By the time they reached Ethan's house, Vanessa had mostly calmed down. Mostly.
Her pulse still hadn't settled entirely. There was a low hum beneath her skin, like the last echo of an adrenaline rush that refused to fade. Her cheeks were still warm. Her pride still bruised. And Ethan... Ethan walked beside her like he hadn't spent the entire evening unraveling her composure thread by thread, one infuriating smirk at a time.
As he unlocked the door, she prepared herself for whatever smug surprise he had waiting on the other side—but she wasn't prepared for what hit her first.
The scent. Rich, savory, inviting—a mixture of garlic and herbs and something buttery that clung to the air like a soft hand pulling her inside. Her stomach gave an involuntary flip, torn between hunger and suspicion.
Before she could speak, a blur of golden fur came barreling toward her.
"Fenrir!" she gasped as the overgrown fluffball of a dog practically tackled her legs, tail wagging with wild delight, nose buried against her thigh like he'd missed her for a year.
She laughed despite herself, crouching to ruffle his ears. "At least someone is happy to see me."
Fenrir responded with a happy whine, licking her wrist before flopping over for a belly rub with complete, unfiltered trust.
Behind him, Ares stood silent and alert—muscular, poised, eyes locked on her like he was weighing every breath she took. There was something almost human in the way he looked to Ethan, just a flicker of a glance, and whatever silent exchange happened between them made Ares visibly relax. He gave a huff, then settled a few feet back, still vigilant but no longer bristling with protectiveness.
And then... there was Nyx.
The queen herself, lounging near the entrance like a goddess on her throne, only lifting her head enough to acknowledge the intruders in her temple before dramatically flopping back down, tail twitching once in exaggerated boredom.
Vanessa stood, brushing fur from her dress, and raised a brow at Ethan as she stepped inside. The scent of the food was stronger now, clinging to the warmth of the room, curling around her senses like a cozy trap.
Her eyes caught on the table—and froze.
Two plates. Already set. Candlelight flickering softly. Wine glass, real silverware. Napkins. Napkins, for god's sake.
She turned slowly toward him, eyes narrowed. "You just knew I'd come over, huh?"
Ethan—damn him—didn't even try to deny it. He just tilted his head, that knowing smirk tugging at his lips again. "I told you. I'm good at predicting you."
He didn't elaborate further, just nodded toward the table. "I had someone come over to cook."
Of course he did. Of course Mr. Hidden-Talents had someone professionally prepare a meal, like this was a date on a private island instead of an out of the blue sleepover.
Behind them, Fenrir wagged his tail like he was proud of his human, Ares gave another grunt of quiet approval, and Nyx—Nyx didn't even lift her head this time.
Vanessa folded her arms, struggling to smother the embarrassing flutter in her chest. "You're so smug, it's disgusting."
Ethan just grinned, breezing past her toward the kitchen. "Sit. Eat. Then you can start your interrogation about my 'hidden talents.'"
She scowled, but her legs carried her to the table anyway. Because the truth was, she wanted to know. Every time she peeled back a layer, Ethan surprised her again—and part of her, the part that had stopped pretending to be annoyed, was hungry for more than just the meal in front of her.
She sat down, picked up her fork, and stabbed at her food a little more aggressively than necessary. Her eyes never left him as he moved around the kitchen with that lazy, practiced ease that made it very clear he belonged here—in control, confident, totally aware of the effect he had on her.
Finally, she set her fork down with a soft clink. "Alright. Spill. What other talents are you hiding?"
Ethan glanced at her, one brow arching like he'd been waiting for the question.
"You make it sound like I'm some kind of secret agent," he said smoothly.
Vanessa rolled her eyes. "At this point? I wouldn't even be surprised. First, you can fight like a trained assassin. Then you know everyone's clothing sizes like some walking human measuring tape. You can cook, you're apparently a financial wizard—" she leaned forward, narrowing her gaze. "Now tell me you can also juggle, and I'll start believing you were genetically engineered in a lab."
Ethan chuckled, the sound low and rich. "No juggling. But I can play a few instruments."
Vanessa blinked, intrigued despite herself. "Like?"
He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Piano. Guitar. Flute. And obviously, drums, thanks to your little stunt."
She stared. "Wait. You actually play the flute?"
"Yeah," he said casually. "My mom made sure I learned. Said it would 'cultivate artistic expression.'"
She tried to imagine it—stoic, smug Ethan with a flute in hand—and the mental image almost made her snort. "I don't know whether to be impressed or deeply concerned."
He smirked. "Well, I do know how to blow just the right notes."
Vanessa choked.
Her fork slipped from her hand and clattered against the plate as she coughed, eyes wide with horror and disbelief. "WHAT—"
Ethan rested his chin on his hand, watching her with all the patience of a cat watching a flustered mouse. "Something wrong, Vanessa?"
"You—" she glared, cheeks on fire. "I swear to God, if you keep making these double-meaning comments, I am going to strangle you."
Ethan's smile stretched wider. "Hmm. Kinky."
She groaned, dragging both hands over her face. "I walked into that one."
He laughed softly, not smug this time—something warmer, deeper. He nudged her plate toward her. "Eat before you die of secondhand embarrassment."
Vanessa picked up her fork again, but her mind was still racing.
With every new talent he revealed, every perfectly timed tease, every flash of unexpected vulnerability, Ethan wasn't just showing off.
He was peeling back pieces of himself.
Letting her see past the polish. Past the calm.
And she didn't know where this night was going—but she knew one thing for certain:
She wasn't done unraveling him.
After dinner, they drifted toward the couch like two magnets slowly succumbing to their pull—Ethan with that maddening calm, Vanessa with a defiant scowl that didn't quite reach her eyes. The food had been too good, the wine too smooth, and Ethan's smugness too unbearable to leave her unaffected.
She collapsed onto the couch with a theatrical groan. "You are insufferable, you know that?"
"I do," Ethan replied, utterly unfazed, flopping beside her with the casual grace of someone who knew he'd won every argument they'd had tonight without breaking a sweat.
Vanessa huffed and crossed her arms, but somewhere between his laughter and the soft lighting of the room, she shifted—closer. Somehow her body leaned into his like it had always meant to. Her head found his shoulder, and she let it rest there, slowly. Tentatively. Like her body moved faster than her mind could catch up.
It should've felt strange. It didn't.
The steady beat of his heart echoed beneath her cheek, and her lashes fluttered at the quiet rhythm of it. She wasn't sure when his arm slid behind her. She wasn't sure when her legs folded under her. She wasn't sure when she started breathing in sync with him.
But it felt... right. Unsettlingly right.
Ethan was still talking. Of course he was. Something about intricate circuits, feedback loops, resistors, some kind of design thing that he clearly knew far too much about. His voice was smooth, rich with passion for something so mechanical, so technical, so not her.
She was only catching pieces.
Words floated in and out, soft around the edges.
"...and the flow path runs into this controlled gate setup where you..."
God, shut up, she thought, amused and drowsy, her mind no longer processing the syllables as meaning.
The warmth of his body radiated like a furnace beside her. His scent—clean, faintly spiced, familiar—curled around her brain like velvet. Her eyelids grew heavier by the second, not from disinterest but from the lure of him.
She finally interrupted, her voice a lazy murmur, eyes still closed. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Ethan paused, then chuckled—soft and indulgent, like she was a cute thing amusing him. "That bad, huh?"
She sighed, voice muffled against his shirt. "Dude, I barely passed physics. I don't speak nerd."
That earned her a low laugh that rumbled through his chest and into her cheek. "I could tutor you. One-on-one. Very hands-on."
A soft snort escaped her, too tired to play the game properly but not quite willing to let it go. "Yeah, no thanks. I'd rather not die of boredom midway."
He clutched at his chest in mock horror, his voice rising theatrically. "So ungrateful. Here I am, offering my priceless brain, and you just reject it."
Vanessa cracked one eye open, her lips twitching into the smallest smile. "Still. You're full of surprises."
Ethan turned toward her just enough for her to feel the shift of his body against hers, the slight tightening of the arm around her waist. She didn't open her eyes again, but she felt his gaze on her—steady, heated, deliberate.
"Oh, princess," he murmured, voice dark and velvet-smooth. "You have no idea."
A sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh escaped her as she lifted her hand and weakly smacked his arm. "Stop calling me that."
He laughed quietly, a sound that danced over her skin like a caress. He shifted again, just enough to let her melt further into him. His hand settled more firmly at her waist now, fingertips barely moving, just resting—but present.
And that presence?
It buzzed under her skin. Not overt. Not demanding. Just there.
A promise.
Or a challenge.
Maybe both.
Vanessa didn't say anything after that. She didn't need to. Not when the tension between them had softened into something warmer, deeper, but still charged.
The TV played something neither of them were watching.
The dogs had settled in various corners of the room—Fenrir curled near the fireplace, Ares stationed loyally close but dozing, and Nyx... stretched across a chair like a shadow too elegant for this world.
Vanessa blinked slowly against the weight of her own contentment, her head still on Ethan's shoulder. His breathing was steady, and the way his thumb began to slowly stroke small circles at her waist did not go unnoticed.
The silence was no longer silence. It was filled with things unsaid, things they were both starting to feel but hadn't quite named yet.
There was a stillness in the air, a simmering quiet thick with tension. It wasn't peace—it was pressure. A loaded, invisible current tethering them together more tightly than anything spoken. Every breath Vanessa drew felt heavier, weighted with everything unsaid. She should have pulled away. She knew that. Should have thrown in a sarcastic jab, shifted the energy like she always did when things got too real. Too close.
But she didn't.
Couldn't.
Her body moved before her mind could catch up. One minute she was curled against him, warm and sleepy, and the next—somehow—she was straddling his lap, her thighs snug against either side of Ethan's hips. Her dress bunched scandalously high around her waist, barely covering anything, and her hands were on his shoulders like they'd always belonged there.
Her breath stuttered out in small, uneven bursts, lips parted, eyes wide and searching. She rocked forward without meaning to, driven by instinct and a desperate curiosity she could no longer suppress. The soft cotton of her soaked-through panties clung between them, offering no barrier to the way she ground against the coarse texture of his pants. The friction was maddening—too much and not nearly enough—and each subtle grind sent a jolt of heat up her spine, setting her nerves on fire.
Ethan didn't stop her.
He didn't push, didn't pull—just kept his hands firm and patient at her waist, grounding her even as her movements grew more shameless. He let her move. Let her explore the weight of her desire. Let her need.
But those eyes...
God, those eyes.
That sharp, devastating green pinned her in place more effectively than any grip. He didn't smirk. Didn't tease. The usual playfulness was gone, replaced by something quieter. More focused. Reverent. It was hunger, yes—but not just for her body. It was the way he saw her, and didn't flinch. Like every part of her—the snark, the chaos, the fire—was something he wanted to memorize with his hands and mouth and soul.
And that scared her more than anything else.
Because somewhere between shared meals and stolen glances, Ethan had stopped being just the infuriatingly capable boy who got under her skin—and had become the man who haunted her every thought. The one who held her gaze like he was searching for the parts she tried to hide and loved her harder because of them.
A soft, startled moan escaped her lips when his thumb brushed the bare skin just under the hem of her dress, grazing the small of her back. Gentle. Careful. Innocent. But it made her shiver like he'd touched something much deeper. She swayed into him, losing her rhythm, her center, her breath.
Ethan leaned forward, his lips brushing along her jaw, hot breath ghosting over her ear as he spoke, voice molten and amused and dark.
"Vanessa..." His tone was syrup-smooth, laced with wickedness and something dangerously close to affection. "You're so eager tonight. Should I be flattered... or concerned?"
She wanted to respond with a quip. Wanted to roll her eyes, wanted to bite him with sarcasm and keep the upper hand. But the second his hands tightened—just right—on her hips, pulling her closer so that her soaked center pressed more firmly against his thigh, the words died in her throat. All that came out was a sound. Raw. Guttural. Vulnerable.
A choked whimper.
Ethan's laugh was low, dark, and utterly pleased. "I'll take that as flattered."
Her nails dug into his shoulders, gripping tight, trying to steady herself. But she was slipping—drowning in him. In his scent, his heat, his maddening control. He wasn't rushing. Wasn't fumbling. He was letting her fall apart slowly, unravel in his lap like he had all the time in the world to watch her do it.
And then, without thinking, without warning—
"I love y—"
The words slipped free.
Soft. Unfiltered. Torn from some trembling, hidden place in her chest she hadn't meant to show him.
Everything froze.
Ethan's breath hitched.
Vanessa's eyes widened in horror, the weight of those three words hanging like a guillotine in the thick, electric silence. Her heart thudded so loud she was sure he could hear it. That hadn't been planned. That couldn't be unsaid. And now... she braced herself. For the smirk. The joke. The deflection that would let them both pretend it hadn't happened.
But Ethan didn't laugh.
He didn't smirk.
He just looked at her. Really looked at her. And in that gaze, there was no judgment. No arrogance.
Just softness.
Something warm bloomed behind those green eyes, and he reached up slowly, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek with a touch that was achingly gentle. His fingers lingered, reverent against her skin.
Her throat tightened. She couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.
And then, as if to save herself from the weight of it all—she kissed him.
Hard. Desperate. Defiant. A full-body plea to shut off her brain, to anchor herself in something physical. Something real.
Ethan didn't hesitate.
His arms wrapped around her in one smooth motion, crushing her against him. The kiss deepened immediately, fierce and claiming. His tongue swept past her lips, stealing whatever breath she had left as their mouths collided with a hunger that bordered on violent. Her hands fumbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it up—needing more skin, needing him.
He raised his arms without a word, letting her strip the fabric away, revealing toned muscle and skin that made her dizzy just looking at it. She barely had a second to admire him before he moved.
With a low growl, he shifted—swift, confident—reversing their positions in one fluid motion and lowering her onto the couch beneath him. Her hair spilled around her like a halo, eyes blown wide with lust and something that looked an awful lot like awe.
He hovered over her, body heat radiating between them, his chest rising and falling as he looked down at her—all of her. That hunger was back in his eyes. But this time, it wasn't careful. It wasn't patient.
It was possessive.
"You want this?" he murmured, his voice like velvet and sin. One hand slid along her thigh, slipping beneath the edge of her dress, dragging fire along her skin.
"Tell me to stop."
Vanessa stared up at him, lips trembling, breath shuddering through her. Her heart was beating so fast it was making her dizzy.
"I'll kill you if you do," she whispered, breathless.
And there it was—the slow, wicked smirk that made her toes curl.
"That's my girl."
Then he kissed her again.
Harder. Deeper. With no more hesitation. And everything after that was heat and hands and a promise of more. So much more.
The room was thick with heat, with breath, with the wild, ragged edges of restraint unraveling between them.
Their clothes disappeared in a blur—torn, tugged, shoved aside with the frantic clumsiness of two bodies too desperate to care. Her dress hiked up over her hips, twisted and forgotten. His pants half-off before she even registered her own hands on his belt. Her panties—those soft, soaked-through scraps of lace—were yanked aside with a growl that vibrated through his chest.
It wasn't graceful.
It was a collision. A messy, breathtaking descent into something too hot and too hungry to slow down.
Ethan's hands roamed over her feverishly—palms dragging across flushed skin, fingers curling around every curve like he was trying to memorize her shape. Vanessa was already trembling, already burning under his touch, her thoughts dissolving into white noise. She couldn't keep track of what part of him was where—only that he was everywhere, and she needed more.
So much more.
Her nails scraped over his shoulders, dragging down his spine with a desperation that surprised even her. Her body arched, hips grinding against his in a rhythm her mind couldn't form thoughts around. She felt slick and needy, painfully tight with want, her pulse thrumming in her throat like a drum. She should've been embarrassed—should've cared how easy she was to undo—but Ethan didn't give her the space to feel anything but wanted.
Not just wanted—worshipped.
His gaze never left her. Not when she gasped, not when her legs shook. Those green eyes stayed locked on hers like she was something precious, something he'd waited too damn long to touch. He didn't laugh when her voice broke on a moan, didn't joke when her hips bucked greedily against him before he was even inside her.
He just watched.
Watched her come apart—piece by trembling piece—beneath the heat of his touch.
And then he was there. At her entrance. Thick, hot, real.
He didn't thrust—not yet. Just let the tip of his cock press into her, teasing the soaked, aching lips that had been begging for him without words. She whimpered—begged, though she didn't say a thing—and he gave it to her.
Slow. Deep. Deliberate.
Her cry split the air—sharp, helpless, unfiltered—as he sank into her inch by inch, stretching her open in a way that felt too much, too full, too perfect. Her virginity shattered in that moment, but there was no awkwardness. No fumbling.
Only heat.
Only him.
Her back arched, legs quaking around his hips as her body clung to him, sucked him in like it had been waiting. Her breath hitched, then shattered. Pleasure bloomed sharp and overwhelming, her inner walls pulsing around him as her body tried to understand the feeling of being filled like that. So thick. So deep. So damn hard.
Ethan stilled once he was fully inside her, panting against her lips, his forehead resting against hers.
"Fuck, Vanessa," he groaned, his voice broken, guttural. He was trembling with restraint, every muscle in his body straining not to move. Not yet. Not until she was ready.
But she wasn't ready.
She was starving.
And when her hips rolled just slightly, her walls clenching instinctively around him, that restraint shattered.
He started to move.
Not playfully. Not teasing.
Fucking.
Each thrust was deep, controlled, and hungry—pulling gasps and helpless sounds from her mouth she didn't recognize. Her head fell back. Her hands scrambled for purchase. Her voice broke around his name, said again and again like a prayer, like a lifeline.
"Ethan—oh my God—"
He growled, low and rough, his rhythm deepening. One hand wrapped around the back of her thigh, spreading her wider. The other cupped her ass, lifting her into every brutal snap of his hips.
"Look at you," he rasped, sweat beading on his brow, eyes dark with heat. "Taking me so fucking well."
She choked on a moan, something inside her splintering at the filth in his voice, at the way he praised her like she was doing something holy. It was too much. Not enough.
Then he moved again—sat up, bringing her with him, planting her in his lap like she weighed nothing.
She gasped, legs splayed wide around him, her body trembling with exertion. But he didn't stop. Wouldn't stop.
He rolled his hips up into her, hands locked on her waist, guiding every motion like he owned her.
She rode him—clumsy and wild, head thrown back, mouth open. The angle was sharper now, brutal and perfect, hitting places that made her sob against his throat. She was unraveling in his arms, shaking, drenched, lost to everything except the rhythm of their bodies and the dizzying pleasure coiling in her belly.
And then—
She shattered.
Her body convulsed, inner walls pulsing around him in a climax so raw, so consuming, it tore the breath from her lungs. Her fingers clawed at his back, her voice a wrecked cry of his name as he held her through it, kept fucking her through it.
But Ethan didn't let her come down.
Not even close.
He caught her hips, never breaking pace, driving into her as her orgasm bled into another. And another.
Her sobs turned breathless. Her thighs spasmed. Her mind blanked.
Her body didn't just beg for mercy—it screamed for it.
But he didn't let her stop.
And she didn't want him to.
Everything blurred. The sound of skin slapping wet against skin. The obscene squelch of her pussy dragging around him. The slick heat between them, sticky and unrelenting. She lost count. Six. Seven. Eight. Her body tore itself apart, and still he moved—whispering filth in her ear, telling her how fucking beautiful she looked when she came, how tight she was, how he'd never get enough of her.
By the time Ethan finally gave in, finally let go with a wrecked groan and spilled deep inside her, Vanessa was a trembling mess in his arms—fucked out and utterly undone.
Her limbs refused to move. Her head fell against his shoulder. Her breath was shaky, broken.
His arms wrapped tight around her, one hand stroking lazy circles against her thigh, the other pressing her chest to his like he needed her close. He pressed a kiss to her temple—slow, reverent.
"I think you just exceeded my expectations," he whispered, voice hoarse and filled with the same slow-burning affection that terrified her.
Vanessa laughed—shaky, almost delirious. Buried her face against his skin and tried to remember how to breathe.
But beneath the bliss... beneath the haze... something else stirred.
Love.
Unspoken. Raw. Terrifying.
And Ethan's slow, smug smile as he tucked her tighter against his chest?
He knew.
He absolutely knew.
Morning bled through the sheer curtains in strokes of gold and shadow, casting the room in a deceptive serenity. Quiet. Still. But the air, thick with the remnants of heat and sweat, whispered otherwise. Hours ago, this house had been anything but innocent. The walls had drunk in Vanessa's cries, her moans, her shattered whimpers as Ethan had unraveled her with the kind of focus that bordered on worship—and ruin.
Now, her body lay half-curled, draped in the afterglow like silk. She stirred slowly, as if the air itself weighed her down, as if her limbs no longer belonged to her but to the man curled around her. Ethan. All hard planes and heat behind her, his muscular arm slung low over her waist, fingers splayed like a claim. His chest rose and fell in a slow, decadent rhythm, his breath ghosting over her shoulder, warm and lazy, every exhale a reminder of how thoroughly she'd been wrecked.
But still, the ache lingered.
It wasn't just the soreness—the satisfying stretch in her thighs, the tender throb at her core. It was the hunger. A gnawing, pulsing need that hadn't eased with sleep. If anything, it had deepened. Ripened. Her pussy clenched reflexively, already damp, already aching for more of him.
Last night...
The memory slithered through her like heat: Ethan's voice, low and filthy, whispering filth against her throat as his cock split her open again and again. The sting of his teeth on her shoulder. The dominance in his grip when he'd fucked her like a man with no intention of ever letting her forget the shape of him. And the way he'd looked at her—like she was both his altar and his sacrifice.
She had begged. Shamelessly. And he had made her come harder than she thought was humanly possible.
She should've been satisfied.
But satisfaction had never felt this empty. Not when the memory alone made her hips twitch, her clit throb with want.
Vanessa turned her head, slowly, letting strands of dark hair fall across her flushed face as she peeked up at him. Ethan's face was relaxed—almost. But the subtle shift at the corner of his mouth, the faint flutter of lashes... oh, he was awake. Maybe not fully, but enough to know she was watching. Pretending.
Smug bastard.
She smirked to herself, wicked heat licking at her spine. If he thought last night put him in control, he had no idea what he'd just awakened.
Her movements were fluid, silent—catlike. She slipped from beneath his arm with the kind of grace that only came from desire-fueled intent. Her skin missed his immediately, prickling in protest as the cool air brushed over the slickness between her thighs. But anticipation quickly chased the chill away.
The sheets clung to his hips like they, too, didn't want to let him go. But she had no such mercy. With a flick of her wrist, she stripped them away, revealing him in full—nude, powerful, breathtaking.
Her breath caught.
Even in sleep, his cock was thick, twitching lazily against his thigh, already half-hard, heavy with promise. Maybe he was dreaming of her. Maybe his body simply knew she was watching.
Her thighs pressed together, slick with arousal.
She didn't touch him. Not yet. No, she wanted to feel the tension build. Wanted to see the moment his body surrendered to her again. Her fingers hovered over his abdomen, following the trail of muscle that led down, down, down—until she let the barest whisper of a touch trace the base of his shaft.
It twitched violently under her fingers. A breath hitched in his throat.
There it was.
With a wicked glint in her eyes, she dipped her head. Her hair spilled like silk across his stomach as she opened her mouth and took him in. No teasing. No gentleness. She devoured him—slow, wet, hungry. Her tongue swirled with precision, savoring the weight of him, the taste, the way his entire body jerked in response.
Ethan's breath fractured. A strangled sound escaped him—a growl buried in the pit of his chest. His hands clutched at the sheets, then found her hair, threading through it with increasing urgency. But she didn't let him lead. She controlled the rhythm—slow, unrelenting, deep. Her throat swallowed around him, again and again, until he was gasping, trembling, coming undone beneath her.
Good.
She wanted him at her mercy. Wanted him wrecked and raw and helpless for her.
His hips bucked, the first real surrender of control, and then he shattered. The growl that tore from his throat was animalistic. His cock jerked, pulsing hard as he spilled into her mouth, his release thick, hot, overwhelming. She took every drop, swallowed without flinching, her hands anchoring him as he rode it out, shuddering beneath her with a force that shook the bed.
Vanessa pulled back slowly, deliberately, licking her lips with a self-satisfied smirk. Her eyes sparkled as she crawled up his body, straddling him without hesitation, her wet core hovering over his now-slowly-softening length.
The look on his face was priceless—eyes barely open, chest heaving, completely stunned. But the heat in his gaze? That was unmistakable. Lust. Challenge. Promise.
Her nails skimmed down his chest, sharp enough to sting. "That," she purred, voice drenched in sin, "was payback."
A pause. One heartbeat. Two.
Then his eyes snapped open—green, dark as forest fire, blazing with a hunger that made her breath catch.
"Oh, sweetheart..." he growled, voice like gravel and silk, his hands gliding up her thighs, possessive and slow, "you just declared war."
And before she could breathe, he surged up, powerful and fast, flipping her beneath him in one fluid motion. His mouth crashed to hers, searing and possessive, tongue plunging past her lips like he needed to claim her from the inside out. His weight pinned her, his cock already stirring again between her thighs, pressing against her drenched entrance with unmistakable intent.
War, indeed.
One second, Vanessa had the upper hand—smirking, triumphant, hips still damp with the heat of her payback. The next, she was on her back, breath ripped from her lungs, wrists pinned above her head by the man she thought she'd bested.
Ethan's weight pressed into her, not crushing, but commanding. Possessive. His grip around her wrists was firm, fingers curled with deliberate control, and the look in his eyes—dark, blazing, victorious—stole the breath from her chest even faster than his strength had.
Her body went still, not in fear, but in raw, vibrating anticipation. It was like being cracked open under him, every nerve awake and exposed, pulsing with electric heat. She wanted to fight, wanted to tease, to push, but gods... the way he held her down, the way his chest brushed hers with every ragged breath—it had her soaked. Her core throbbed with need, slick and heavy, clenching with the memory of his cock and the promise of it again.
Oh, she was in trouble.
And fuck, she ached for it.
His thigh slotted between hers, rough skin grazing the soaked heat of her pussy, and it made her hips jerk without her permission. He felt it. She knew he did. That smug twist of his mouth said everything.
"You've been getting bold," Ethan murmured, his voice low and gravel-worn from sleep, thick with heat and something darker. It slithered over her skin like smoke—warm and choking. "I like it."
Vanessa tried to glare. To muster some flicker of resistance. But her lips parted on a shaky breath instead. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and her thighs squeezed tighter, her body screaming for friction, for more, for him.
Her words came out in a breathless growl. "Oh, shut up."
But it wasn't sharp. It wasn't threatening. Her tone trembled—just enough for him to hear what she didn't say: I want you to ruin me.
And Ethan—always attuned to her, always watching—heard it loud and clear.
His thumb brushed slow circles over the inside of her wrist, deceptively gentle, taunting in its contrast to the way he held her down. A soft, sinister reminder: You're not in control anymore, sweetheart.
"That's no way to talk," he murmured, eyes glinting with mock reproach, "to your boyfriend you just woke up by sucking the life out of him."
Her cheeks flushed,his taste on her tongue, the way he'd moaned for her like she was the only thing that could unmake him.
"That," she snapped, "was revenge."
His smirk deepened. "Sure it was."
He dipped lower, his mouth a breath away, teasing her lips but never touching. His voice turned molten, each word a slow drip of fire. "What exactly were you trying to accomplish, Vanessa? Because if it was to rile me up..."
His nose skimmed hers. Her breath caught.
"...Congratulations. You've succeeded. And now I think it's only fair I return the favor."
Her pulse roared in her ears. Her nipples hardened beneath him, aching and bare beneath him. Her legs shifted, chasing the pressure of his thigh, desperate for friction, for anything to ease the inferno inside her. But it only made it worse.
"That's not how revenge works," she whispered, but even she didn't believe it anymore.
"Says who?" he murmured, dragging his thumb down to her lower lip. He traced the soft flesh, watching it give beneath his touch. "Because from where I'm standing..." His eyes dropped to where their bodies brushed, heat on heat. "You look like you're begging for it."
She hated him in that moment—for being right. For knowing exactly how to dismantle her.
But god, she wanted to be dismantled.
Vanessa's voice dropped, throat tight. "Try me."
Ethan's grin was pure sin. "Oh, I intend to."
Then his mouth crashed onto hers.
There was nothing soft in the way he kissed her—nothing sweet. It was all heat, all hunger. A taking. His tongue invaded her mouth with raw need, tasting her like he was carving her into memory. Her moan slipped free, helpless, swallowed between his teeth.
He moved with purpose—hands mapping her body, relearning curves he'd already memorized. His palms dragged down her sides, and over her breasts, thumbs brushing over stiff, sensitive nipples. She arched into the touch, gasping into his mouth.
"You like being pinned," he growled against her lips, grinding his thigh between hers. "You pretend you don't, but look at you—dripping, writhing."
"Fuck you," she hissed.
He chuckled, cock already hardening against her belly, thick and heavy and demanding. "Soon."
She jerked her wrists, testing his grip. He held tighter.
"Oh, don't worry," he rasped, "I'm going to give you exactly what you need. What you've earned."
And just when she thought she had a breath, she twisted—using the angle of his body and the slick sheen of sweat to her advantage. She rolled them, quick and fierce, landing atop him, straddling his hips. Her bare core pressed to his shaft, the heat between them obscene.
Her palms flattened on his chest, heart hammering, trying to regain some semblance of power. He stared up at her, chest heaving, eyes narrowed with lust. That damn smirk still danced across his lips.
"You're so fucking annoying," she spat.
Ethan laughed, a deep rumble that made her clit throb. "And yet you're soaking me, sweetheart."
She glared. She should've hit him.
Instead, she kissed him.
And he let her. For a moment.
But only a moment.
Because in the blink of an eye, he surged up, grabbing her hips, rolling them again. She was flat on her back, wrists slammed into the mattress above her head. His cock pressed between her thighs, already hot and leaking, sliding through her slickness like silk.
And his face...
Gods, the look in his eyes.
No more teasing. No more games.
Just pure, unfiltered hunger.
He didn't just want to make her come—he wanted to ruin her. Break her apart, drag her through it, make her beg for more even as her legs gave out.
Vanessa struggled again, her thighs tensing, back arching—but it was token resistance, her body screaming yes with every twitch.
"Keep trying," Ethan growled, voice feral, mouth a hair's breadth from her throat, "and see where it gets you."
She didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Her breath was already caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat, suspended in a dizzying freefall as Ethan's free hand ghosted down her body—slow, measured, like he had all the time in the world to ruin her. His touch dragged from the slope of her ribcage to the trembling plane of her stomach, his palm warm, fingers deliberate, until he reached the soaked, swollen heat between her thighs.
He paused.
Vanessa's whole body locked.
She was already gasping, her wrists still pinned above her, helpless and exposed, when his fingers brushed over her clit—slick and throbbing, hypersensitive from all the teasing and the wanting and the maddening not-quite-yet of it all.
Her hips bucked on instinct, a raw whimper breaking from her lips. Please. God, please.
And then he replaced fingers with mouth—and her world shattered.
His tongue was velvet and flame, relentless as it swept over her. One long, slow lick that made her eyes roll back, then a suck that pulled a sob from her throat. He devoured her with intent, with obsession, like she was the only thing he'd ever hunger for again.
Every flick, every swirl was calculated. He read her body like scripture, memorized each twitch of her thighs, each breathless curse, each desperate jerk of her hips. His hands hooked under her thighs, dragging her closer to his mouth, locking her in place as he feasted.
She thrashed beneath him, crying out, her muscles coiling tight. Her fingers twisted in the sheets, nails clawing for something to hold onto, but it was no use. He had her. She was his. And he knew it.
He pushed her higher, kept her there, dancing that edge with devilish precision—keeping her close, too close, but never quite letting her fall.
Vanessa screamed for him, begged him, cursed his name, her voice cracking with need. "Ethan—fuck, Ethan—please—!"
And then he let her.
Just like that—one perfect flick, one hard suck, and she shattered.
Her orgasm tore through her, brutal and blinding, ripping a sob from her throat as her thighs clamped around his head. Her spine arched off the mattress, her body shaking with raw, overwhelming pleasure. Every nerve fired at once, and she drowned in it—waves crashing, legs trembling, heart pounding like it might beat right out of her chest.
But Ethan wasn't done.
Not even close.
He rose over her like a storm, mouth slick with her arousal, eyes dark with hunger. His cock slid against her thigh, thick and twitching, desperate for her, and the look he gave her—possessive, wicked—made her cunt clench all over again.
It turned into war.
A carnal, breathless battle neither of them wanted to win.
One moment, Vanessa was straddling him, hips rolling with furious purpose, her fingers digging into his chest as she rode him like she meant to break them both. Her breasts bounced with every thrust, hair clinging to her damp skin, his name torn from her lips again and again.
"Harder," she gasped. "Deeper."
And Ethan—fuck—he met her rhythm with punishing grace, hands on her hips, guiding her with the strength of a man on the brink of losing control. His jaw clenched, his abs flexing beneath her, sweat slick on his skin.
The next moment, he had her.
Pinned. Spread. Legs thrown wide as he pounded into her with reckless precision, her body jerking with each thrust. His mouth latched onto her breast, tongue swirling, teeth grazing the peak until she was sobbing again, wrecked and raw. His hand slid down, fingers circling her clit as he fucked her deep, dragging her toward another climax whether she was ready or not.
Sideways. Against the wall. Bent over the edge of the bed. Every position, every angle—he filled her like he was meant to be inside her. Like his cock belonged there. Like there was no part of her body that didn't already remember him.
And she wanted it. Every rough thrust. Every filthy whisper.
She stopped counting the orgasms. Stopped thinking at all. She was nothing but heat and motion and sensation, her body lit from within by the way he worshipped her—mouth, hands, cock. His voice was everywhere, praising her, ruining her, coaxing her through wave after crashing wave.
When he finally came, it was a roar in her ear, a growl pressed to her throat as he spilled inside her with a shudder that rocked them both. His entire body went taut, every muscle trembling as he emptied himself into her, groaning her name like it was a sacred curse.
And still, he didn't collapse.
He hovered, panting, lips brushing her sweat-slick skin as he slowly, deliberately pulled out—leaving her empty, twitching, and aching all over again.
Vanessa lay beneath him, body limp, hair wild, heart still hammering in her chest. Her thighs were sticky, her neck flushed, and still—still—she smirked.
"...Tired yet?" she managed, voice ragged.
Ethan chuckled darkly, kissing the corner of her jaw, the curve of her throat, the tender throb of her pulse. "Not even close."
She groaned, part laughter, part disbelief, part something hungrier.
She should have known better than to challenge him.
But every inch of her, from the ache in her core to the bruises on her hips, whispered the same truth:
She wasn't done either.
And gods help her, she never wanted to be.
~~~~~