasha answers.
I step out of the room, into the hallway, and swipe to answer.
‘Yes?’ I snap, conscious that Natasha can probably still hear my end of the conversation.
‘You look amazing.’
I turn away, pace a little further down the hallway and lower my voice. ‘Thank you. I didn’t realise you’d assembled the whole team.’
His laugh is like melted caramel. ‘What’s the matter? Aren’t you having fun?’
‘I had a different kind of fun in mind,’ I say honestly.
He laughs again. ‘Soon. Remember? Foreplay...’
‘You’re enjoying this.’
‘Not as much as I’ll be enjoying you, believe me. Have you reached my bedroom yet?’
I lift my head and look down the hallway. ‘No. It’s next.’
‘When you get there I want you to imagine yourself naked in the middle of the bed. Arms outstretched. Fingers curled around the bedposts as I return the favour you gave me at the hotel. I want you to look at that bed and imagine me going down on you until you can barely speak.’
My breath is rushed and I know my cheeks are bright pink. A noise—a creaking floorboard—draws my attention to the stairs. He is walking up them, phone clasped under his ear.
‘Think you can do that for me?’ he murmurs, his eyes locked to mine.
A slick of need pools between my legs.
Natasha or not, I want to run to him, launch myself at him and strip him naked.
I disconnect the call and slide my phone into my bag, using the act to hide my face and eyes from him.
‘Everything okay, Miss Douglas?’ he asks as he approaches.
My eyes are wide in my face as I force myself to look at him. ‘Oh, perfectly,’ I respond, with obvious annoyance.
Except it’s not annoyance with him; it’s annoyance at not being able to have him. It’s desire and white-hot need. It’s fierce and uncontrollable and it’s consuming me, despite the fact I have not long left his bed.
‘Are you sure?’
He brings his body close to mine and pushes me backwards, so that I connect with the wall. We are only metres from the guest room, but he braces himself beside me, partially blocking me from Natasha’s view. His fingers move straight to me, touching my most sensitive cluster of nerves through the fabric of my pants.
Did I really think Natasha’s being here would stop him—stop this—the inevitability of what we are? He holds my eyes as he moves his fingers in a circular motion, and when I suck in a breath he lifts a finger to my lips.
‘Shh,’ he says, with a smile on his face.
I don’t know if I can be quiet.
I don’t know if I can stop this.
I know I should. I know this is unprofessional and that I have a reputation to think about. But I also have a body that is starving for its next fix, and he’s offering it to me on a silver platter.
‘Come for me, baby. Come without making a sound.’
He moves faster and I press myself down, rolling my hips, begging him with my body to make love to me.
I can feel the orgasm building. I dig my fingernails into my palms to stop myself screaming out, but my silence makes the sensation all the more intense.
Heat is burning me—I am turning to ash.
He sees the moment I explode and he brings his mouth to my ear, buzzing his lips over my earlobe and whispering against me.
‘You are perfect.’
I can’t catch my breath. I hear Natasha’s clip-clopping heels and I step aside from him even as my blood rages like a fever. I suck in air and I spin away, moving towards the window at the end of the corridor, needing a moment to straighten my hair, to collect myself, to calm my body.
‘Oh! Ethan.’
It’s Natasha.
‘Come and have a look at the window treatment options.’
‘Nothing I’d like better.’
I hear the grin in his voice and can picture his face even though I’m not looking at him.
It takes me several minutes to calm myself, to begin to feel like I am in control once more. When I’m ready, I move back through the house.
I find them in the master bedroom. Ethan watches me as I walk in, so I know he sees the way my eyes drop to the bed. Immediately. The way colour blooms in my cheeks.
We are both picturing the same thing.
Damn him.
Damn him for knowing how to push my buttons so well.
‘What do you think?’ Natasha asks excitedly. ‘I’ve gone for a dark oak, because I think it’s masculine and classic without being too heavy. Don’t you agree?’
‘It’s perfect,’ I murmur, thinking of the art I’ve selected for this room.
It took me a long time to come up with pieces that I think will suit Ethan. The pieces that I want him to wake up to each morning.
I meet Ethan’s eyes for a moment; electricity charges between us.
‘I like the bed. Is it a king?’
Natasha takes over. ‘Yes. And it’s a memory foam mattress. Super-comfortable.’
‘Lie down,’ Ethan invites, his gaze simmering as it locks to mine. ‘See for yourself.’
‘That’s okay,’ I say, a tad more sharply than necessary. ‘I’ve felt mattresses before.’
‘Not this mattress,’ he points out smoothly.
‘It really is the best on the market,’ Natasha interjects, apparently oblivious to our flirtatious undercurrent.
‘How lovely for you,’ I murmur, turning to Ethan in time to see him wink at me.
My blood simmers. I think I’m going to turn into a puddle of lava if I don’t get out of here.
I reach into my handbag and pull out a printed booklet. ‘This is the proposal I mentioned.’ I hand it to him. ‘Why don’t I leave it with the two of you to discuss and I’ll follow up with you, Natasha, next week?’
‘Excellent,’ she agrees, before Ethan can speak, leaving me wondering briefly what he might have said.
‘You’ve done a great job,’ I say with an over-bright smile. ‘I’ll finish the tour another time. Nice to see you both again.’
‘You too, Ally.’ Natasha reaches across and takes the book from Ethan. ‘May I?’
‘Sure. Be my guest. I’ll walk Miss Douglas out.’
‘Please, call me Alicia,’ I invite, swaying my hips as I move ahead of him.
He is behind me the whole way. Along the corridor, down the stairs, and then through the hall that leads to his front door. I press my hand around the doorknob, knowing I should say something but not knowing what.
I turn around slowly, but there’s nothing slow about the way Ethan moves. He swoops down and kisses me, his whole body pushing mine against the door, trapping me. The weight of him is immovable, his mouth demanding, the intensity of his kiss pressing my head against the door. He grinds his hips and I feel his arousal through our clothes. He kisses me as he holds me captive with his hips, his dick, his very self.
I am powerless to move. I don’t want to anyway. I want to do this for ever.
‘I’ll come to the hotel when I finish work,’ I say into his mouth, conscious that we could be interrupted at any point and wanting privacy.
‘I won’t be there.’
The words don’t compute at first.
‘Huh?’
‘I have a thing,’ he says. ‘With my manager.’
He runs his tongue along my lower lip and I moan.
‘Wait for me there.’
I don’t think that’s a good idea. But before I can say so, he speaks.
‘When I come back, I plan to fuck you senseless.’
A shiver runs through me. A frisson of anticipation and need.
Challenge accepted.
‘And I’m going to fuck you right back.’
* * *
I have no idea what I’m doing.
Ally left an hour ago and I finally got rid of Natasha. Now, ensconced in my basement recording studio, which is coming together slowly, I need to be writing and instead I’m thinking.
About Ally.
About Sienna.
About what the hell I’m doing.
I’m thinking about the fact that I lied to her just now. I have no meeting with my manager. I just wanted to give her a taste of her own medicine. Why is she the only one who gets to decide when we see each other?
I’m thinking about the fact that I’m flying out of the States in a matter of days and that if I stick to the rules we agreed to I’m never going to see Ally again. That I was stupid to waste an evening just because I’m pissed off with our boundaries.
I’m thinking about the fact that I hate the thought of not seeing her after I leave. In fact the idea of not seeing Ally makes my skin crawl, and that, in turn, really pisses me off. Because Sienna and I broke up three months ago and, let’s face it, it was hardly a clean break. By rights, I shouldn’t be obsessing over someone new already, should I? Isn’t that disloyal to Sienna and what we were? Maybe. But I’m not sure I have much say in it.
I’m furious at Sienna. No, I hate her. But I loved her once—or thought I did.
And Ally? Where does she fit in to all this? When did convenient sex with no strings start bothering me more than the break-up with the supposed love of my life?
I can’t say. I have no idea what I feel for Ally.
But I know that I want her. And that three more days, three more nights with her, is not going to be enough.
I know that I wish we hadn’t made those damned rules.
And I know that I’m a rule-breaker from way back.
It’s time I remembered that.
* * *
It’s after eleven before I go to the hotel. It’s childish, but I feel like it’s important to make her wait. Just a bit.
When I step into the suite all thought rattles through me, threatening to drop right out of my head.
Ally is lying on the sofa, wearing a silky negligee, with a book in her hands. My book.
‘I thought I’d see what all the fuss is about,’ she says, and smiles, lifting Les Misérables up for me to see.
I had a speech worked out. A plan. I was going to seduce her and then, when she was weakened by desire, I was going to start a conversation. But I’ve seen her now and I blurt out, ‘I’m coming back in a month or so.’
She stands up quickly, her eyes locked to mine.
‘What?’
The word is not screeched, and yet it bounces around the room as though it were.
‘To New York?’ she says after a moment.
‘No, to Earth,’ I mutter sarcastically. ‘Yes. To New York.’
I move further into the apartment. Here it comes. The sentence I’ve spent days formulating.
‘I’d like to see you again.’
Abject fear crosses her face. It is unmistakable.
‘What?’
‘I’d like to see you again.’ I shrug. ‘I’ll be in London a few weeks. Maybe less. And then I’ll fly back here.’
‘Why?’
My eyes don’t lie. I’m not going to pretend any more. ‘Because I’m going to be missing the hell out of you by then.’
She practically jack-knifes across the room, the book in her hand as though it’s a lifeline, her tension a palpable force. Silence hangs between us.
‘No.’
It’s a softly spoken word. It’s a plea. And yet it’s emphatic.
I brace myself for her argument.
I brace myself for her doubts.
What I don’t brace myself for is the fury and rage which is obvious when she spins around a moment later, her eyes pinning me to the spot, burning me with irate contempt.
‘How dare you?’
It’s not what I expect. Did I think she’d be glad? Thrilled? That she’s been feeling the same growing sense of disbelief that our arbitrary deadline is drawing closer?
It takes me a moment to shake myself into responding. ‘I dare—’ my words sound coloured with anger ‘—because I don’t want this to end. I’m not ready.’
‘Oh, you’re not ready,’ she says sarcastically, slapping her palm to her forehead in an exaggerated and sarcastic gesture of sudden comprehension. ‘You’re not ready! How did I dare think you’d do the right thing and stick to our deal?’
‘Come on...’ I growl the words. ‘Be reasonable. We made this deal when we hardly knew each other. Are you telling me nothing’s changed for you in the last two weeks?’
Her eyes flash with more anger and her cheeks drain of colour. ‘Of course things have changed! I’m not an idiot! But nothing important has changed. What I want is still the same.’
‘And that’s for this to end when I leave?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So if I’m back in New York you really don’t want me to call you?’
She frowns, and that little divot forms between her brows. I ache to lift a finger to it and touch it, touch her. But I don’t.
‘No.’
A laugh escapes my mouth. A sound of disbelief. ‘I’m not ready to walk away from you.’
‘This isn’t about you.’
Her eyes hold mine for a moment and then drop.
‘What is it about, then?’
‘It’s about knowing we need to let this go.’
‘Why? You don’t think there’s something here worth keeping hold of?’
She sniffs.
Hell, is she crying? I can handle almost anything, but not Ally’s tears. I feel like my chest has been ripped open and someone is reaching in and squeezing my organs in a fist.
I wait for her to answer, my question sitting between us like an enormous, impossible-to-navigate boulder.
‘Ally?’ I prompt gruffly when she doesn’t answer.
‘I’ll admit,’ she says shakily, ‘that things between us are kind of amazing—’
‘“Kind of amazing”?’ I interrupt, running a hand through my hair.
‘But it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want to be in a relationship. I don’t want a boyfriend. I don’t want to live with the risks that are bound up in loving someone.’
‘So you’re—what? Going to stay single for ever? Run through a succession of fuck buddies for the rest of your life?’
The very idea is curdling my blood.
She looks away from me and my stomach drops. Good job, jackass. Bully and berate her into a relationship. That’s a great idea.
‘I don’t know.’
Her whisper is a plaintive cry. I can’t help it. I cover the distance between us, my stride long. I press my body to hers, trapping her with my legs as my hands reach up and lock her face between them. I drag her up as I push my head down, finding her lips as though the survival of humanity will be ensured by this kiss.
‘I know enough for both of us.’
She shakes her head, and I can taste her tears, and it makes me want to fuck her so much more. It’s the only way we can communicate without doubts.
I push at her negligee, my hands demanding, my need raw. I rip it from her body and she moans into my mouth. I drop my lips to her shoulder and taste her flesh with my tongue, then press my teeth into her. She arches her back and, fuck, I need her more than I ever have.
I push at her bra—it’s just a scrap of lace that barely holds her in place. I drop it with an equal mix of contempt and admiration, and then I take a breast into my mouth with a primal moan of need.
I cannot function without her.
I lift her, wrapping her legs around me, and she is running her hands through my hair, tasting me, kissing my cheek, my jaw, her hands touching every square inch of me as she goes. I ache to possess her, but this torturous lead-up is heaven on earth.
I drop her onto the bed. I’m not gentle. She bounces as she lands and her eyes contain the same rush of fury as they meet mine.
I don’t care.
I’m furious as well. I’m furious with her for sticking to some stupid rules we agreed to way back when we hardly knew each other. But her crying... Her crying damned near breaks my heart.
I don’t think she even realises she’s doing it, but I run my tongue along her cheek, catching a tear, tasting her salt and her sadness, and then I kiss her.
I drop my mouth to her chest, running my tongue over her, and my fingers brush her sides, pausing at her hips to hold her as I take my tongue to her clit and torment her in the way I know she loves. Her fingers are tearing through my hair. She lifts her legs and I grip her ankles, holding her there, making her fall apart.
And she does.
She cries out as the rapture of her orgasm drops over us both and then I move, stepping out of my jeans, hovering over her. I stretch across and grab a condom from my side of the bed. My fingers are shaking as I stretch it over me. Need is like a spring, coiled tight in my chest.
I stare at her and, fuck it, I know I need to roll the dice.
I gamble. I gamble in the only way I can think of because I’m all in.