Chapter 19
Ethan
Tonight. It’s our third night together and I want it to be different. Not because I want to prove something. I already know what we have is real, even if we’re faking the rest of the world. No, I want this night to be the one she remembers the most.
We barely make it through dinner. Harper sits across from me in a soft sweater, sleeves bunched at the elbows, her hair falling in loose, messy curls that make my hands ache to touch it. She’s not wearing much makeup — she never does — but her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are wide, catching the gold light like it’s her personal element. When she smiles at something dumb I say, I feel it in places that have nothing to do with tenderness and everything to do with wanting her under me again.
When we get back to the suite, I watch her cross the room toward the window. She stares at the snow, then at her own reflection, then down at her hands. I want to walk up behind her,wrap my arms around her waist, and tell her I’m never letting her go. I don’t. Not yet. I just watch, hands in my pockets, letting the need build and burn until it’s almost too much. She is the only thing I want to look at, and I’m not going to be subtle about it tonight.
She turns and catches my gaze in the glass. “You’re staring.”
“I am,” I admit.
She bites her lip. “Why?”
“Because I want to remember this,” I tell her exactly like this.”
Harper doesn’t say anything right away. Her arms cross, hugging herself, but she’s smiling as she does it.
“Is that so?”
I walk toward her. Slow, steady. She’s not backing away, but I can smell the nerves on her. On me, too. When I reach her, I stop with only a few inches between us. She’s still hugging herself. I gently guide her arms down, then lace my fingers through hers. Her skin is cold, but not for long.
“I mean it,” I say, voice steady. “If I think about this week ten years from now, this moment is going to be the one that comes to mind first. Not the fake wedding, not the photos, not any of the other bullshit. Just you, here, with me.”
She lets out a nervous laugh. “Is this your way of seducing me?”
“It’s my way of telling the truth,” I say, pinning her with a look that I hope leaves no doubts. “I don’t do lines, Harper. I do facts.”
She blushes, eyes darting away before she can hold my stare. I bend so I can see her face again, closer, and she laughs again, letting her head tip back just a little. It’s not a nervous sound this time. It’s pure, bright, and punctures something tight inside my chest.
“You’re supposed to be the strong, silent type,” she accuses, but her voice is soft, not a hint of gruff.”
I lower my voice so she’ll have to lean in. “You bring it out in me.” She does. I’m pretty sure if Harper asked, I’d open up my chest and let her see every secret I ever kept buried. Instead, I let go of her hands, trail my fingers up her jawline, then cup her cheek, loving the way she melts into the touch. She’s trembling, but it’s not fear. It’s anticipation, or maybe relief, like she’s just realized there’s nowhere else she’d rather be. I thumb the corner of her mouth. Harper’s smiling and I want to taste her even more than I want to kiss her. But I do that, too.
I lower my head and brush her lips, soft, slow, nothing like the wildness from before. I want to savor this, so I do. Her lips part, soft and ready, and I press into her, one kiss, then another, then a third, until she’s breathing my name between them. Her hands find their way to my chest, then up to my neck, fingers curling at the base of my skull. Every single point of contact is a jolt of pure need.
I coax her backward until her shoulders hit the glass, cool behind her, and she gasps, arching into me. I cage her in with an arm on either side of her, and she meets my eyes, unguarded and hungry. I want to see her come apart, not just on the bed, but starting right here. I want to memorize the exact pitch of her moan, the catch in her breath, the way she shudders and clings to me when I touch her.
I don’t rush. I don’t have to. I want Harper desperate for it, for me, for the next second and the next. So I kiss her again, deeper, until her hands are clutching fistfuls of my shirt, until she’s practically climbing me, greedy for more. That’s when I lift her and her legs instantly wrap around me. Her hips grind into mine, small but insistent, and I know she can feel exactly what she does to me. I want her to feel it.
“Easy, huh?” I growl, pinning her to the glass. She shivers in my arms—maybe from the cold glass, maybe from the want.
“You’re a menace,” she whispers, but she’s breathless, grinning, legs locked tight around my hips. I roll my hips slow, letting her feel the thick heat of my cock through both our clothes. Her head drops back and she moans, so soft only I get to hear it.
“Should take you to bed,” I murmur against her throat.
She lifts her head, eyes wild blue and shining. “Should?” she echoes.
“Should,” I confirm, and when I carry her toward the bed she clings to my shoulders, trusting me to hold her up—maybe trusting me with more than that.
I set her on the edge of the king-sized bed but don’t let go. Not yet. I kiss her again, this time letting the hunger show. I’m starving for her. I want her taste in my mouth, the shape of her body under my hands. I want to fuck her slow, then rough, then slow again. I want to ruin her for every other man, ever. If she’ll let me.
I strip her sweater up and off, tossing it somewhere I’ll never care to find again. She’s wearing nothing underneath, just the bare line of her collarbone and the sweet curve of her breasts in a pale pink bra. I groan, low and guttural, and run my hands over her arms, her sides, her ribs -- so soft and so alive I half expect her to break under my touch. She doesn’t. She leans into it, arching her chest into my palms with a confidence that undoes me.
I fall to my knees in front of her. Press my mouth to her stomach, then lower, tracing the edge of the waistband on her jeans with my tongue. She gasps. I pop the button, tug the zipper down slow, then slide the jeans off her hips, kissing every new inch of skin I uncover. I want to devour her. I want her trembling and breathless and begging for more. But I also want to savorevery single second, like I’m engraving it onto the inside of my skull.
When I get the jeans past her knees, she kicks them off and stands in just her bra and panties, shivering a little. “It’s cold,” she says, but she’s flushed, lips parted, eyes almost black with want. I run my hands up her calves, behind her knees, along the insides of her thighs.
