She heard rustling, then: the unmistakable sound of a zipper opening. Her breath hitched, her fingers circling faster. She could hear his breathing, too, hard and labored. The sound of flesh moving against flesh.
It aroused her so much that her orgasm hit her immediately, almost unexpectedly. She didn’t hold back, crying out and gasping as she came. The knowledge that he was listening intently to her every whimper prolonged it, sending one aftershock after another. In the other room, she could hear Ethan’s tempo speeding up, trying and failing to suppress his own reactions, his strangled groans. Her fingers began to move again and she felt herself starting to reach another peak already, spurred on by the sounds of his pleasure building. As soon as she heard his breath quicken to a pant, his climactic moan too intense to stifle, she crashed over the edge again, even more strongly than before.
She lay there, blissed out and boneless, listening to the sound of her breathing syncing with and then deviating from his. Eventually, she heard him zip his pants, then the sound of footsteps approaching the door.
Finally.And then—
The door shut the last three inches.
ETHAN DIDN’T USUALLY REMEMBER HISdreams. When he did, though, they were vivid Technicolor nightmare extravaganzas, usually centered around the morning he found out about Sam. Waking up disoriented, head pounding. Dozens of missed calls on his phone. Nora’s ashen face. Bile rising in his throat.
This time, however, there was a new twist. None of the images changed, but somehow he knew this was different. It wasn’t Sam who was gone, his world shattering in an instant, his life forever divided into before and after. It was Grey.
He woke up sweaty and shaking. It took a few seconds for the hangover to hit him, and a few more before scenes from last night began trickling back. Grey climbing on top of him. Him pushing her away. Her flouncing into her room and…oh. A ripple of arousal went through him, battling his nausea for dominance.
They really needed to talk.
He sat up gingerly, groping around for one of the complimentary bottles of water. When he found one, he drained nearly thewhole thing at once. That seemed to help. Something else came back from last night, too: Grey’s dig about his drinking. He had to admit the throb of his hangover seemed to back up her point.
But still, she was exaggerating. He’d hurt her feelings, and she lashed out. Sure, he overdid it sometimes—but who didn’t? There was nothing wrong with having a few drinks with dinner, a couple of beers at the end of the day. Everyone did. Just because she couldn’t hold her alcohol didn’t mean that everyone else had to abstain, too.
He heard the shower running; she was awake. Just then, there was a knock on the front door, announcing the arrival of their breakfast they’d preordered the day before. He wheeled it inside, then went into the half bathroom off the living room to brush his teeth and splash his face with water.
By the time she joined him out on the patio, he was halfway through his scrambled eggs. She hopped out, assisted by a single crutch, hair damp and curling down her back. She was wearing her sunglasses, and when she sat down next to him, he could see the sheen of sweat on her forehead. However hungover he felt, she looked ten times worse. She pulled her breakfast dish toward herself—Greek yogurt and fruit—and stared at it for a long moment. She picked up her spoon slowly, like she dreaded the prospect of having to use it. Her lips twitched.
Ethan put down his fork and pushed his plate toward her.
“Here. Eat this.”
She turned to him, her face pale, her mirrored lenses reflecting two of him right back.
“You look like you’re about to puke all over the table. Don’t torture yourself with yogurt.”
She nodded slowly and brought the plate in front of her, picking up his fork.
“Coffee?”
She nodded. “Please.” Her voice was hoarse.
She avoided the eggs, but was able to finish the toast, sausage, and potatoes. As she drank her coffee, the color returned to her cheeks, and she seemed to perk up slightly. She still left the yogurt untouched, but attacked the fruit cup with alacrity.
“I think I’m going to get a massage today,” she said, mouth full of strawberries.
He refilled his own coffee mug. “Sounds good.”
“What about you?”
“I’m not really a massage guy.”
“No, I mean, what are you going to do today?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Mmm.”
She sat back, propping her ankle up on the empty chair next to her.
He looked at her. She looked at him.
