Thick & Thin (Thin Love, #3)(21)

“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 *. 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?”

It had taken Ethan weeks to stop asking questions and when the novelty of my connection to the Riley-Hale family wore off, he’d relaxed.

Now I felt that small claustrophobic tension inching back in, as though my actions were up for judgment and it made me feel awkward and defensive. “I don’t know why you can’t let this go.”

“Maybe because you can’t. I’m trying to see what the appeal is.” He pulled my hand back between his fingers when I tried moving back. “Please enlighten me.”

If he wanted answers, I’d give them. But I wouldn’t sooth his ego if it got bruised. “I got lost in the shuffle and I’m not a shuffle kind of girl.”