“Your friends never call you Ethan. Always Dex or Dexter. Why?”
He shrugs. “I’ve always been Dex to them. I’m not even sure some of them know my first name. It’s who I am.”
The casual way he accepts that bothers me. I want to shout, wave my fist in the air, something. As it is, my voice comes out fierce and angry. “You’re more than that. So much more.”
“Only for you.” He touches my face, runs the blunt tips of his fingers along my temple, as he looks at me with such tenderness my heart hurts. “No one else gets all of me, Cherry.”
This man. I know he isn’t trying to do it, but he always says the one thing guaranteed to turn my world on its head. My ire on his behalf dissipates, leaving behind the soft warmth of contentment.
Smiling, I rest my cheek in the palm of his hand. “Just so you know, no one else gets to call me silly fruit names.”
The white of his teeth flashes in the shadow of his beard. “I know.” His thumb caresses my cheek. “I’ve missed your face.”
“I missed your…everything.” It has been two weeks. An eternity when it comes to my need for him.
He kisses me again as we walk, and I grow lightheaded, giggling against his lips—drunk off Ethan.
And he seems that way too, the both of us laughing at nothing but the joy of being together, stopping every few feet to kiss, touch each other’s faces, because we can.
It starts to rain, a gentle fall that brings out the scents of the city, the baking brick walkways, the warm scents of cooking, and underneath it all, a faint, murky odor of mildew and rot that gives the city a sense of age that New York refuses to acquire.
Around us drift lilting strains of jazz, hard beats of rock, the twang of country, disjointed notes of pop. It all melds together to make its own song. The rain feels soft, sluicing over our skin, warm and wet.
We pass Bourbon Street and move deeper into the French Quarter, away from the river. On a quiet street, Ethan backs me against a pair of glossy black French doors, protected from the rain by a stucco archway.
He cups my cheeks and kisses me like he aches for it. Slow, fevered, deep. Soft licks of my upper lip, hard nips of my lower lip. It feels so good, I shiver against him, my hands fisting his sweater.
He’s so big, he blots out the light of the street entirely, and I know I’m hidden behind him in this damp little nook. His hands span the sides of my neck, his thumbs on my jaw, holding me where he wants me.
I can only whimper, cling to him, kiss him back for all I’m worth.
One big hand slides down my chest, covering my breast and giving it a possessive squeeze before gliding lower, past my ribs, my hip. He leans further into me, his chest against mine as he reaches down and gathers my skirt.
“Did you know,” he murmurs almost conversationally against my lips, “that when you get all breathless and make those little whimpers…” His fingers brush the crease of my hip, tracing the edge of my panties. “I always find you…” He slips under my panties. “Wet.” His body shudders as the rough pad of his finger rubs along my slick flesh. “Always so fucking wet for me.”
“Yes.”
“God, just feel you. You’re dripping onto my fingers.” A fine tremor works down his arm as his eyes flutter closed and he kisses me again. Again. Again.
He’s spinning a spell over me, making my limbs heavy and hot. My sex pulses, loving the attention, wanting more of it.
His fingers find my opening, and I whimper. He dips in just enough for me to feel it, to want more, then drifts away, strokes and circles, a lazy, languid exploration.
“Ethan…” I wiggle my hips, desperate to get him deeper. “Stop playing with me.”
He gives my upper lip a little lick, and still he gently fondles. “You love it.”
I do. So much. But I’m incapable of speech right now. I can only whine and rock my hips, wanting more. He holds me fast, not relenting.