She shivered, both at the words and at the heat behind them, his voice low and raspy with need. His forearms flexed, like he was fighting as hard as he could not to touch her.
“I want you, too. It’s all I can think about.” She bent her head down again, pressing her open mouth behind his ear as she rocked her hips, grinding against the thick, solid ridge of his erection. The sensation sent sparks across her vision, and she whimpered involuntarily.
“Fuck,” he groaned loudly. It was as if she could hear his self-control snap. One hand grabbed a rough handful of her ass as his other arm wrapped tightly around her upper back, hauling her against him.
He kissed her with an intensity that should have scared her, everything he had been holding back pouring into her all at once through his lips, his tongue, his hungry hands roaming her body. She sank into him with a long sigh, her skin buzzing everywhere he touched her.
Then, suddenly, it was over. Before she knew it, he had half pushed, half lifted her off of him, and was somehow standing on the other side of the room.
“We can’t do this,” he said through gritted teeth.
Grey was incensed. “Why not?” she asked in a tone that would have been dangerously close to whining, if not for the thread of anger pulsing through it. “We both want to. We’re not allowed to do it with anyone else. Everyone thinks we’re already doing it anyway. It’s just sex, it’s not a big deal.”
“It would be for us!” he exploded. She was stunned into silence. He rubbed his hands against his face, looking as agitated as she felt. A few long seconds passed, the only sounds their heavy breathing over the murmur of the television. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer, bordering on weary.
“We can talk about this tomorrow. When we’re both sober.”
Her temper flared. “Oh, so you mean between 8 and 8:02 a.m.? I’ll pencil it right in. Unless you’d rather just pretend this never happened. Your specialty,” she snarled. He looked like she’d knocked the wind out of him.
She knew it was a low blow, but she didn’t care. She was horny, angry, and intoxicated, a combination that had her feeling like one giant exposed nerve. With as much dignity (and as little limping) as possible, she sauntered back into the bedroom, feeling his eyes on her ass as she walked away from him.
Once she was under the covers, the aching pulse between her legs began to throb, alerting her that there was no way she was falling asleep until she dealt with it. She slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of her underwear, her breathing growing deep and heavy as she found the spot that was already slick and wet with anticipation. She let her mind drift back to Ethan: his strong arms around her, his covetous eyes on her body, his unchecked passion when he let himself lose control. An involuntary moan slipped out.
She paused. She’d left the door cracked open, not not on purpose. He’d turned the television off as she’d left the room, leaving him sitting in silence. There was no way he hadn’t heard her. She willed him to appear in the doorway, ready to help her finish the job.
No such luck.
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 HIS dreams. 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 the whole 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.
He couldn’t resist.
“Who’s pretending nothing happened now?”
She smiled slightly and sipped her coffee. “Mad I’m stealing your move?”
Actually, he kind of was.
“So. Last night.”
“Last night,” she repeated.
He expected her to go silent again, try to bait him into showing his hand first, but instead she heaved a world-weary sigh and said, matter-of-factly, “I think we just need to fuck and get it over with.”