This time, if you really want me, come and find me.
I pace the length of my bedroom, unable to stay still. The adrenaline from our confrontation still courses through my veins, making my hands tremble slightly. I reach the window, turn back, reach the door, turn again. A caged animal. That's how I feel. Trapped between hope and doubt.
One minute passes. Two. Five.
He's not coming.
The realization sinks in, disappointment a lead weight in my stomach. Of course he's not coming. I practically threw myself at him, and he still couldn't bring himself tocross that line. All those excuses he listed: his age, his past, his friends' feelings. They were just that. Excuses.
I exhale a ragged breath and head to the bathroom. A shower. That's what I need. Hot water to wash away this frustration, this want, this need.
I strip off my clothes, leaving them in a careless pile on the floor. The hot spray hits my skin, and I close my eyes, letting it sluice over me. Water has become my enemy, the source of panic and flashbacks, but in this controlled environment, it's a comfort. Something to focus on besides the hollow ache in my chest.
I take my time, scrubbing my skin almost roughly, as if I could wash away the feeling of rejection along with the city grit. By the time I turn off the water, my skin is pink and tingling. I wrap a towel around my body, another around my hair, and wipe the steam from the mirror.
The woman who stares back looks different somehow. Flushed. Raw. Exposed beyond the lack of clothes or makeup. This is what truth costs, I think. This is the price of finally admitting what you want. Who you want.
I drop the towel from my hair, combing through the damp strands with my fingers. Taking a deep breath, I open the bathroom door...
And freeze.
Ethan stands in the center of my bedroom, as still as a predator before the strike, drenched in shadow and moonlight. His chest rises and falls like he ran thewhole way up the stairs. His jaw tight. His hands clenched. His gaze locked on me with something feral, dark and intense, filled with something I've never seen before. Not from him. Not from anyone.
His gaze rakes over me with the intensity of a man at war with himself, the tension in his body vibrating across the air like static before lightning strikes.
Hunger. Pure, undiluted hunger.
"You told me to come find you," he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate in my bones. "Here I am."
My pulse jumps in my throat, so hard I'm sure he can see it fluttering beneath my skin. I can't speak. Can't move. Can only stand there, clutching my towel, feeling more exposed beneath his gaze than I've ever felt on any runway or photoshoot.
"I've been thinking about everything you said." He takes a step toward me. "About being scared. About making things complicated when they don't need to be."
Another step. The room seems to shrink around us, the air growing thicker, charged with electricity.
"You were right," he continues, his eyes never leaving mine. "I've been hiding behind excuses. Control. Duty. Professionalism."
He's close now, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with something darker, muskier.
"But I'm done hiding." His voice drops to a near-whisper. "I'm done running from what I want."
"And what do you want?" I manage to ask, my voice barely audible.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, to where the towel covers my body. "You," he says simply.
In that moment, something shifts inside me. A certainty, a courage I didn't know I possessed. I let my towel fall to the floor.
It slips down in a whisper, and I stand there, bare and breathless, letting him see everything. My skin flushes beneath his gaze, hot and exposed, but I don't look away. I want him to see me. All of me.
I watch his expression change, pupils dilating, jaw clenching as he takes in my naked body. I should feel vulnerable, exposed. Instead, I feel powerful. Wanted. Seen.
He moves with a speed that startles me, closing the distance between us in one fluid motion. His hands cup my face, tilting it upward as his mouth descends on mine. This is possession, claiming, devouring. I gasp as his mouth slants over mine, fierce and reverent, the kiss bruising and beautiful in equal measure.
I respond with equal fervor, my hands fisting in his shirt,pulling him closer. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I moan at the invasion, at the taste of him.
He backs me against the wall, his body pressing against mine. I can feel every hard plane of him, the heat of him burning through his clothes. His hands move from my face to my waist, sliding upward to cup my breasts. When his thumbs brush across my nipples, I gasp against his mouth.
"Ethan," I breathe, arching into his touch.
