“Clearly, no one else volunteered,” I shoot back, sliding onto a stool. The vinyl sighs under me. “What’s it been? Ten years?” He squints, pretending to count. “Eight, maybe. You look good. Different, but good.” The last time I stepped foot in this bar was before I got pregnant with my oldest. It was the last time David and I came to town around the Holidays.
“Translation: I aged like a person who pays taxes,” I say, flipping my hair back. He laughs, sets down a napkin like it’s a peace offering. “What’ll it be?”
We order drinks. I go with a bourbon, neat, with a lime wedge tossed in because I like pretending that somehow makes it lighter. Truth is, I don’t even drink bourbon. At home, it’s wine —always wine— something dry and respectable that matches my glassware and my carefully curated Spotify playlists. At work events, it’s champagne. Because bubbles say I have it together even when I don’t.
But tonight? Tonight, I’m not that Olivia. Julia’s already halfway through her vodka soda when she nudges me. “Do you want to do a shot?”
“Nope.” She gives me that look, the one that says she’s about to make it her personal mission to corrupt me. “Come on. Just one. Pretty please?” I roll my eyes, but she’s impossible to resist. Always has been. “Fine. Just one.”
The bartender is already reaching for the tequila, lining up glasses with the kind of muscle memory only a man who’s seen too much can manage. He’s mid-pour when a voice slides in behind me, smooth, low, and completely out of my nightmares.
“Make that four.” Every nerve in my body snaps to attention. I don’t turn. I don’t have to. The air shifts, that particular charge that only comes withhim. My pulse stumbles, then sprints.
He steps up beside me like the bar’s his stage, and he’s been waiting for his cue. The faintest scent of his cologne hits me —leather, something clean and expensive —and suddenly the room feels too small, too hot.
I take a slow breath that doesn’t help. My reflection in the bar mirror looks composed. My insides are anything but. He’s grinning, that same glorious, infuriating smirk that should be illegal in at least three states. “I heard we were taking shots,” he says, his voice all confidence and casual sin. “Might as well join.”
Jack lines up the four shot glasses like he knows he’s part of a scene. Salt, lime, liquid courage. I reach for mine with steady fingers that aren’t actually steady at all.
I try to breathe. I fail. Because Ethan’s here. And the last time he was this close, he ruined me. And from the way he’s looking at me now, I know he remembers every second of it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ETHAN
I bringthe shot glass to my lips, but my eyes never leave Olivia’s. She throws her head back with the others, the tequila making her wince, her lips parting just slightly as the heat hits her throat. She shakes her head with a soft laugh, like she’s already regretting it. She has never been good at taking shots. Olivia and Tequila have never been a good combination.
God, she’s trying so damn hard to play it cool, but she’s not fooling anyone, at least not me. I smirk and set my glass down. Julia and Leo slide into the booth across from us. I follow Olivia in, letting her slide across the seat first, close enough that her thigh brushes against mine innocently and casually. At least, that’s what it would look like to anyone watching. She stiffens, just for a breath. But she doesn’t move away. That’s good, that’s what I wanted.
Across the table, Julia and Leo dive into their usual banter, the kind that turns into quick laughter and half-finished stories. It’s easy for a minute. Olivia laughs at a story about Julia sneaking into the football field after curfew, and I let myself get pulled into it, let the rhythm of the moment settle. We start talking about work. The city, the grind, it’s all surface-level, safe, way too fucking safe.
And all I can think about is the heat radiating from her skin. The way she keeps tugging her skirt down like it might cover something. I know that a mini skirt is supposed to be short, but this is way shorter than it needs to be, and she is aware. So, I shift slightly, just enough to let my hand drift under the table, resting lightly on her thigh. She freezes mid-sentence, but she plays it cool and keeps talking. I don’t move my hand. I just let it sit there, warm and steady.
Her eyes snap to mine, wide and filled with warning, but then the server walks over, gathering empty glasses before she can say anything. “Another round of shots,” I say smoothly. Julia lights up. “Yes!” Olivia opens her mouth to protest, but Julia beats her to it. “Come on, O. You said you wanted to have fun tonight.” Olivia exhales and gives a small smile, like she feels defeated. Or maybe just tired of pretending she doesn’t want this as badly as I do. I hope for that second option. “Bring me another Bourbon with lime, please,” she says casually to the server. This is getting good.
The shots arrive. As we lift them, I let my fingers inch higher up her thigh, just an inch: enough for her to feel it, and enough to make her feel me. I’m loving this mini skirt. We knock back the shots. Olivia slams her glassdown and leans in, lips near my ear. “Stop it,” she hisses, her tone low, sharp, and completely bullshit by the smirk on her face. I lean closer, my voice just as quiet. “Why?”
Her hand grips my wrist under the table, not yanking, not rejecting it, just holding it. Her fingers wrap tight, like she's afraid of what happens if I go further, and fearful of what happens if I don’t. She lets go, and she doesn’t move away. She takes a sip of her drink, then looks at me over the rim of her glass. Her look is challenging, more like teasing. “Don’t look at me like that, Liv,” I murmur. She cocks her head. “Or what?” My jaw tightens. She can’t be serious right now. “You really want to find out?”
Her lips twitch as if she might say yes. Like she might dare me to prove it. Across the table, Julia suddenly nudges Leo and points. “Is that Jake Henderson?”
“No way,” Leo says, already standing. “We have to say hi.” And they are gone. Thank you, Jake Henderson, whoever the fuck you are.
Now, it’s just us. Olivia turns back to me, the tension thick between us. “Ethan, you need to—” I don’t let her finish. I shift closer, my hand sliding back onto her thigh, this time higher, and faster. Her breath hitches again. Still no protest.
I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “If I had to guess…” I pause, just long enough for her to feel it. “I’ll say you’re wet right now.” She stiffens. Her eyes snap to mine, wide with disbelief, but she doesn’t move. I press in a little closer. “Spread your legs, Liv.” Her breath stutters, her jaw clenches, but she doesn’t say no.
She shifts, barely, but enough. Enough for my hand to slip higher. Her skin is soft, burning hot. Every inch I move, I feel like I might lose it. The need I have for this woman is stupid, reckless, and I need to fucking stop right now. But my fingers find the edge of her panties, and I brush over the lace. I glance at her. She’s biting her lip, hard. Her breath is ragged now. I slide my fingers beneath the fabric, slow and careful, until I find what I already knew would be there.
She’s soaked.Fuck.
A low groan builds in my chest. My cock throbs hard against the zipper of my jeans. Easy, boy, we can’t make a scene here. I slide one finger in, she jerks slightly, her body clenching around me. “Ethan…” she breathes. But it’s not a protest, it’s a prayer. Her fingers grip my wrist, but she’s not stopping me. She’s anchoring herself, holding on like she might fall apart if she doesn’t. I curl my finger inside her, feeling her tighten, pulsing, needing me. She closes her eyes, and she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, trying not to moan, trying not to break. I lean in again, my lips brushing her jaw, her ear, her throat. “Did you miss this?”
She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t have to. The way she moves into my hand. The way her legs part a little more. The way she lets her head fall back against the booth, just slightly, that’s the answer. That tells me everything I need to know.
She’s mine.
She’s always been.
