Seconds.
Just seconds.
But long enough for my heart to flutter and my stomach to twist and my brow to sweat and my mouth to dry out.
I wait, and I stare, and finally he pushes the door inwards.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting. For him to step inside, shut the door, and look around?
He doesn’t. He opens the door and looks right at me. As though he knew exactly where I’d be, exactly how I’d be standing, waiting. Our eyes lock and time ceases to exist. There is a void. A black hole with just us at its cosmic heart.
Who moves first? I can’t say. I know only that we are both moving, and we are both urgent, our arms wrapping around one another, our mouths seeking, our bodies melding. His shirt is wet with perspiration. I wrap my arms around him and seek his mouth. I kiss him and he kisses me, pushing me through the room while his hands roam my back.
I grip his shirt, lifting it, finding his beautiful flesh, his chest, and I drop kisses along the ridge of his neck, down to his pecs. I taste his salty perfection and he laughs, lifting his hands to my wrists and holding me still, holding me back.
My eyes fly to his; hunger must be visible in them. It is almost burning me alive.
‘Not like this.’
‘Like what?’
‘I need to shower. I’m all sweaty.’
I laugh. ‘I don’t care.’ I push his pants down, finding his ass and cupping it in the palms of my hands.
He swears, fisting my hair and pressing his forehead to mine. His eyes are shut, his face scrunched up.
‘Fuck, Alicia.’
‘Shower later.’
I tilt my head, chasing his lips with mine, kissing him, inviting him. Begging him. I drag my mouth lower, nipping his shoulder with my teeth, laughing when he growls in reply.
‘Fuck me now.’
I bite him again and he makes a guttural noise.
He acquiesces, stepping backwards, pulling me with him, so that we are kissing, walking in a tangle of limbs and lust and discarded clothes towards the bedroom.
‘This is nice,’ he grunts, pushing my negligee down, sliding it over my body quickly, desperately. The silk slides across my skin like liquid as it reaches my hips and then falls to the floor. I step out of it at the same time as he pulls me to the bed.
He is on top of me and I don’t question it. I don’t question the fact that he is making love to me and I am not in control. I don’t question the fact that I’m staring up at him, my heart thumping, my body alive with needs that only he can address.
He remembers protection—thank God. It’s nowhere near my mind. He slides it down his cock and then his hands are on my inner thighs, separating my legs, his eyes hooked to mine as he pushes into me.
The ownership is immediate and intense.
He is just Ethan. My Ethan. And he is fucking fantastic.
But tonight he is also Ethan Ash, superstar rock god, and I am his.
I press my fingers into his hips and he rolls low, reaching deep inside me. His fingers run over my bare chest, finding my breasts, holding them, cupping them, and his fingers flick my nipples. I cry out; he smiles.
He drops his mouth, taking one with his tongue, kissing it, rolling it, teasing it. I am panting with pleasure just beyond my reach. He thrusts hard at the same time as his mouth clamps down on my nipple and I am done. I cry out as I begin to fall apart and yet he doesn’t stop. Even as my body explodes at its zenith of ecstasy he is driving me to new heights of awareness and need, to new pleasures and sensations.
I dig my heels into the bed and push up, keeping us close, connected, making sure he stays right where I need him. But Ethan is the master of my body. He knows without being told. He is still when I need him to be, knowing that I’m at my limit, and he watches me.
I watch him back.
He does not need to ask me to look into his eyes this time. I cannot look away. I don’t want to. I am helpless, though. In the depths of his eyes there is something that calls to me, and I answer it without even knowing what it is.
I answer it with all of me. Every single piece of me is like a puzzle and it slides into place.
He thrusts again and I moan, riding the wave he is creating, being pulled under by it. His hands lift higher, finding my hair, and he runs his fingers through its length, worshipping it as his body owns mine.
He moves faster and brings his mouth to mine, kissing me hard, pushing my head as his hands thread through my hair and his body controls mine. I cry out into his mouth as my orgasm explodes and he answers with his own throaty oath, pushing himself into me and tipping us both over the edge. His body shakes on top of mine and I brace him with my legs, wrapping them around his waist, kissing him even as we are both disintegrating.
My heart.
My heart is all I am aware of.
It is thumping heavily, hard and fast, demanding I listen to it. I am, but I don’t know what it is saying.
I know only that I have never, ever, in all my life, known the pleasure that Ethan Ash can create.
It is wrapping around me, tighter than rope, holding me prisoner, making me ache and fly all at the same time.
He shifts a little. Our eyes lock. I smile.
All of me smiles.
From the inside out.
‘Hi.’
‘Hey.’ It’s a gravelled admission.
‘How was your concert?’
His eyes roam my face with a lazy interest that turns me on in different ways. His confidence is a thing of beauty, because it is natural and so different from egotism. I have learned the difference—before Jeremy I thought they were one and the same thing.
‘Good.’
‘You’ve taken over the Twitterverse.’
He arches a thick, dark brow. ‘Yeah?’
‘Uh-huh. You’re a top-trending hashtag.’
His face flashes with something I don’t recognise. ‘That’s normal.’
I laugh. ‘For you, maybe.’
‘For anyone performing at the Garden.’
His finger finds my breast and he traces a circle around my nipple, making my breath husky. I watch him watch me and my hunger intensifies. My need for him is unending.
‘Tell me something...’ I murmur.
‘Something.’
His grin flips my stomach.
My smile is just a whisper on my lips. He swaps his hand to my other breast and I breathe in sharply.
‘You were saying...?’ he prompts.
‘I forget.’
He laughs and removes his hand. I make a noise of complaint and reach for his wrist, dragging him back. I like it when he touches me. No, I love it. I love everything about being with him.
Wait. Where the hell did that come from?
I love fucking him. That’s it.
Goosebumps run over my flesh.
I flip up onto my side but he keeps his hand where it is. For a moment. Then he drags it down my side, resting it on my hip. For a moment. Before yanking me closer, so our bodies are touching. I feel his hardness against me and my eyes flicker half-shut.
‘If you hadn’t become a world-famous superstar—’
‘As opposed to one of the non-famous superstars?’ he interrupts with a lazy grin.
‘Right.’ I nod importantly. ‘If you hadn’t become a world-famous, super-interrupting superstar, what would you have been?’
‘A gigolo?’
I giggle. ‘I’m serious.’
‘Right.’
He moves his hand again, curling it around my ass, his fingers drumming against my flesh, stirring new heat.
‘The thing is, Ally...’
God, the way he says my name is so amazing.
‘It’s not about the fame. That’s incidental. If I’d only been able to be a busk on
a corner, playing my songs, I’d have done that. It’s always been about the music.’
His passion—oh, how can I not respond to his passion? It is so sexy.
He leans over and kisses me, his fingers still pressing against my ass, our naked bodies hard against one another. But he separates from me suddenly and without warning, so the impact is intense and immediate.
‘I’m going to grab a quick shower.’
He stands, sexy and naked, and I watch him disappear through the door, sauntering through the lounge area of the suite. He bends and reaches for his jeans, lifting his phone out of the pocket.
He does something with it. I watch curiously. But it is the work of a moment. A quick text? A check on Twitter? Whatever... He is gone again, and a second later I hear the shower running.
I push back against the bed, breathing in the smell of him that still hangs in the air.
My fingertips run over my body without my knowledge, touching the skin that he has sensitised, that his lips have kissed, that his body has possessed.
I listen to the shower and impatience zips through me.
Impatience to see him again.
I push up, my body sore in the best possible way, and stroll through the hotel room. I pick up our clothes as I go, used to this now. Used to removing the signs of our passion almost as quickly as they appeared. I lay his jeans over the back of the sofa and place my negligee on top, then pad naked into the bathroom.
He’s humming, his body covered in shower gel foam, hot water steaming the glass, so that I see him without seeing all the glorious details of his body.
Hungrily, I move closer, listening, smiling, admiring.
His eyes are shut, and I can just make out his spiky lashes, all clumped and wet.
‘Hi.’ I prop my hip against the vanity unit, my smile widening as he opens his eyes and looks towards me.
‘Hey...’
‘Don’t stop.’
He arches a brow. ‘If you wanted to hear me sing you should have come tonight.’
‘Didn’t I just come?’ I tease.
He laughs, but starts singing again—louder, so beautiful. His voice is like warm caramel and sunshine, but it’s dusty too, with a depth and husk that makes my knees weak. There is no one like him. He channels the best of Bruno Mars, Ed Sheeran, Jason Mraz, and yet he is singularly unique.
‘I could listen to you sing all day.’
He pushes the glass shower door open and holds a hand out without breaking off the song. Thank God. I step in and he pulls me close, moving his hips as he sings. I can see the passion on his face. A passion for music. He creates worlds with his voice—the same way I do when I put pieces of art together. When I create a room. A feeling. A mood.
He sings on, holding me close. He’s looking straight a but I know that he’s seeing the song, feeling the words. It is beautiful, magical. Water streams over us. I don’t want to say or do anything that will break the moment. I watch him closely and my heart thumps hard against my ribs, my stomach swirls.
At the end of the song I lift up on tiptoes and kiss him.
Gently.
Gratefully.
His music is a gift and he gave that song to me.
Just me.
It is so much more special than if I’d seen him at the concert.
‘Now, why would I go stand with a heap of screaming fans when I get to listen to you in the shower?’
His grin is beautiful. ‘The acoustics in here are actually pretty fantastic.’
‘I’ll say...’
His fingers wander over my skin, and I sigh.
‘Okay, Ethan Ash. Dinner’s ready.’
He groans, rolling his hips. ‘But it’s so good in here...’
He’s right. Being in the shower with him, I am in a blissed-out state of nirvana. I cup his cheeks.
‘That’s true.’ I reach behind him and flick the taps off. ‘But I’ve cooked, and I never do that, so you kind of have to eat it.’
‘You’ve cooked?’ He’s fascinated by that. ‘Where?’
‘At my place.’
He’s frowning. Thinking. Instinctively I shy away from his thoughts, despite having no clue what they are.
‘You live with those two women?’
‘Eliza and Cassie? Yeah.’
‘How’d you meet them?’
I step out of the shower and he’s right behind me. He reaches for a towel and hands it to me. I know it’s a small, inconsequential gesture, but there’s something in the tiny little act of thoughtfulness that pokes holes in my resolution to keep him at arm’s length.
I harden my heart as I dry my arms. Easier said than done. Because he’s watching me, smiling.
And then he sings again. Only it’s a song with my name in it.
Hair like flame, I turn to fire
Sky-blue eyes, you’re my bad liar
Can’t hide secrets you try to keep
Truth seems to make you weep, Ally... Ally...
My smile is heavy. As if resin has been poured over my face, casting me in a mask that will be an approximation of how I really look for ever.
‘Is that about me?’
‘Nah.’ He reaches for a second towel and rubs it through his hair. ‘It’s for another girl I know. Alisandre.’
I roll my eyes. ‘You’re the bad liar.’
He laughs. ‘I don’t think so.’
I wrap the towel around me, tucking it under my arms. The song echoes through me. ‘What do you think I’m lying about?’
‘It’s lyrical,’ he says with a shrug, but then he looks at me curiously, his expression watchful. ‘I don’t think you’re lying. I think you’re...closed off.’
‘Closed off?’ I arch my brows and think my expression must show how unimpressed I am. ‘Seriously? I have been more intimate with you than...than anyone in a really long time.’
‘That. Right there. That’s what you do. You catch yourself before you can say anything about yourself.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘Okay. Why do you love that painting at the MoMA so much?’
My cheeks flush pink. ‘I told you...’
‘You “just do”.’ He imitates my voice and rolls his eyes, but his lips are twitching into a smile. ‘See? Vague, vague, vague.’
‘Well, no... I just...’ I huff an indignant breath. ‘It’s kind of embarrassing.’
‘Yeah?’
He crosses his arms over his naked chest and my eyes drop lower. Man, it’s so much easier when we’re having sex. There are no barriers then.
I grimace at the secret I’m about to share. Something I’ve never told anyone.
‘When I was in middle school I really hated the way I looked. You know—bright white skin, orange hair...’
‘It’s not orange,’ he murmurs.
‘It felt like it. Everyone else was blonde and tanned and I was all...me.’ I shrug. ‘My mom wouldn’t let me dye my hair, even though I desperately wanted highlights.’ I sigh dramatically. ‘And then I saw that painting. And...and she was so beautiful and mysterious and she kind of looked like me. Don’t you think?’
‘No one looks like you,’ he says, wrapping his arms around me.
His voice is thick and so full of sincerity that it reaches right into my heart and curls around it.
‘You are completely unique.’
The atmosphere between us is a net, tangling me in its midst. I stare at him, and everything is quiet but the beating of my heart and the gushing of the super-charged blood through my veins.
It’s too much.
I smile awkwardly and step away from him, moving out of the bathroom, my heart still racing, my body aching for him.
‘So...’ He follows me, all casual nonchalance because he knows it’s what I need. ‘What’d you c
ook?’
‘Ah!’ Safer ground. ‘Lasagne.’
‘My favourite.’
I’m rewarded with a grin. A grin that curls my toes.
Apparently not safer ground.
I move on to business, seeking something that will suck the sparkle out of the air around us.
The lasagne is burned on top.
It almost does the trick.
* * *
His kisses run like raindrops down my skin. They are soft and sweet and I shift a little.
‘Was I asleep?’ I stretch in the bed, lifting a hand to capture his cheek. My heart twists.
‘Yeah. Did I wake you?’
‘Uh-huh.’ I blink. My mind is groggy. ‘What time is it?’
‘Four.’
‘Four a.m.?’
I frown. Shit. I planned to go after we’d eaten. Why am I still here?
‘Why are you awake?’
He lifts his mouth higher, finding my breast and kissing the underside before reaching a nipple and wrapping his lips around it. It is bliss, but too short. He moves higher, pressing his lips against a pulse point at the base of my throat, and then he samples my lips.
But it’s a kiss that lacks our usual desperation and urgency. I am tired and he is probing me. Curiosity is at the fore of this exploration.
I sigh softly.
‘I never sleep after a concert.’
‘Really?’ I lift a hand up and stroke his hair. ‘Why not?’
He shrugs. ‘Too wired.’
‘Let me teach you a trick.’
‘What is it?’
‘Lie down.’
He does, on his back, beside me. I rearrange myself so that my head is on his chest, listening to his heart, and search for his hand, lacing our fingers together and resting them on his chest.
‘What do you usually do instead?’
‘Of this?’
‘No. Instead of sleeping.’
‘Oh.’ His fingers wander over my hair distractedly. ‘I go out with my crew.’
‘Your crew?’
‘Yeah. Like technical crew. Not gangsta.’
‘But not tonight?’
His fingers still for a moment. ‘No. Not tonight.’
Because of me.
The implication is so beautiful. And so problematic.
Burn Me Once Page 11