“No,” I say sharply.
Ethan smirks. “Say you like the way I fuck you.”
“I’m going to get a restraining order.”
His grin widens, lazy and devastating. “Baby, you can’t even walk.”
Okay, fair point. My legs are about as functional as overcooked spaghetti. Still doesn’t mean he gets to be right.
“Get off,” I repeat, smacking his shoulder.
“You hit like a squirrel,” he says fondly, like he thinks that’s endearing.
I scowl. “You’re insufferable.”
He rolls to the side, lying next to me on the couch, one arm folded under his head. He’s still mostly naked. Still smug. Still annoyingly beautiful.
And he keeps watching me. Like he’s memorizing every micro-expression on my face.
I sit up, dragging a blanket over my lap.
Ethan watches the movement, his eyes sharpening. “What’s going on in that pretty brain?”
“Nothing.”
“Lie better,” he drawls.
I sigh and rake my fingers through my hair. “I just… I feel weird.”
He shifts closer. “Weird good?”
“Weird like I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
That gets him to sit up. His hand brushes my thigh—not demanding, not sexual this time. Just grounding.
“You’re real. I’m real. Everything else…” He shrugs. “We figure out.”
God help me, I believe him.
I look away. “I’m not used to this kind of intensity.”
“You mean a man who actually knows how to handle you?”
“Ethan.”
“What?” he asks innocently. “You want sweet? I can do sweet. You want gentle? I can do gentle. You want?—”
“I want to decide sometimes,” I cut in sharply. “Not just you bulldozing over every thought I have.”
To my surprise, he goes still. Then—slowly—he nods.
“So tell me what you want.”
I can’t. I won’t.
Except… maybe I want to. Maybe I want to be heard.
I chew on my lip. “Okay… don’t laugh.”
