Addicted(82)

“I understand that you’ve spoken with the media sources. But I also understand that you had an arrangement with them. What happened yesterday with MSNBC and what I saw today in that supermarket aisle are not reflecting that agreement.”

He’s silent for a moment, obviously listening to whatever Anthony has to say. And then he’s yelling again. “Something’s fishy here, and I want to know what it is. Media—especially media like those rags—don’t circumvent current media agreements unless they’ve got a bigger fish on the line. Someone is throwing their weight around over this and I want to know who it is. And I want it made explicitly clear that Chloe is off-limits. If they run another uncorroborated story about her again, we’re going after them. They can f*ck with me but I’ll be goddamned if they f*ck with her.

“And find out who’s bankrolling these fluff pieces about my brother. Someone’s got to have the deep pockets and I want to know who it is.”

Another pause, and then, “Yeah, damn right. Whoever it is has thrown in on the wrong side of this argument. They’ll get one warning and then I’m taking them apart, too. My brother’s political campaign isn’t going to last the month. Not if I have anything to say about it and I do.

“Yeah, okay, Anthony, thanks for your help. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, see where we stand. Yeah, okay. Get some—”

He turns in the middle of the sentence, freezes as he sees me standing there watching him with what I’m sure are wide eyes.

“Look, I’ve got to go,” he says, clicking off even though it sounds like Anthony is in mid-sentence.

For long seconds, neither of us move. We just stand there staring at each other across the empty expanse of hallway. Then Ethan slips his cell phone into his back pocket and walks toward me, arms outstretched in obvious entreaty. “I can explain that call—”

“You don’t need to,” I tell him, crossing the last few feet of distance between us. And then I’m wrapping my arms around his neck, pressing my lips to his. And thanking God that I had the good fortune and even better sense to fall in love with Ethan Frost.

I intend it to be a soft kiss, a sweet one.

A kiss where I thank him for the way he’s fighting for me and show him that I’m moving past every thing that’s come before.

A kiss where I show him I’m sorry for the role I’ve played in hurting us and that I’m fighting for him just as hard.

He seems okay with the sweetness—more than okay as I can feel him soaking it up like a desert soaks up rain—but the moment his lips meet mine, it’s like something spontaneously combusts deep inside of me.

Need licks through my veins, taking me over, taking me deep, so that all I can think of is Ethan. All I want and need and feel is Ethan.

I pull him more tightly against me, run my tongue over the seam of his lips in a desperate bid to taste him. To take him.

He groans deep in his throat, parts his lips, and then I’m in. Biting, sucking, licking my way deep inside him. He tastes salty like the ocean, dark like the pinot noir he’s such a fan of. Sweet like those damn blueberries that I just can’t get away from.

But on him, they taste good. He tastes good, this man who has so many sides, so many facets, so many puzzle pieces that I’m just now learning how to put together.

“Chloe, baby,” he breathes into my mouth even as I delve in for another taste. “Are you sure? Are you okay?”

“I love you,” I tell him. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

It’s obviously all the reassurance he needs, his hands slipping down to cup my ass and lift me so that I’m twined around him—my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, my body wrapped as completely around him as I can get without actually crawling inside of him.

And then he’s carrying me, moving down the hall as fast as he can considering the fact that my mouth is still frantically devouring his.

We crash into the wall a couple of times, barely make it around a sharp corner. Stumble over an antique cabinet in the hallway. Ethan stops there for a second, balancing me on top of it as he rips my underwear down my thighs. I expect him to fumble with his pants and slam into me, brace myself for heady pleasure-pain of having him so abruptly inside of me.

But it doesn’t happen. Instead, he drops to his knees in front of me, buries his face between my thighs as—no preamble, no warning—he thrusts his tongue deep inside me.

I’m so on edge that I go off like a rocket, slamming straight into climax at the first stroke of his tongue against my inner walls. He makes an encouraging sound deep in his throat, the vibrations of it only making the sudden, riotous pleasure more intense.