Chapter 6: Morning After the Storm

AMELIA    

I woke up tangled in sheets that smelled like regret and something sweeter I refused to name. Sunlight poured through the blinds I'd forgotten to close, turning the room gold and warm, like nothing had happened. But my lips still tingled from Ethan's kiss, and every time I shifted, the ache between my legs reminded me how close I'd come to letting him in.

I stared at the ceiling for twenty minutes, replaying it. The thunder. His arms catching me. That first crush of his mouth on mine, hungry and unapologetic. I'd pushed him away, but not before I'd pulled him closer, before my tongue had danced with his like I'd been waiting for it my whole damn life.

What the hell was I doing?

Victor would kill us both. Or divorce me. Or worse, look at me with those sad eyes like I'd broken something fragile.

I rolled out of bed, splashed cold water on my face until the mirror showed a woman who looked composed. White tank top, yoga pants, hair in a messy bun. Normal. Innocent. Definitely not the kind of woman who made out with her stepson in a blackout hallway.

Downstairs, the kitchen smelled like coffee and fresh croissants. The staff had been in early, bless them. I poured a mug, black and strong, and leaned against the island, scrolling my phone like it was any other morning.

Footsteps on the stairs made my heart stutter.

Ethan appeared in the doorway, fresh from a run or the gym, sweat-damp T-shirt clinging to his chest, shorts riding low enough to show the V of muscle that disappeared beneath. His hair was tousled, cheeks flushed, and those blue eyes locked on me like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing.

"Morning," he said, voice casual, like he hadn't had his tongue in my mouth twelve hours ago.

I nodded, not trusting my voice yet. "Coffee's fresh."

He crossed the room, poured himself a cup, and leaned against the counter opposite me. Close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him, but not touching. Not yet.

"Sleep okay?" he asked, sipping slowly, eyes never leaving mine.

"Fine." Lie. I'd tossed half the night, fingers itching to slide between my legs but refusing because I knew whose face I'd see when I came.

He set the mug down with a soft click. "Liar. You look like you fought a war in your dreams."

I met his gaze, chin up. "And whose fault is that?"

His mouth curved, slow and wicked. "Mine. And I'd do it again."

Heat flooded my cheeks. "We can't talk about this."

"Why not?" He stepped closer, just one step, but it shrank the kitchen to nothing. "You kissed me back, Amelia. Don't pretend you didn't."

"I was scared. The storm,"

"Bullshit." Another step. His hand braced on the island beside mine, fingers inches from my skin. "You pulled me in. You opened your mouth for me. You moaned when my thigh pressed between your legs."

I sucked in a breath, nipples tightening under thin cotton. "Stop."

He didn't. "Tell me you haven't been thinking about it. Tell me you didn't wake up wet this morning, wishing I'd followed you into that room and finished what we started."

My pulse thundered in my ears. I could deny it. Walk away. Call Victor and confess everything just to make this stop.

But I didn't.

Instead I whispered, "What if I did?"

Ethan's eyes darkened. He reached out, slow enough I could have stopped him, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my neck, thumb tracing my jaw. "Then say it. Out loud."

Emotions crashed through me: fear, want, guilt twisting with a reckless thrill I'd forgotten existed. My husband was gone, but his son was here, looking at me like I was the only woman on earth.

"I thought about it," I admitted, voice barely audible. "All night."

His thumb brushed my bottom lip, same as last night, but slower. "What did you think about?"

"You." The word slipped out. "Kissing me again. Touching me."

"Where?"

I swallowed. "Everywhere."

He groaned, low in his throat, and leaned in until his forehead rested against mine. Our breaths mingled, coffee and sweat and something electric.

"I want to hear you say it, Amelia. Tell me where you want my hands. My mouth."

My body trembled. This was insane. Dangerous. But the ache was unbearable, and his proximity made everything else fade.

"Your hands on my waist," I whispered. "Pulling me close. Your mouth on my neck, biting just hard enough."

He did it. Hands sliding to my hips, gripping firm, mouth dropping to the curve of my shoulder. His teeth grazed skin, not hard, but enough to send sparks straight between my legs.

I gasped, fingers digging into his arms.

"Like that?" he murmured against my throat.

"Yes."

His lips trailed up to my ear. "And then?"

I was losing control, emotions swirling: shame at how badly I wanted this, excitement at finally feeling alive, anger at Victor for leaving me starving.

"Your tongue in my mouth again," I said. "Kissing me until I can't think."

He lifted his head, eyes searching mine. "You sure?"

No. Yes. God, yes.

I nodded.

Ethan kissed me then, soft at first, almost tender, like he was giving me one last chance to run. But when I parted my lips, he deepened it, tongue sweeping in, claiming. I melted against him, hands sliding up his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle under damp fabric.

He backed me against the island, lifting me onto the cool marble without breaking the kiss. My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, pulling him closer. I felt him hard against me, grinding slow, and a moan escaped me.

"Shh," he whispered, smiling against my lips. "Staff might hear."

"I don't care."

"Liar." But his hands were under my tank now, palms hot on my bare skin, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. "You care. That's what makes this so fucking hot."

I arched into his touch. "Ethan,"

"Say it again." His voice was rough, needy. "My name. Like you mean it."

"Ethan." I said it like a prayer, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him back to my mouth.

We kissed like teenagers, messy and desperate, emotions raw: my guilt fading under waves of want, his possessiveness making me feel cherished in a way Victor never had.

His thumb circled my nipple, pinching lightly, and I whimpered.

"You like that?" he asked, pulling back to watch my face.

"Yes. Don't stop."

He didn't. Hand sliding lower, over my stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of my pants. Fingers brushed lace, then skin, and I bucked against him.

"So wet," he groaned. "For me?"

"For you."

He circled my clit, slow, teasing, eyes locked on mine. "Tell me what you want, Amelia. Use your words."

"Inside," I gasped. "Your fingers inside me."

He slid one in, easy, then two, curling just right. I cried out, head falling back.

"Look at me," he commanded.

I did, seeing the storm in his eyes, the way he watched me like I was everything.

"Victor never makes you feel this, does he?" he asked, thumb pressing my clit while his fingers moved.

I shook my head. "No."

"Good." He kissed my neck, sucking hard enough to mark. "Because you're mine now. For the next twenty-six days, this pussy is mine."

Emotions hit hard: thrill at his words, fear at how true they felt, a deep ache for more.

I came undone around his fingers, clenching, sobbing his name into his shoulder.

He held me through it, kissing my temple, whispering, "That's my girl."

When I could breathe again, he pulled back, licked his fingers clean while I watched, cheeks burning.

"We can't do this again," I said, even as my body screamed liar.

He smiled, slow. "We will. And next time, it'll be my cock making you scream."

He kissed me once more, soft, then walked away like the world hadn't just shifted.

I sat on the island for ten minutes, legs shaking, emotions a mess: satisfied, terrified, addicted.

Twenty-six days.

I was already craving twenty-five.