The Unhoneymooners(53)

His brows pull down, and I can tell he’s turning this around in his mind. He may be mad at me, but at least he’s listening.

I chew my lip, looking up at him. Time for a different tack. “You said I’m hot.”

Ethan Thomas rolls his eyes at me. “You know you are.”

I take a deep breath, holding it. Even if nothing happens once we get back home—and it might be smarter for both of us if we keep our distance, because who knows what nuclear fallout there will be when I finally talk to Ami—I sincerely doubt we’ll be able to keep our hands to ourselves for the next five days.

At least I know I won’t. My anger toward Ethan has melted into a fondness and attraction so acute it’s hard to not throw my arms around him in this hallway, right now, even when he’s wearing his surly face—furrowed brows, mouth a hard line—and his hands are curled into defensive balls at his side. Maybe every time I wanted to smack him in the past, I really just wanted to press my face onto his.

I narrow my eyes back at him. I am not afraid of relying on cheap seduction.

I reach for his hand, and the movement accidentally presses my boobs together.

He notices. His nostrils flare, and his eyes move higher on my face, as if he’s trying to keep them from sinking. Ethan Thomas is definitely a boob man.

I bite my lip, saw my teeth back and forth. In response, he licks his own lips, and swallows, holding steady. I’m going to need to work for this.

I take a step closer, reach out, and rest my other hand on his stomach. Holy lord it is firm and warm, and spasms slightly beneath my fingertips. My voice shakes, but I sense I’m getting to him, and it gives me the confidence to press on. “Do you remember kissing me last night?”

He blinks to the side, exhaling slowly, like he’s busted. “Yes.”

“But do you remember it?” I ask, taking another step closer so that we’re nearly chest to chest.

He hesitates, and then looks back at me, brows drawn. “What do you mean?”

“Do you remember the kiss itself?” My fingers scratch lightly at his stomach, down to the hem of his shirt, and I slip my thumb under, stroking. “Or do you just remember that it happened?”

Ethan licks his lips again, and fire erupts in my belly. “Yes.”

“Was it good?”

I can tell his breathing is accelerated now, as well. In front of me, his chest rises and falls rapidly. I, too, feel like I can barely get enough oxygen. “Yeah.”

“Did you forget your words, Elvis?”

“It was good,” he manages, and rolls his eyes but I can see him fighting a smile, too.

“Good how?”

His jaw ticks, like he wants to argue with me about why I’m asking him this when I was obviously there, too, but the heat in his eyes tells me he’s just as turned on as I am, and is willing to play along. “It was the kind of kiss that feels like fucking.”

All the air is sucked out of my lungs, and I’m left staring up at him, speechless. I was expecting him to say something safe, not something that would send my libido spiraling out of any controlled orbit.

Running both hands up his chest, I relish the exhaled little grunt he can’t seem to keep contained. I have to rise on my toes to reach him, but I don’t mind the way he’s making me work for it. With his gaze locked on mine, he doesn’t bend until I’m right there, at the limit of where I can reach.

But then he gives in to it entirely: with a soft moan of relief, his eyes fall closed, his arms come around my waist, and Ethan covers my mouth with his. If last night’s kiss felt like a drunken impulse, this one feels like a complete unburdening. He takes my mouth slowly, and then with more vigor until his deep groan vibrates all the way to the marrow of my bones.

It’s heaven to dig my hands into the silk of his hair, to feel the way he lifts me up from the floor so that I’m at his level, high enough for me to wrap my legs around his waist. His kiss makes me come undone; I can’t be embarrassed that I fall so quickly into wild hunger because he’s right there with me, nearly frantic.

I speak the single word into his mouth: “Bedroom.”

He carries me down the hall, maneuvering me easily through the doorway, toward the bed. I want to eat his soft little grunts, the bursting exhales he gives when I tug on his hair or lick at his lip or move my mouth to his jaw, his neck, his ear.

I pull him over me when he lowers me to the mattress, taking his shirt off before his chest even touches mine. All that smooth, warm tanned skin under my hands makes me crazed, like I’m feverish. Next time, I think. Next time I’ll undress him slowly and enjoy every inch revealed, but right now I just need to feel his weight over me.

His mouth makes its way down my body; hands already familiar with my legs now explore my breasts, my stomach, the delicate skin beside my hip bones, and lower. I want to take a picture of him like this: his soft hair brushing against my stomach as he makes his way down, his eyes closed in pleasure.

“I think this is the longest we’ve gone without arguing,” he murmurs.

“What if all of this was just a ruse to get a great blackmail photo?” I am breathless as he kisses a string of heat across my navel.

“I’ve always wanted someone who appreciates the long con.” He bares his teeth, biting the sensitive juncture of hip and thigh.

I start to laugh but then a kiss is pressed between my legs, where I am overheated and aching, and Ethan reaches up, resting a palm over my heart to feel it hammering. With focus and quiet, encouraging sounds, he makes me fall apart so thoroughly I am a demolished, giggling mess in his arms afterward.