“Excuse me.”
He reached behind his neck to tug the collar of his shirt over his head. Grey felt her breath start to quicken as his hands moved to the fly of his jeans. When he pushed them down and kicked them to the side, she swallowed. She could see, thanks to the prominent bulge in his boxer briefs, that he was hard already. She did that to him, she realized, without even touching him.
Suddenly, she felt overwhelmed. This was a mistake. There was too much pressure. If this encounter was anything less than mind-blowing for either of them, she would have to leave Los Angeles, change her name (again), and start a new life as a long-distance trucker.
She realized that every story she’d heard from someone who’d had sex with an extremely famous man was mediocre at best, borderline degrading at worst. The years of endless brigades offering them whatever they wanted without any effort on their part inevitably made them bored of sex, turning them lazy, callous, and/or perverse. A model she’d met at a party once told her about the time she’d fucked last year’s Sexiest Man Alive, during which he’d refused to kiss her, worn noise-canceling headphones the whole time, and even propped his phone on her back to scroll during doggy-style. She’d heard multiple rumors about an internationally acclaimed musician who would invite women backstage after his shows, instruct them to remove their underwear and bend over, and jerk off without ever touching them. And she wasn’t sure if she believed this one, but an old costar had sworn up and down that a certain multi-hyphenate Oscar winner could only get hard if he was disguised in a bedsheet with two eye holes cut out, DIY Halloween ghost–style.
If Ethan turned out to be a pillow princess, or had some bizarre previously undisclosed fetish, at least that would be one way to solve their problem. This could be one and done, and they could move on. She might not be able to look him in the eye again, but thankfully that wasn’t a condition of their contract.
As soon as he crawled in beside her, though, all her doubts dissipated. They lay facing each other, eyes locked, not touching. Eventually, she reached out an exploratory foot, sliding it between his ankles and up his shins. He brought his hand to her face, trailing his fingers across her cheek, tracing the line of her ear, her jaw. The look on his face was extraordinary, like he couldn’t believe she was real. No one had ever looked at her like that before. She almost wanted to avert her eyes; it felt too intimate.
Grey used the leverage of her foot to draw herself closer, hooking her other leg over his hip until they were flush against each other. They were both more naked than not, and the sensation of that much skin-to-skin contact had every nerve in her body singing. Their lips were inches apart, but still, neither moved to close the gap.
His hand moved from her face to her hip. Slowly, he slid it over her backside, up the curve of her waist, cupping her breast beneath her shirt. He lightly brushed his thumb over her nipple. She gasped, trying to arch deeper into his touch, but it had already moved back to her ribs. Unlike their other encounters, which had been brief, fevered, desperate, this was slow and sensual. He took his time. His hands roamed her body as if he wanted to memorize every inch of her, savoring the opportunity to take leisurely ownership of what had eluded him for so long. It was excruciating. She never wanted him to stop.
At the same time, her hands were moving, too, over the warm, smooth skin of his chest; the swell of his bicep, the dusting of dark hair on his torso. She had no idea how long they lay there, looking into each other’s eyes, tracing mystical shapes on each other’s bodies. She almost felt like she had been hypnotized. Of course, she was still a little stoned—she had no idea what his excuse was.
Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse. “You were right,” he murmured.
“What?”
“This is better than the couch.”
She giggled. “Told you.”
His hand returned to her face, running his thumb over her lower lip. She brushed her tongue against it, then shut her lips around it, biting down gently. He closed his eyes and shuddered, and she knew she had broken the trance.
He grasped the back of her head and pulled her mouth to his. But still, the frenzied passion of his other kisses was missing. Maybe she’d been right, after all, that it was the stolen nature of their split-second trysts that had driven their intensity. But there was a different kind of intensity behind the way he explored her mouth now: confident, thorough, claiming. All-consuming. She had to remind herself to keep breathing.
He flipped her onto her back and knelt between her legs, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. Her stomach jumped at the unchecked desire in his face, the fierce concentration, like if he took his eyes or his hands off her for even a split second she would disappear from beneath him. His gaze rested on her breasts, the position of her arms thrusting them up and out, demanding his attention. With one rough gesture, he pushed her shirt up to her collarbone. Before she knew what was happening, his mouth was on her nipple, licking and nibbling the sensitive peak until she moaned.
She felt him smile against her skin as he moved his head to her other breast. His other hand drifted lower, lower, until it was between her legs. He grazed his finger over the soaking fabric, and she writhed beneath him.
She strained a little under the hand holding her wrists, and he released her immediately. Before she could reach out and touch him again, he pulled her top all the way off and threw it over his shoulder. She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back down for a long, ravenous kiss. When he pulled away, his fingers were hooked in the edges of her underwear. He paused, his eyes flashing back to hers.
“Is this okay?”
As her answer, she covered his hands with hers and helped guide them down her legs. He dropped the scrap of fabric to the side and sat back on his heels.
“Fuck,” he exhaled, his eyes sweeping over her. He looked at her for a long time, his brow knitted in what looked almost like concern.
She propped herself up on her elbows.
“What? Is something wrong?”
He shook his head slowly, his pupils blown out, eyes hungry.
“Not from where I’m sitting.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
He wrapped his hands around her calves and slid them up to her knees, gently nudging them apart again. He dipped his head and kissed the inside of her knee, before moving up to nip the crease of her inner thigh. First one side, then the other. She sucked in her breath as he parted her with his fingers, then his tongue.
Goddamn. Why had she gone two years without this? Or more accurately, almost twenty-eight years. Because even though it had been awhile, she didn’t remember it ever being quite this good with anyone else. Sure, Callum had been enthusiastic, and over time she’d been able to train him well enough. But she was pretty sure she’d never experienced anything like this, the way Ethan seemed so attuned to her every twitch and gasp, adjusting accordingly, teasing her to the edge and back. After he brought her right to the brink of orgasm for the third time, then paused, she couldn’t take it anymore.
“Please,” she panted, gripping the bedsheets so hard she was sure her knuckles were white. He glanced up, taking in her desperate squirming. By the way he smirked, she knew she must look as feral as she felt.
When he slipped his index finger inside her, she was already so overstimulated that she thought she was going to rocket off the bed. He dropped his head back down and sucked on her clit as he added a second finger, curling them until he found the spot that made her convulse.