Thick & Thin (Thin Love Book 3)

by Eden Butler

  Aly found me on the small bed with my feet hanging off the end. The air shifted when she opened the door but I kept my eyes tight and the right side of my mouth arched in an expression I was sure looked a little superior. I hadn’t cared if it did. Aly’d loved the way I liked to disturb the peace. Sometimes it was her doing the disturbing first.

  I cracked one eyelid, pretending to sleep as she entered the pool house, but I couldn’t keep my gaze from her. There was moonlight behind her and the soft outline blurred her silhouette so that she looked surreal, like something out of a dream.

  She came to me like a whisper; her scent first—a mix of chlorine and vanilla. She’d smelled of summer, a fragrance that would always remind of that woman, my woman, and that lake house. The mattress dipped in fragments, inches that moved softly, her tiny weight only disturbing the stillness enough that every movement amped up my heartbeat. She came slowly, like the promise of something unsettling, unknown and my body responded in anticipation.

  “Not going to touch me?”

  It was a question I wasn’t expected to answer. Not then. Not while Aly played her game.

  The darkness around me was heightened by the brush of her damp hair against my mouth and the faint scent of beer coming off her breath when Aly brushed those soft, sweet lips over my cheek, down to the center of my throat.

  “What will I do to this body?” Another question. Another silent answer and she slid over me, pressing her mouth down my chest, her fingers trailing the lines of my stomach until her palms lay flat against my ribs. “So much to play with…”

  And I let her…the brush of her tongue licking near my navel, her agile fingers stripping me bare until she took me in her mouth—tasting me the way she knew I liked, keeping my hips still as she worked her teeth, her nails over the head of my dick, up and down, until the friction was too much, the suction was, and I didn’t want to play anymore.

  “You’re weak,” she’d said, laughing until I was over her. Until I was inside her and that teasing laugh became a moan she could not contain.

  “I am.” My mouth over hers, my tongue, deepening her moan and all around me, Aly shook. “You’re my biggest weakness.”

  She went silent with the thrust of my body inside her, nails biting tight into my shoulders, her entire body shuddering, shaking when I grazed my teeth against one nipple. She’d taste so sweet, like honey on my tongue.

  “And you’re mine, shoushou.”

  The light was low around the lake house with only the soft movement of the water against the beach and the painfully slow creak of that metal bedframe moving as I took all Aly had to give me.

  She cried out several times, sultry refrains of “deeper” and “harder, shoushou, harder!” before she clamped around me, before the swell of my need was too great, the ragged panting of our breaths heating together and we both came hard and those breaths went from labored and gasping to slow and even. She filled my senses—a touch that weakened me, a taste that leveled me and the sharp-sweet feeling of belonging that lived in that small room, just us, fitting together like waves against rock, where we were meant to be.

  Bruised deep inside, ache.

  One.

  Brittle, bones, broke into pieces, burnt into cinders.

  Two.

  Like rain, the ash fell, peppered the world.

  Three.

  I collect it. Cup the remains of who I was between shaking fingers.

  And inhale.

  Wishing I could put myself back together again.

  Four

  New Orleans is a city that only slumbers. There is always some activity, some music, some song—the spice of someone’s loss, someone’s joy echoing through the air. Even at four a.m. when you sneak from your new fiancé’s bed because you let your man think you were all in, that you meant every touch when you didn’t.

  Like a kid, I hid away in my studio, in front of the wall of mirrors and the paralleling line of floor-to-ceiling windows covered only by strings and strings of warm fairy lights. This early in the morning those lights glimmered against the wet street and that reflection gleamed across the hand-scraped hardwood floors under my feet.

  This place was a sanctuary from the life beyond the aged brick walls, where Camp Street opened up to Canal and New Orleans would bustle and move like it wasn’t Sunday. It was something I hadn’t had in Miami and once I’d gotten here, spread my wings in this studio, the realization landed heavy in my chest. How had I gone so long without this peace? Without a place I could claim as my sanctuary?

  The quiet on the streets was only a slumber, meant the crowds were skeletal, not bustling as usual. Not yet anyway. For a moment, I had the quiet and the lights beaming off of Saint Patrick’s just down the block. I had the pre-dawn light, my solitude and the rhythm waffling through the speakers. My studio, my place, where no man had dominion. Where no worry entered my thoughts. Not as long as I danced. Not as long as my fouetté ended in an arabesque and I kept my spine straight, my arms moving and became part of the ballet, the act, the escape that it offered.

  I had thought to work through Giselle because there was symmetry in the old ballet about a girl caught between two lovers. But that didn’t feel right, no matter how beautiful I found Coralli and Perot’s choreography. I settled, instead on Midsummer’s Night Dream because it would take me furthest away. Because there was something ethereal, magical about Mendelssohn’s music. There was no sound but for the sound of strings spilling out their beautiful melodies. There was no feeling but for the erratic beat of my heart brought on by my exertion. There was no emotion but for the sway of the dance and the hypnotic song that took me from the real world that was my studio. Then there, right then, I stumbled. Turned when I shouldn’t have, let that inkling of regret swim a little too far into my thoughts. Again I tried, coming back into the middle, to a fondue and jeté passé, letting the music soak into my skin so I did not have to remember what I’d done and how it had made me feel.

  Wanted.

  Needed.

  Beloved.

  Another turn, then brisé, brisé, brisé and the flash of Ethan’s bare skin broke through my subconscious. Sweat sliding down his lithe, defined chest, the slow, methodical way he kissed my stomach, the easy glide of his fingers on my hips.

  “You feel like heaven, Aly. My own personal heaven on earth.”

  Ethan took me away from my modest life, but I kept a firm grip on the reins. He never demanded, hardly requested. A touch on my stomach, and his gaze on me, seeking permission, gaining it because it felt good. He never pressed or pushed, but I knew how badly he wanted me. It was in every press of lips against mine, in each grip of his fingers into my flesh.

  He took away my worry and all the cluster of things that had me thinking too much. For a few seconds I floated above myself on some sweet orgasmic cloud he wove for me. Something I had not allowed another man to do for years and years. And, God help me, I liked it. I liked the warmth of his mouth, the surety in every touch his mouth made against and inside my body. I’d liked the sensations he worked in me. I’d liked it all for a full two minutes, just long enough for me to settle, land on my feet with Ethan’s face breaking through the fog his mouth and fingers had made of my mind.

  “You are perfect.”

  It was a compliment I couldn’t take, didn’t believe and it was enough of a ruthless kindness that it brought me down from the high I’d been soaring on. It didn’t feel right, somehow, afterward, with Ethan still inside me, pulsing, panting against my skin and the bliss from our orgasms ebbing away. Somehow, dammit, it felt false. I felt suffocated, breathless by the realization that I’d given more than I’d meant to. That I’d liked it, him, more than I thought I could.

  I ran from it. Him, which made no sense at all. I loved Ransom. No one would take that from me, but he couldn’t be who I needed. Ethan could. Though I didn’t love him in the same way, he still held a promise of being someone I didn’t have to run from.

  No. I was not perfect
. I was broken, my secret failure hidden away, terrified of discovery. And I was something else altogether, the antithesis of perfect because I let that sweet, sweet man think that I could love him. Modi, I wish I could.

  There was nothing for it. I could only stand alone in the center of my studio with sweat beading down my back, with the low, soothing refrain of Mendelsohn’s melodies tempting me, offering me more reprieve, more freedom from my worry, but it would not last. I knew that. My hands, fingers shook as I watched them—the deep lines that creased into my palm, the wide thumbnails, the small scar that lanced up the center of my left palm. Ransom had held the injury closed until we made it to the hospital. A stupid broken wine glass fractured in my hand when he proposed the first time. He hadn’t pressed me for an answer. Not then. Not again until the next year and then he made sure there were no wine glasses in arm’s reach. Why hadn’t I just said yes then?

  No. Not that memory, I thought, refocusing on the music, on the reason I was hiding in the first place.

  The song would end and so would the dance and I’d be left to face the truth. I’d be forced to admit I was really a coward. My mind filed through excuses; rational reasons that I’d run from Ethan with no explanation. None sounded reasonable. None made any sense at all and just when I began to devise a plan, something to keep me from looking like a complete orto, something prickled my awareness, telling me I was not alone. I jerked my gaze up and met Ethan’s in the mirror in front of me.

  No time for excuses, then.

  “I didn’t like waking up alone.” Ethan had never shown me anger. There had never been a time in the short months that I knew him that would warrant him being truly mad. He was then. It showed up in the pinch of his eyes, how he locked his jaw tight. He moved slowly, irritated, but rational enough to know he shouldn’t lose his temper. Always thinking, that man. Always in control. Always fair and logical. Me zanmi, he was my own little Spock. “I especially didn’t like waking up alone, missing you, still smelling you on my sheets and you not there for me to touch.”

  It was stupid, useless, but I lied anyway. “I…couldn’t sleep.”

  “Jesus, Aly, you’re a terrible liar.”

  I’d admitted the truth to myself but that didn’t mean I liked Ethan calling me on it and when we only managed to stare at each other, waters being testing, as though waiting to see who would jump in first, I decided I could at least give him enough rope to save himself.

  “Ethan…”

  But he didn’t seem eager to let me explain or do more than watch him as he approached, moving his body close enough to touch me, but staying just back enough that I could move away from him if I wanted. Ethan was always a diplomat.

  He lifted his hand, extending it to me and I only hesitated for a second before I took it, earning a smile from him. “Tell me what happened. Did I spook you?”

  His expression remained stoic, serious even when I waved my ring at him. “If this didn’t spook me, nothing will.”

  “It was the first time you let me touch you. Really touch you.” He ignored my joke completely, holding my hand to his chest.

  “Yes. It was.”

  “It…was…” Ethan seemed distracted, as though the stroke of his finger between my fallen curls around my face was something he did unconsciously. “Was that the first time anyone other than Ransom touched you?”

  There was a warning in his voice I didn’t like, something that made my stomach tighten, but couldn’t quite place where that sensation came from. Ethan had a right to know these things, I supposed. I had agreed to marry him and even if I hadn’t meant it when I said yes, we were still in a relationship. There were slivers of details he had a right to know. “He didn’t take my virginity, Ethan.”

  “Have you let anyone else touch you since you left him?” When I didn’t speak, Ethan nodded. “I thought so.” That streak of anger left his features just then and he seemed to relax, pulling on my arm to bring me close, touching his forehead to mine as he ran his long fingers up the back of my neck. “I pushed.”

  “I jumped.”

  “Aly…” I shook my head, interrupting him but Ethan was insistent. “I hate that I can’t apologize.” He lost all seriousness then, finally laughing when my gaze jumped to his face. “I liked it too much.” He moved slowly at first, like the world had been reduced to a sleepy sloth’s pace, a warning of what he intended. Then the kiss came and when it did, there was no gentleness, no slowness at all. Like every time before, Ethan’s mouth worked hard, eager and desperate to take all that I would give. He acted starved, his body so hungry to feast on me. “I’ve never tasted anything like you. I wanted to keep at it, keep tasting you because, Aly, I don’t think I’ll ever be full. Not of you.”

  “Ethan, wait…” But he wouldn’t, didn’t seem able to keep his hands from my hips or his mouth from my nipple as he brought me to the floor. “Modi.” That was all plea, but to who, I wasn’t sure. The sensation overwhelmed me. God, Ethan was damn good at distraction and it began to work, like it had last night, with him tugging against my clothes, seeming so desperate to have me naked right there on my studio floor.

  He nearly had my top off while his free hand made quick work of my dance pants, pulling at the waist, rubbing the ball of his hand over my pussy. It was awkward and hot and uncontrollable like something two teenagers would get up to the first time they were without supervision. Like Tristian and the girls he brought to my apartment before I moved in. God. Why had I thought of that? It led me away from the moment. Away from Ethan.

  It led me to Ransom and that tiny loft apartment above Leann’s old studio. And all the times we were together there.

  Modi.

  Ethan didn’t seem to notice how straight my limbs became or the way I tried pulling away from him. It wasn’t until he went for my mouth again and I shook my head, then pushed him off me that he finally got the hint.

  “What is it?”

  I hated this so much. The hesitance. The questions. The uncertainty. Why couldn’t we go back to that sweet, almost platonic stage where he’d bring me flowers or I’d cook for him in my condo and we’d kiss on my sofa while reruns of Venture Bros. played in the background? But we couldn’t go back. Those nights were short and sweet. There was no commitment in them and Ransom was a distance memory that only occasionally intruded.

  Ethan watched me. I felt every movement of that stare as I curled my arms around my legs, pressing my forehead to my knees, praying for a reprieve. My prayers fell on deaf ears. God would not take Ransom from my heart. I knew that. I’d asked Him for that for years and still he remained, dead center and present no matter how many ways Ethan kissed me.

  “This have anything to do with the text you sent this morning when you thought I was asleep?”

  There was no tease in his features when I jerked my gaze to his face. If I thought he would be smug, a little bit of a bata, I was wrong. That wasn’t Ethan’s style. Instead, he tilted his head watching me, waiting for me to confirm his suspicion. “No.” But the word came out weak, held no conviction and before it was out of my mouth, I knew Ethan didn’t believe me.

  “Aly…” he started, fanning his fingers through his hair before he stared up at the exposed beams crisscrossing the ceiling rafters. “Shit.” Even irritated, Ethan was collected. A quick swipe of his hands down his face and he knelt next to me with his hand extended again. He waited until I linked my fingers with his before he spoke. “When are you going to figure out that you don’t need to save my feelings? I’m not going to pitch a fit if you talk to him. I’m not the jealous sort.”

  “He wants to have lunch,” I said, as Ethan helped me stand. “That’s all it was.”

  “Then go have lunch with him.” He grabbed my face, smoothing his thumb down my cheek. “Just be honest with me and tell me when you’re seeing him. That’s all I ask.” This man was unbelievable. Something out of a cliché romance novel and for some reason that bothered me. No one was that kind, that understanding, especially
a man who was being threatened by a bigger, louder alpha trying to steal his woman.

  It was ridiculous for me to find fault in Ethan when there was very little there to complain about. Still, that annoying niggling voice in the back of my mind wouldn’t shut up. It wouldn’t keep still about something not fitting together where he was concerned. Maybe I was just too damn cynical to believe him. Maybe I knew better than to trust this man could be that beautiful and intelligent and oblivious to jealousy. Didn’t he want to fight for me?

  Whatever he thought, he kept to himself, but Ethan didn’t mute his laughter or keep the irritation off his face. The expression was frustrated, a little confused but there was no more anger. “I just can’t figure out what was so damn wonderful about your relationship if you felt like you needed to end it.”

  Again came that niggling voice: Why does he keep on about this? It wasn’t the first time he’d asked me why my relationship with my NFL sweetheart had fallen to pieces. Ethan was a man, born and bred in southeast Louisiana. Football was religion. Of course he’d been fascinated when Kona had stopped by the studio to drop off Mack’s tap shoes. Ethan had stared at the man like he was some sort of god. And after Kona had disappeared with not much more than a nod to me and a hand wave at Ethan, the questions started.

  “How do you know Kona Hale?”

  “What do you mean you dated his son? Ransom Riley-Hale? That’s your ex?”