Her shoulders heave, and her breath fogs the glass before her. Her fingers curl, clutching at mine as I hold the backs of her hands.
“I am not afraid,” she says a little louder, and I kiss her cheek—the scarred cheek.
“Again. Louder,” I whisper against her skin.
“I am strong.”
“There’s my girl,” I state, pressing another kiss to her jaw.
“I will not let you own me.” Her voice rises, and I smile as I lower for her shoulder, kissing over her sweater.
“I am not yours. I am mine,” she hollers, and I kiss her neck. Then she surprises me by twisting before me. Back to the glass, she cups my cheeks and crashes her mouth to mine. Fierce. Hungry. Empowered. She’s a woman who knows what she wants, and it’s me. She might be wrapped up in the moment. She might be using me, but I’m here for her taking.
“What do you want, Ella? Tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”
“Touch me,” she hums, and my hand cups a breast, squeezing her over her sweater.
“More. My skin.”
I sweep my hand under her sweater, tug down the cup of her bra and palm her. The sharp peak of her nipple cuts into my hand as I massage and caress before tugging the tip. She squeaks, and I lift the shirt, lowering my mouth for a nip. She reaches for my hand, and we hold each other’s against the glass near her head.
“Tell me where else?” I command once I drag myself free of her breast.
“Lower, Ethan. Please.”
I love the plea in her voice, the desperation mixing with my name. Only I can give her what she wants. My hand easily slips into her leggings and dips beneath her underwear. I curl my hand against warm, wet skin and then slip a finger through slick folds.
“Right there,” she purrs. I repeat the teasing motion until I sense she needs more. Two fingers surge forward, slipping inside her, and she gasps.
“Too much,” I mutter into her skin as I kiss her cheek, her chin, and her neck.
“More,” she moans, and I work my fingers like I want to work another part of me. Back and forth. Drag and thrust. Her hips rock forward, begging me to stay within her.
“Come on, princess,” I demand, and she breaks clenching my fingers and crying out my name. She’s so fucking beautiful I want to take her against the darkened window, but I’m reminded to do things at her pace. Her knees give out, and she slips a little against the glass, but I catch her. I’m prepared to catch her again and again.
Withdrawing my fingers, I lower to my knees.
“Ethan, I can’t.” Her voice squeaks, a conflict of desire and doubt.
“You can,” I tell her because I know she needs more. After tugging her leggings to her ankles, I wedge my face between her thighs and take her as I did the other day. My tongue savors. My lips suck. I taste her, and it isn’t enough. I’ll never have enough of her.
She gives in to me once again, calling out my name as her fingers dig into my hair. She tugs near the nape of my neck, and the pain spurs me on, drinking up every last drop of her.
“Oh, E,” she whines when I pull back, and the nickname on her lips breaks me. I want to give her all of me. I move to stand, but she presses at my shoulders, keeping me down. Her body slides down the window at her back. I lay back on the hard floor, noting the lightning has brought the rain. Droplets pelt the window and rivulet down the glass. It’s like a cleansing of sorts, and when Ella has my jeans undone and I’m inside the warmth of her mouth, I know I’ll never be the same again.
Card 20: Walking Tacos
Everything in the bag
[Ethan]
Ella spends another night in my bed, curled into me while she sleeps, but I lie awake for a while thinking about a number of things. What she told me. Restaurant ideas. The money. I’m trying not to feel guilty for being here, getting paid, and lying to Jacob when he called to ask how things were going.
We’re getting on pretty well. It wasn’t a total lie, but I couldn’t tell him how well Ella and I were really doing.
The next day I take Mum to chemo again. Ella takes a pass on going with me, and I make a stop at the Bear’s Den grocer on the way back to the house. I want to make Ella something pumpkin-flavored like she told me she loved.
“Ethan?” Pam’s voice catches me as I stand outside the SUV in the parking lot.
“Hey,” I call out, loading a bag into the back.
“How are things? How’s Ella?”
“She’s good. We’re getting along. We might even be friends,” I tease, but Pam’s eyes narrow at me. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“How should I look then, E? I walked in on something the other day, didn’t I?”
“Did you see something?” I teasingly ask, keeping my tone even. She didn’t see anything because we moved quick enough to recover ourselves before Pam made it up from the garage. She has a key to Jacob’s house, so he doesn’t have to answer the door. Lazy fuck.
“I saw the guilty look in your eyes and a dreamy one in hers.”
My brows lift. “You did not.”
“Ethan, you need to be very careful here. She’s fragile.”
“She’s not. She’s tougher than you think.” I immediately defend, remembering my girl yelling at the lightning last night and then enjoying herself against the glass.
“How would you know?”
I want to retort with how well I actually do know Ella but decide to shift gears.
“Before you judge me, maybe you should admit a few things to yourself.” I love Pam, but she’s really pissing me off.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she huffs, placing her hands on her hips.
“Like how much you’re in with love Jacob Vincent.”
“I am not,” she shrieks.
“Me thinks she doth protest too much,” I state before closing the hatch on the SUV and facing her.
“Don’t try to sound intelligent, Ethan. It doesn’t become your pretty face.”
“Ouch.” That fucking hurts. I press a hand to my heart as if I’m offended.
Pam’s shoulders fall. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Yeah, you did. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to get back to Ella.”
“Excuse me?” a male voice interjects, and I realize the guy standing near the car next to mine is an audience to our squabble. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but did I hear you just mention Jacob Vincent? That wouldn’t happen to be the author, would it?”
I stiffen, and Pam freezes next to me. The man continues.
“I’m an old friend of his, and I heard he lives in the area. I saw him on his recent book tour in Chicago. He told me to look him up if I’m ever in the area. Is he back in town yet?”
My gut tells me something isn’t right about this guy. I don’t like the sound of this nor the look of him. He’s wearing an older looking trench coat and thick-rimmed eyeglasses. His dark hair looks unclean, and his jaw holds prickles of hair like he’s between a shave and scruff. I’d place him near Jacob’s age, maybe older, but if Jacob had a friend in the area, why hadn’t he mentioned it during his phone call?
“I’m sorry, and who are you?” Pam asks.