CHAPTER NINE
I FEEL AS THOUGH the lift isn’t moving.
Ethan is beside me, and we are being pulled upwards by cables and knots, but I need him. I need him to fuck me. Not to tell me I’m beautiful. Not to wander through the MoMA with me, looking at pictures and listening to me explain them.
That’s breaking the rules!
What the hell were we thinking?
We have to fuck, and now, to remind us both of all the things we want from this—and all the things we don’t.
When the doors finally open I can’t help but groan my relief. He grins at me and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me into his side, leading me down the corridor towards his room. The second we are inside I launch myself at him, holding him tighter, seeking his mouth.
He seeks mine back. Our need is mutual. Urgent. Inflammatory.
‘Fuuuuck.’ He rips himself away and stares at me like he’s trying to make sense of this, of me, of our need. ‘Fuck.’ He shakes his head. ‘What the hell are you doing to me?’
I don’t want to talk. Even about sex and our insatiable need for it. I push myself against him, kissing him, pushing at his shirt, and he answers in kind, lifting my dress over my ass, higher, breaking the kiss just enough to undress me completely.
His fingers are demanding as they slide into the waistband of my underpants, pushing down, curving around my ass, and then he lifts me easily, as though I weigh nothing. He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist, and his kiss is warming me up from inside. He lies me on the sofa but stays on top of me, and his kiss, the weight of his body, the roll of his hips—it is everything.
I arch my back, seeking him, needing him, but there are too many clothes in the way.
‘Need...’ I whimper, snapping his belt open and pulling it out of his jeans.
He reaches down and undoes his button and zip and kicks his legs out of the pants, barely breaking our kiss. His lips move over mine. His tongue is daring me, daring mine, taunting me, making me forget all my reasons for keeping this light. Making me want more, want to beg him to stay in my life in some capacity even when I know that temporary is all we are—all that makes sense.
Also all I should want.
I run my fingers up his back and he grunts; I think he swears but the ringing bell of desire is all I can hear. And our own urgent breaths, tangling together, the sound of the impatient passion that defines us.
He hums in my ear, and I make a sound a bit like a moan. He is so sexy—his voice so beautiful, so raw, so famous. It hits me then, for the first time, that I’m sleeping with a celebrity. Someone so famous that everyone in the world must know who he is.
And I pull back a little—just enough to see his face, to look into his eyes.
Fuck. What am I doing?
My heart trips over a little, thumping hard against my ribs, and my stomach swirls with emotions I don’t even want to think about analysing. Recognition pulses through me. Why has it taken me so long to realise that he’s not just Ethan? To remember that he’s Ethan Ash, superstar?
‘What is it?’
His gravelly voice travels through me, finding every space inside me and warming it up. Superheating me from the inside out.
I shake my head, but a frown lingers on my lips. I kiss him to chase it away, losing myself once more in the sensual charge that besieges us both.
‘Are you okay?’
I nod, jerkily. ‘Fuck me.’
His laugh is without humour. ‘Alicia...?’
Oh, great. Now he goes and brings my real name into it.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, digging my fingers into his hips, dragging him down against me, lifting myself up in a wordless invitation.
But he breaks away from me and for a second I think he’s not going to give me what I need. I am empty and bereft. But he returns a short moment later, a condom in his hand and a smile on his lips.
‘You, Alicia Douglas, are a mystery.’
My heart twists. ‘A good mystery?’
‘A fantastic one.’
He winks and my throat is dry suddenly.
Keep it light. Keep it fun.
I reach up and lace my fingers behind his head, pulling him down, greedily seeking his mouth, taking everything he offers and still demanding more. There is nothing light about this, even while it is the most fun I’ve ever had.
My need for him—and I’m not blind or stupid enough to pretend I don’t need him—is all-consuming. If I’m not careful it is going to take over, and I will no longer have autonomy.
I have to fuck him and go.
I push him angrily, needily, desperately, and together we roll off the couch onto the carpeted floor. He laughs, but I’m ripping the condom out of his hands and tearing it open, sliding it from its packet and pushing it onto him. His eyes are watching me, and it makes my fingers shake. I remove my own underwear quickly, then straddle him, leaning forward to kiss him at the same time I take him deep inside me.
Passion tears through us and we are fast, we are hungry, we are desperate. I move my hips, but he makes a growl of frustration and rolls us so that he is on top of me, the weight of his body a heavenly pleasure. I wrap my legs around his waist but he catches my calves and lifts them higher. I can’t contain the furious pleasure that is taking over me. I lie back, my eyes squeezed shut as flames lick my nerves, making me tremble and sweat.
He stills and I groan, twisting my hips.
‘Look at me.’
The command is husky, and he accompanies it with fingers that press under my chin, pulling my face towards him, angling me so that I am facing him.
‘Look at me,’ he says again, and I realise my eyes are still squeezed shut.
I blink them open and regret it immediately. It is as though I have been stabbed. Something unpleasant and sharp thrusts into my chest—something I don’t recognise yet but know I don’t want. I look over his shoulder but he shakes his head.
‘I want to see you come.’
‘You will,’ I whisper, knowing that the wave is about to crash. Any minute.
He pushes deeper and I draw in an unsteady breath, digging my fingernails into my palms.
‘Let me see you.’
I don’t know what he means. I look to him for clarification and our eyes lock. He moves inside me, not looking away, and I don’t look away either because suddenly I can’t. There are invisible forces at work and they compel me to be brave even when I’m running from this feeling.
This perfect, perfect torment.
Inexplicably, tears threaten to moisten my eyes. I blink, but still I look at him. And I fall. I fall off the edge. There is nothing to hold, nothing to save my fall. I am weightless in the air—just me, my pleasure, no gravity, nothing.
I’m sure he sees this, because he’s watching me so closely, and because he kisses me differently as I tremble in his arms. A kiss of warmth rather than heat. Of understanding and acceptance. I kiss him back.
What else can I do?
He moves inside me slowly, letting muscles that are squeezing him frantically return to their normal state, and then he thrusts hard, so that I cry out, and we are falling together this time, holding hands, riding the same wave of pleasure at the same time. I cry his name into his mouth over and over again. Not Ethan Ash, because he is just Ethan again. Ethan who makes me feel as I never knew I could.
Ethan who is mine. Not the world’s.
Though he is. I know that.
But like this, right here, he is mine.
And I am his.
The thought rattles through me as though I am an empty barn and it is tumbleweed. It rocks me to my core.
I am no one’s.
I stiffen beneath him and press my fingers into his chest. I angle my head away.
‘You are fucking amazing,’ he says. ‘This is amazing.’
‘It’s not me,’ I say seriously.
‘I think it must be.’
He kisses the tip of my nose and my gut twists. I must flee from this tempting perfection before it sucks me under and robs me of breath and sanity altogether.
‘I should go.’
His laugh is husky. ‘I’m still inside you.’
He throbs and my breath catches in my throat. Heat suffuses my cheeks.
‘I know.’ With great effort I make my voice light. Amused.
‘You’re not going anywhere.’
He pulls away from me, though, straightening and then standing, striding through the hotel room towards the bathroom. I watch him go, my eyes hungrily devouring this aspect of him—his beautiful, naked body.
He emerges a minute later, a towel wrapped low around his waist. He strides to the phone and picks it up. ‘Ethan Ash. Give me Room Service.’
I prop myself on my elbows, knowing I should make an effort to get dressed, but enjoying watching him too much. I’ll move soon, I tell myself.
He turns to face me; our eyes lock. I am lost once more. I can feel him inside me even though he is across the room. The phantom of his being with me is a powerful, beautiful thing.
‘Fillet steak. Fries. Onion rings. A salad.’ He lifts a brow questioningly and covers the receiver. ‘Anything else?’
I shake my head.
‘Ice cream. Some oysters. Maybe some garlic bread. A peach.’
He winks at me, then hangs up as he strides over to me. He stares at me for a heart-thumping second, his expression unreadable, and then he drops his hands down, inviting me to grab them.
I know it’s not wise, but I put my hands in his as if on autopilot and he pulls me up to stand. Our bodies press to one another. My breath catches.
‘I’ve missed you.’
My heart drops.
He can’t have missed me. It’s not what we are.
I smile, but I know it’s only half a smile. I’m too perturbed, confused, concerned, to be properly amused.
‘I want to ask you something.’
I don’t think my look is encouraging, but apparently he doesn’t notice. He begins to sing again. His latest song. The one that is on all the radio stations—everywhere. His latest song that is a number one hit.
God, he’s so famous.
And yet we speak as though it doesn’t matter.
‘Yeah?’ It’s a hoarse prompt.
‘I’m doing a gig Friday night. Wanna come?’
It takes several seconds for me to connect the words with the truth. The fact that by ‘doing a gig’ he means performing at a concert. And not a little local town hall concert either.
‘Where?’ I ask with a sinking heart.
‘The Garden.’
‘Madison Square Garden?’
He nods.
He’ll be performing for tens of thousands of people. On Friday night. When I would usually be at happy hour with my two best friends.
‘That’s okay,’ I say, not quite sure how to reply properly. ‘I’m good.’
‘I know you’re good,’ he responds with a wry twist of his lips. ‘I’m asking if you want to come to the concert.’
I bite down on my lip and decide honesty is the best policy. ‘Will you be offended if I say no?’
He laughs. ‘No. My ego isn’t that fragile. I’m curious, though.’
Naturally. ‘It’s just...’ How can I put into words what I don’t fully understand myself?
‘You don’t like my music?’ he teases.
‘Can’t stand it,’ I quip back.
His smile makes my stomach lurch. ‘I just...’
‘Yes?’
His lips are twitching at the corners, showing his amusement even as he tries to listen seriously to whatever wisdom I’m about to share.
‘I don’t know. I mean... I just... First of all, I don’t see you like that. I know you’re some superstar, but I like it that this feels so normal.’ I pause. ‘I mean apart from the luxurious apartment, the mega-mansion at the heart of the village and your penchant for ordering everything off the room service menu.’
He laughs.
‘And we both know this isn’t a relationship.’ I force myself to meet his eyes. ‘We’re two people who have agreed to...to sleep together. To fuck. That’s our thing.’ I sigh. ‘I had fun today. At the MoMA with you. But we shouldn’t do that again.’
‘We can do the Staten Island Ferry next time,’ he teases.
‘I’m serious, Ethan.’ I need him to understand. ‘We’ve both said what we want from this. The MoMA, your concert... Those things aren’t on my list.’
He stares at me long and hard for a few seconds. ‘I thought we said we’d have fun?’
‘Yeah. Sexy fun.’
He laughs. ‘I found you very sexy at the MoMA. Think of it as foreplay, baby. It was just one afternoon.’
‘No.’ I shake my head quickly. ‘It’s more complicated than that.’
His eyes crinkle at the corners, as if he’s trying really hard not to laugh. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a tendency to overthink shit?’
‘Not so eloquently,’ I mumble.
His laugh is short. ‘Well, you do.’
‘There’s danger in this,’ I say seriously, softly, pulling him back to the heart of my worries. ‘Danger for me.’
His eyes throb with mine. He is reading me. Studying me. Analysing me. I keep my expression blank of emotion with an enormous effort.
‘Who hurt you?’
The question knocks me sideways. I drop his hand and take a step backwards.
‘No one.’
I move towards the window. I’m awkward. My body is hot and cold.
‘Who hurt you?’
‘No one.’ I say it more emphatically now. ‘You think that the only reason a person can not want to be in a relationship with you is that she’s running from a past trauma, or something? Talk about egomaniacal.’
The charge is completely unreasonable—particularly given that he’s right.
‘I think there’s more to this than you’re telling me,’ he insists quietly.
My eyes lift to his in the reflection of the window. There is strength in his stance and I feel it push against me. I suck in a breath; it barely reaches my lungs.
‘So?’ I’m on the defensive. I make a point to lower my voice. ‘Have you told me everything about you and Sienna?’
I see his frown in the reflection. ‘No.’
‘But you think I should be an open book to you?’
‘Hey.’
He walks behind me slowly, but his hands on my shoulders are firm. Demanding. He turns me around, then presses his thumb beneath my chin, holding my face towards his.
‘You’re the one who’s acting like I’ve just fucking proposed. Why?’
‘I’m not.’ I bite down on my lip and jerk away from him. ‘I just don’t want you to go shifting the goalposts.’
I sink my teeth into my lip harder. His eyes drop to the gesture.
My heart twists painfully. Far worse than his desire to negotiate our...whatever this is...is his quick acceptance of my position. I know it’s for the best, but it hurts that he doesn’t fight harder.
What am I wanting? Him to prove that he wants more from me than I’m willing to give? What kind of emotional sadist am I becoming?
‘So, a concert, huh?’ I say, the words so over-bright they are brittle, like wood that’s been left in the sun for days on end. Paint peels away my confidence. ‘You nervous?’
His own smile is dismissive, distracted. ‘No. It’s not my first time.’
‘No, of course.’
We’re on safer ground, and I’m grateful, but the awkwardness of our conversation is still between us, lumpy and insistent. I hate it. I hate it that we’ve argued. I hate it that he probably thinks I’m either completely crazy or completely weird.
‘You’ve been doing this a long time, I guess?’
He sighs. Wearily.
Weary of me?
Warning bells flash.
I’m messing everything up.
Isn’t that the point? Isn’t that why I’m fighting to keep my emotions out of this?
‘Yeah.’
I sidestep his touch. Our intimacy is gone. We’re just two strangers in a cold room full of misunderstanding. My dress is by the door. I move towards it on legs that are shaking, lift it up with the tips of my fingers and pull it on. When I turn around he’s watching me, with that same look of confusion on his handsome face.
God, he deserves better than this.
I swallow, looking towards the window, uneasy and uncertain.
‘You’re not wrong.’
The words are so soft they’re almost a whisper; I don’t even realise I’m going to say them until I hear the way they float across the room towards him.
‘About what?’
I clear my throat. ‘Before you, I hadn’t... It had been a while since I’d been with anyone else.’
‘But there was someone important before me?’ he prompts.
I nod, my eyes locking to his, showing the depth of my emotion and the ache of my pain. ‘Yes.’
‘And it didn’t work out?’
He says it gently, like teasing a knot out of a rope.
I shake my head and those stupid, stupid tears are back, hot in my eyes. I blink furiously, wiping them away without touching my face.
‘What happened?’
He asks the question with such kindness that I think I could collapse.
I don’t.
I’m not going to be weakened by Jeremy any more. I’m stronger now. Stronger than when I first met him and I believed in fairy tales and happily-ever-after and soulmates. What a load of nonsense.
Ethan takes my silence for an unwillingness to discuss it.
‘Look...’ He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. ‘You don’t have to talk about it. But don’t run away from me, Alicia. Just...stay and have more fun.’
My body jerks at the prospect. It’s what I need and want. More than anything.
‘Why don’t you have a bath? Relax. I’ll call you when dinner gets here.’
He’s being so kind and it’s hurting my heart to experience that, knowing the limitations of what we are.
I nod, though, and move towards the enormous bathroom before he can see the emotions on my face. And before I can make sense of them.
Because they’re scaring me half to death.
* * *
We have devoured almost the whole tray of room service food. Despite the fact I said I wasn’t hungry, it turns out that incredible, mind-blowing, multiple orgasm sex is enough to give anyone an appetite.
‘Things with me and Sienna hadn’t been working for a long time...’
I am torn. Morbid curiosity is at the forefront of my mind, but so too is the knowledge that this discussion is dangerous.
‘Why not?’
Curiosity, apparently, wins.
He reaches for a chip and eats it thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know.’ His smile is disarming. ‘Maybe we were never right together. But, man, we hated each other by the end. Still, for her to be engaged to someone else months later...’
I wince at his description and again I think of Jeremy. Of that afternoon.
‘Is this what you do? You farm me off to my mother’s, with our kids, so you can screw her?’
‘Come on, Fiona! Why wouldn’t I be fucking around behind your back? You’re as cold as ice and I’m bored. We never see each other any more. I don’t remember the last time we actually fucked.’
The memory makes my heart hurt.
‘I guess relationships change. People change. Love is complicated,’ I say with a shrug. ‘Do you know the guy?’
‘Tom Banks?’ He grimaces. ‘Yeah.’
‘That’s so much worse,’ I say softly. ‘Do you like him?’
Ethan shrugs. ‘The thing is, I kind of thought something was going on between them. She told me I was imagining it.’
My stomach twists. Lies. Love and lies. How common—and complex—it is.
‘How long were you guys together?’
‘On and off around six years,’ he says.
As though that’s nothing. As though that doesn’t change everything. Honestly, if he’d told me they’d had twins together I’d have been less shocked.
That’s a hell of a long time. He’s only twenty-eight. So they started dating when he was in his early twenties. I blink at him, but he doesn’t seem to realise how spun out I am.
‘We were friends for another six or so years before that.’
It’s Jeremy and Fiona all over again. A shiver runs down my spine—that same trickling sense of being an outsider, running over me like a rash. But for some reason this almost seems worse, and I can’t say why.
‘All this...the fame thing...it’s a tricky son of a bitch. I guess because I knew Sienna before. Before I made it...before she made it... I thought that somehow future-proofed us. I thought that made us more real.’
Does he know how hard this is to hear? Of course not. I’ve told him I want nothing from him. So we’re people who fuck...and apparently now I’m his therapist as well.
I’m tempted to establish some kind of barrier here. A line in the sand meaning we don’t talk about Sienna or Jeremy. But my morbid curiosity is still thick inside me and I find it impossible to ignore.
‘Do you miss her?’
His eyes latch to mine and his smile spreads across his face slowly. But there is resignation in that look, too. ‘I seem to have found the perfect Band-Aid.’