by Angel Payne
And neither did her heart.
That had to explain the nervous jolt of her stomach as Ethan entered in her wake. His footsteps, though mellow, were loud thumps in the silence of the house. Rayna and Zeke wouldn’t be home for a while, as a bunch of the guys were still ravenous after their dinner was interrupted at Bella’s. He pressed against her from behind, ensuring the dervishes in her stomach now formed parades through the rest of her body. Without a word, he offered back her car keys, which dangled from one of his impossibly long fingers. She murmured her thanks for him driving her home, the only words she could seem to get out while her pussy throbbed from the memory of that finger exploring her with deep, dominating thrusts.
So much for the dervishes being fair about this.
Ethan didn’t move for a long moment. Dios, he felt good there, so large and strong behind her. “You doing okay?” he asked quietly.
“Uhhh, yeah.” She forced the casual tone as she turned to face him. “I’m…just wiped. After the cops asked all those questions, and after Bella—”
She chopped herself short. One side of Ethan’s mouth quirked as he drawled, “Go ahead, say it. After Bella added more bling to the tragedy queen crown? Spread on a new layer to the melodrama pie? Made Sarah Bernhardt roll over in her grave and barf worms?”
She covered her mouth and giggled. “Something along those lines.”
Through another thick pause, he simply stared at her. When his study dropped to her mouth, her lips tingled with excitement, awareness. Oh God, how she wanted him to kiss her…
He pushed away instead, pacing to the dining nook and bracing his hands on the back of a chair. “That welt on your face really makes me want to punch a hole in the wall, but it gave back a little, at least. Punched my ticket out of Casa de Drama. So now I owe you.”
“Oh, shut up.”
She finished rolling her eyes in time to catch the teasing glint of his smile. But as their gazes locked, his lips sobered. There were no other lights on except the little one she’d just flipped, making his eyes look like a pair of sapphire crystals. His nostrils widened, taking air deep into his chest. He looked like he wanted to pounce on her any second. Ava’s breath burned in and out of her lungs while she imagined him doing just that. Like breathing was doing her any good right now. The air between them now felt like soup. The hot, thick, stomach-warming kind.
“I’d better call for that cab,” he finally said. “Franz said something about going to the La Brea Tar Pits tomorrow.”
“Y-Yeah,” she stammered. “Sure. That’s a good idea.”
Neither of them moved. Their silence was so potent, a wave crashed on the beach and sounded like it was a foot away instead of a block. And the soup pot went right back to simmering.
“Ava?”
“Huh?”
“I need to use your phone.” He held his cell up. The screen was black. “Mine’s dead, remember?”
“Shit.” She attempted a little laugh. “Sorry.” On knees that felt like rubber, she crossed to her bedroom door and pushed it open. The creak sounded like cannon fire. Normally, she loved all the eccentricities of the classic Hermosa bungalow but tonight, everything felt new and strange, dipped in a bath of Ethan Archer’s presence. “It’s…errrm…on the nightstand, under the magazine.” She felt safer hanging out in the doorway as he lifted up last month’s Vogue and toppled the fabric swatches that were resting on top of it. “Sorry,” she repeated. “The, umm, other magazine.”
She forced herself to dash in, fish the phone from beneath the latest issue of W, and jab it up at him. Ethan accepted it though didn’t do anything with the device. Once more, he barely moved. Once more, the corner of his mouth tugged up. And once more, he looked dangerously fascinated with her. And so beautifully kissable.
Shit, shit shit. She tore her gaze away, refusing to put together the facts—this man, my bedroom, hours until dawn—into a conclusion that gave her any action plan except getting her ass into bed as soon as the cab came for him. The fallen swatches were a good distraction. She dropped to her knees and began piling them back on top of each other.
Ethan still didn’t get the hint. There was no telltale dial tone overhead, no beeping 4-1-1 to ask for a connection to the cab company.
Instead, he crouched next to her. Because that made a lot of sense. Ava kept the grouse to herself and finished reassembling the stack.
“What is all that?” he asked.
“Fabric samples of the dresses Bella’s wearing to the haute couture shows in Paris in a few weeks. She needs makeup and hair looks for each ensemble.”
“Which you’re supposed to design.”
“Duh.”
“In your spare time.”
“Well, yeah.” She rose to set down the squares on the nightstand again but made the move too fast, giving herself a head rush. Wisely, she kept that tidbit to herself as she plopped onto the bed, next to where he lingered on the floor, shaking his head with a peeved glower. “Okay, what?” she snapped, wondering if she’d regret it.
“You seriously have to ask that?” He stressed the point with a growl. “C’mon. Custom-designed makeup? For some stupid oats show?”
Regret was definitely crossed off the reactions list. Laughter, full and bright and consuming, was another thing. She flopped backward, unable and unwilling to stop the mirth. “Not oats.” She giggled. “Haute. It means high in French, as in high fashion.” She flicked her knee, gently clipping the side of his head with it. “I can’t believe foreign language fanboy doesn’t know that.”
He snorted. “Paid my dues to the couture crowd during my polo years.”
“Hmmm.” She smiled at the ceiling from the image that bloomed in her head. Ethan’s ass, hard and high, shown off to perfection by a pair of those tight white polo pants. His long legs tucked into a pair of rugged black boots. His sculpted abs hugged by a shirt in royal blue, complementing his eyes… “I’ll bet you were good at it.”
After a second, he answered wistfully, “I liked my horse.”
She rose and rested back on her wrists. After nudging him again, she flashed a little grin. “I bet he liked you too.”
Ethan turned his face forward. His profile went tight, the noble lines only more beautiful with the new definition. When he spoke, that quiet determination branded his words too. “I don’t want to talk about polo.”
“Okay. I can just teach you some more French words.”
“I want to talk about tonight.”
Tension shot its way back through her muscles. “Wow. You know how to throw bombs of all kinds, don’t you?”
That did nothing to loosen him. “Ava, when those asswads found you in Bella’s bedroom, they didn’t…try anything, did they?”
His tone, which clicked from unswerving to unsettled in twenty seconds, at first confused her. When his intimation finally registered, she blurted, “Oh, no. God, no.” She wanted to laugh again but saw he was nowhere near the same mindset. “They were on a mission, Ethan. That goal definitely didn’t include a sloppy-seconds quickie with Ms. Lanza’s stylist.”
She waited for his relieved sigh. It never came. His scowl darkened as he snapped, “You’re not a sloppy second. Do not say shit like that around me, Ava.”
She scooted back against the headboard. “Yes, Sir.”
That earned her a sharp uptick of his left brow. After another moment of consideration, he pushed up onto the bed with her. Ava tucked her knees in front of her chest, hoping it bought her an instant to come up with a line of such perfect wit, he’d have no choice about dropping his moody scrutiny. But her brain had officially hit the Pause button, and the user’s manual had come with an extra warning: Engaging button will induce endless fidgeting and suck all the air from your lungs. Use with caution.
Her head actually did swim a little. Here she was, in her most personal space, watching him fill it…as she’d dreamed of him doing so often. Here he was, dark and glorious, a fantasy fulfilled against the backdrop of her ver
y real life in its yellow-and-aqua normalcy. How many times had she thought of him with her head against these pillows…and touched her most sensitive folds while imagining his hands on her skin and his long, thick cock inside her core…
“Those words roll so easily off your tongue, Miss Chestain.”
There was no moment needed to interpret his meaning this time. She dared to look into his eyes for her response. “You’re the first person I’ve ever given them to, Sergeant.”
He pivoted, tucking in a knee to face her more fully. “Because you want to respect me with them?”
She nodded slowly. Thanks to her thudding heart, it was all she could muster. Dear God, what was she doing? She couldn’t dance on this edge again with him. He’d invaded her head once today. Filled her body. Made her scream with exquisite pleasure. He’d given her incredible new fantasies for nights in this room…to be revisited alone.
Alone was good. Was what she’d fought for. Had moved two states and over a thousand miles from that damn military base to achieve.
“But I don’t feel respected.”
She gave him a double take. A real, utterly lame double take. Luckily, she was too pissed to be embarrassed. “Excuse me?”
“I’d rather not.” His features took on the texture of golden marble. Smooth. Entrancing. Beautiful. But deadly if used for force. Imagine that.
“Rather not what?” she demanded.
“Excuse you.” He curled his hands over the tops of her knees. His fingers, long and confident, spread and stretched like flesh cages. He planted his chin on top of them, which brought their faces within inches of each other. “I’d prefer to keep you right here so we can easily move to the next subject.”
Before she could sputter a syllable of protest, he reached and stroked her jaw and then her cheeks. He used just the tips of his fingers, with such soft purpose…the exact touch he’d used to catch her tears in the wine room this afternoon.
Mierda. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? Remembered it likely would be coming after his growled promise as he’d let her get dressed? This is far from over, Ava.
“M-Maybe we really should call it a night.”
“Not until we discuss this afternoon.”
“Ethan—”
“You said some troubling things, Ava.”
She yearned to jerk away. And damn it, she would have if he’d used any weapons other than those caressing fingers, that intent stare. It was genius and devious in the same move, and she was helpless against it. She fought a furious flush at remembering the shit that had gone down after the magic in the wine room.
“You said some troubling things too,” she retorted. “And it wasn’t fair.”
“Why?”
She squeezed her eyes against the new intensity in his stare. Sucked in a sharp breath. Her chest hurt. Her head hurt. He was storming her heart’s fortress with a titanium battering ram, letting in light to corners that didn’t want it. Making her cringe from the blaring heat and paralyzing fear. She couldn’t let him do this. I’m sorry, Ethan. I can’t.
“You know why,” she whispered. A weak laugh escaped after it. “I made you feel ‘real’? I ‘zapped your spirit’? We’ve been given a ‘treasure’? Qué no? What universe are you living in, Ethan?”
Whew. She’d said it. Now she just had to brace for his enraged male huff, followed by the wounded kiss-off and the flight to the next room, where he’d make that call for the cab before stomping out to the curb. Then she’d be able to curl into these pillows, bawl her eyes into puffy slits, and start the disgusting process of pulling up her heart’s drawbridge again.
A moment passed. Another.
He didn’t move. Even his damn fingers stayed put, catching the tears she couldn’t hold back anymore.
“What happened, Ava?”
Just three words. They said nothing. But they asked everything. “What the hell are you talking about?” she retorted.
His tone was like his touch, tender but unyielding. “I’m pretty sure your spirit didn’t always have such a huge wall around it. So what happened?”
She gulped again. The sting in her eyes was worse than a thousand bees. “Don’t.” The sound of her plea was mortifying. “Please don’t.”
His silence wasn’t reassuring. A moment later, as he curled his knuckles against her skin, he proved her instinct right. “Maybe the better question is…who happened?”
A crater opened in her chest. It filled with memories dredged like slime from the bottom of a swamp, making her clutch his forearms for purchase. Stupid…so stupid. He’d caused this agony. How could he help drag her from it? But he did. His skin was warm, his grip didn’t waver, his muscles were filled with surety. Of course they were. They’d been trained to take down the baddest of the bad guys, to keep this entire country safe. They’d keep her safe, right? They’d take care of her, hold her, never leave her—
Never demand what he just had of her.
“No.” She shook her head desperately. “I…I can’t…” She stopped and blinked at him. “How the hell did you even know…”
“I didn’t.” He tilted her face up to scan every inch of it. “Not for certain. But I do now.”
She tried to jerk away. “Good for you, Nancy Drew. Proud of yourself?”
His lips pressed into each other. “Not particularly. Not yet.”
She squirmed again. And, once more, didn’t get very far. “Let me up and go call your damn cab, Sergeant.”
His lips slanted in challenge. “Not until you answer my question.”
“Not happening.” She nodded toward the door. “If you’re really not leaving, then have fun sleeping on the couch.”
Without a word, he slipped his hands back to her knees—then pushed them apart. He kept them spread by shoving his own against them and then locked her down by twisting his ankles around hers. She grunted in astonishment. He’d kicked his flip-flops off at the door just as she had, freeing his toes to dig into her insteps with irrefutable force. Did Special Forces training now include toe calisthenics, too?
“Fun?” The word was a growl, his punctuation a dark chuckle. “I like playing, sunshine, but not like this.” He stretched his hands to brace her again, though this time he caught her by the wrists to lock her against the pillows. “And right now, playtime is officially over.”
The tears evaporated. In their place, she seethed at him with hard huffs. Several yanks of her arms and legs brought the realization that he was serious about keeping her here. Flat in her own bed. Trapped against her own pillows. By a soldier with muscles like boulders, a grip like steel, and even toes that were recruited for his cause.
Terror should have been declaring siege on her bloodstream, but she was too furious for that. Her rage grew to include even her own body, which acknowledged the intimate weight of his with a horrible betrayal. Her inner thighs ached and clenched. Her vagina started to pulse and drip. Even her nipples started to throb, awakening for him, stretching for him.
“Ethan, what the hell are you—”
“Don’t you mean Sir?” He charged it from lips that barely moved, again hovering inches above hers. “Two minutes ago, you were all about that, Ava. Eight hours ago, you freely tossed out the same words. And seven months ago, you begged me to trap you against a tree and control every move you made.” He dipped closer, so near that she could see the flecks of black smoke that fought with the cobalt fire in his eyes. His voice glided around her with the same sinuous intent. “Your need for submission is beautiful, breath-stealing. And goddamnit do I want to be the Dom who delivers for you, but…”
She wanted to scream when he cut himself off with a harsh growl. Her lungs sawed on air, caught in her body’s civil war: her soul and her sex against her head and her pride. He’d just given her the perfect opportunity to save the latter, too. She just had to stay silent, continuing the charade that what he’d just done hadn’t been the emotional equivalent of dangling solid-gold Gucci heels in her face. No, worse. She’d longe
d for a Dom longer than the shoes. A man who took the word seriously, who would accept her submission with that same reverence, who would use their exchange to unlock a connection like no other…
That connection doesn’t exist, Ava. Not with a man like Ethan Archer. Not even with a Dom like him. He wears camouflage to work, remember? Delete him from the list. Delete him from your life.
“But what?”
The civil war had its winner. Her lips had fallen in with her lust. She heard a disgusted sigh echoing in her psyche as she urged Ethan on with the only method she had available: a pleading gaze. She watched him absorb it into the depths of his own before dipping his face toward her, wrapping her deeper in his power with every inch he closed in.
“You want to open the door, baby, but you’re missing the key.” His murmur was still molten, mesmerizing. “You want to call me ‘Sir’ and mean it and know the power that comes from it? Then you have to earn it…with your honesty. By talking to me. By letting me in.” He brushed his lips against her forehead. “I know you somehow think I can open this up and read it, but I can’t. Not what you lock away from me. Not what you won’t let me see.”
His feather-soft kisses loosened chunks of conflict through her mind. She shuddered as every piece fell. “I know,” she told him in a whisper. She’d never meant two words more. “I know. You can’t give me anything more than what I give you.”
His brows hunched. “So why do you say that like it’s a deployment to Siberia?”
She gave a dark laugh. “Good comparison. Damn accurate, actually.” As she finished, their gazes tangled again. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Looking at the man was like getting hit by a blue laser. “Ethan, I can’t lie and tell you that submission isn’t my dream…but I can’t go back there. I cannot dig all of it up again. I worked too damn hard to bury it, to leave it and make this life in its place. So unless you want to step up for a mission…to…Siberia…”