“Shit.” I pull away. “I forgot about your ankle.” I remove myself from his lap so that we’re side by side again. Even though as I speak, my chest is still heaving hot, eager breaths, and he’s essentially panting.
“So did I,” he grits out, straightening his leg with a wince. “As incredible as this is, it still isn’t how I imagined our first time together.”
“It’s so weird to me that you’ve thought about this before.” I can hardly believe this is happening, let alone that Ethan’spicturedit.
With a firm hand, he grabs the back of my neck and presses his forehead to mine. Something tender tugs beneath my ribs. “I would’ve gladly done this ages ago, but I was positive you’d immediately get all panicked.”
I laugh into his cheek, because he’s right about the panic part. Any other time in our friendship, a hookup with him would’ve sent me into a mental spiral of unendingBut what does it mean?s.
He pulls me into him again by the waist, apparently prepared to risk life and limb for sex with me.
I play with the ends of his hair as his mouth peruses my body, placing little kisses down my neck, between my breasts, and onto my stomach. “I’m not sure I’m your usual type,” I whisper. Ethan’s the king of friends with benefits, but I never would’ve imagined he sawmein that way.
“My type is you.” He growls it against my rib cage, his words sliding smooth across my skin. “Last night was unbearable for me. You get that, right? I was so close to saying something, but you fell asleep.”
“You can wake a girl up for something like that.” I nudge him back but he doesn’t let me go, looking up my expanse to level me with those stormy eyes.
“You’re so beautiful, Charley. You’re so fucking beautiful.” He says it again and again like a prayer as he pulls down my shorts and presses his lips to my hip and then the inside of my thigh, allowing me to disappear into the feeling of being cared for andknownin a way I’m not sure I ever have been before.
Sure, it’ll end, but I push the fear ofhowit will end to the edges of my mind and commit to enjoying this while it lasts.
I revel in it all. The way his hair brushes against my neck. How he practically falls apart when I grab his face. That look when he’s on top of me. As though it’s always been this way, and it always will be.
Like he never wants to leave.
Chapter 18
Rhymes with “Endless Consternation”
Monday, Now
I wake upnaked with my head wedged in the corner between the mattress and the rear door. We never bothered with the whole soup-can leveling trick. Or covering the windows. Instead, we had sex twice and then promptly fell asleep. Well, mostly. One of last night’s many revelations was that I love touching Ethan Powell’s body—the definition of his shoulders and back, the slope of his neck, the hair trailing his chest, the strong muscles in his arms. I couldn’t bring myself to stop until I finally passed out from erotic exhaustion.
The best part was that I could tell he felt the same. One moment, he’d be grabbing me with a feral hunger that drove me wild. Then the next, he’d take his time. His fingers met my skin over and over with a reverent gentleness. It was one of the loveliest, hottest, most chaotic nights of my life, and, in the harsh morning sun, I’m a little disappointed that daylight didn’t have the decency to stay lost awhile longer.
My bag is in the passenger seat where I threw it last night, and I dig out my last pair of clean underwear before throwing on a pair of Ethan’s light blue boxers and one of his cozyT-shirts, praying to all the available gods that the ceremony today doesn’t happen, if for no other reason than I’d rather not wear a holey concert tee to my sister’s woodland wedding.
When I slide open the van door, scents of cinnamon and coffee fill my nostrils. Ethan’s playing the guitar again. I hesitate, hoping to catch a folky little riff before he notices. He looks up when he hears me and smiles. It’s one of the larger, more ridiculous ones in his repertoire. Rays of morning light streak across his face, and he looks so damn beautiful that I almost say so out loud.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” he greets me. “The sunlight woke me up, but I was hoping to let you sleep in.”
“No luck.” I step down onto grass, enjoying the dewy blades tickling my toes. He sets down the guitar and hands me a pouch of warm gluten-free oatmeal.
“Breakfast the morning after?”
“I made coffee too.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my face under control and focus on stirring my oatmeal. A tiny puff of steam releases into the air. “How’s the ankle?” I ask.
“Can’t complain.”
I tilt my head in the direction of the guitar. “Are you playing something?”
“Messing around with something new,” he replies, removing the instrument from his lap to lean it against the van.
I waggle my brows. “Were you writing a song about our coitus?”
He stands and walks over to me, wrapping his arms around the small of my back. I lean in too. I can’t seem to help myself when it comes to him. “Yes,” he responds. “But I can’t think of a rhyme for ‘full-on penetration.’ ”
