I head down the hall to the kitchen, figuring I can help Ethan put the finishing touches on dinner. But when I get there, the kitchen is empty and it’s obvious Ethan hasn’t been in here since he carried the groceries in well over an hour ago.
Figuring he’s hung up on one of the numerous business calls he had to make, I rummage in the fridge, trying to decide what to make for dinner.
Since I’m still not that hungry, despite the fact that it’s after eight, I decide on a cheese plate. That way I can still have room for some of the bread pudding with rum sauce that’s been calling my name since I turned it down at lunch.
Humming softly to myself—another trick I’ve picked up that helps keep my mind busy so I don’t dwell on stuff I don’t want to think about—I pull out some grapes and strawberries to go on the cheese plate. I wash them thoroughly, still humming, which is probably why I don’t hear Ethan yelling until I actually turn the water off.
It’s an unusual sound for him—Ethan’s such an even-keeled guy that I’ve only really heard him yell once in the whole time I’ve known him—that I’m out of the kitchen and halfway down the hall before I register what it is he’s yelling about. Which, in this case, is me.
“I don’t want excuses, Anthony. I want to know what the fuck is going on. This whole thing has been a clusterfuck from the very beginning and I’m getting damn fucking sick of it!”
At first, I’m kind of shocked by the language alone—Ethan’s no angel, but he doesn’t normally swear in a repeated pattern like that unless he’s pissed about something. Really pissed. And definitely not at his employees.
But it doesn’t take long for my sluggish brain to catch on. This call is about me. About the stories in the tabloids.
“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 fuck with me but I’ll be goddamned if they fuck 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.
“Ethan!” I gasp out, clutching at his hair, twining my legs around his shoulders, lifting my sex up to his mouth like some kind of ancient pagan offering. He takes me through the climax, his mouth and hands and body wringing every ounce of sensation out of me, before he once again climbs to his feet.
I spread my knees, pull his hips flush against me. He’s long and hard and feels so good that I can’t help rocking against him even though my whole body is still lit up from that last orgasm.
I reach between us, try to fumble open Ethan’s zipper—I want him inside me, need to make him feel as good as he just made me feel—but he just scoops me up again and continues down the hall to the master bedroom.
Admittedly, this time it’s with even less finesse—he’s rushing and stumbling over thin air, his fingers clutching my ass so tightly that I’m sure I’ll have bruises before this is all over.
Thank God.
It’s a strange reaction to have to being black and blue, but it’s also an honest one. I love being marked by him, love being able to see the signs of his possession long after we’ve made love. Like the belly chain that I never take off, they make me feel secure in a way that nothing else does. They ground me in my body, in my love for him and his for me.
“Please,” I start chanting as Ethan gets to the end of the hallway and—instead of making the turn—presses me against the wall, his cock hitting my clit at just the right angle despite the jeans he’s still wearing. “Please, please, please.”
“Fuck,” he groans into my mouth, thrusting against me in a way that makes my head spin and my body start to ache all over again. “F
uck, fuck, fuck.”
He’s thrusting against me in earnest now, his powerful hips and thighs slamming me back into the wall again and again and again. “I want you in my bed. In our bed,” he gasps out, ripping his mouth from mine even as he continues to rock against me. “I’ve dreamed of seeing you there. Your hair spread over the pillows, your skin pink and rosy against the sheets.”
“Oh, God.” Just the words—uttered in that deep, gravelly voice that means he’s reaching his limits—take me higher until another orgasm beckons just out of reach. “Next time. Please, next time.”
Shoving my hands into his hair, I grab on hard and pull his mouth back down to mine.
“Fuck,” Ethan curses again, turning me away from the wall and walking me back toward the bed.
He lays me down. Yanks my nightshirt over my head. Strips off his own clothes. And then he’s falling on me, throwing my legs over his shoulders as he thrusts deep. Thrusts home.
It’s fast and mind-numbing and hot, so hot. I come twice more while he moves inside me, his body pounding into mine. His hands touching me everywhere—everywhere.
Just when I think I’m finished, that I can’t take any more pleasure—any more sensation at all—Ethan cants my hips up even higher. Slips a hand between us. Strokes my clit. And sends me straight into the most powerful orgasm yet.
This time he comes, too, emptying himself inside me even as he calls my name over and over again like a mantra. Or a prayer.
When it’s over, when Ethan is asleep and I almost am, all the events of the day come crashing back at me. And I can’t help wondering when enough is going to be enough.
Enough pain.
Enough trauma.
Enough confusion and rage and fear.
I want normal and this … none of this is normal. Neither the bad nor the good.
Ethan moves against me in his sleep, his hand curving around my waist, pulling me into his body, into his heart. And I forget for a little while what it is I want and concentrate instead on what I have.
Because Ethan is enough. Ethan is more than enough. As long as I concentrate on that, the rest of this stuff can take care of itself.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Thanks again, Rodrigo!” I say as I climb a little unsteadily out of the passenger side of one of the vineyard trucks.
“No problem, Senorita Chloe. Call me if you need anything else.”
“I will. But I think I’m good. You have a good night! Give that beautiful toddler of yours a kiss for me.”
He laughs, blushes a little. “Si. I will, I will. My little Padma will love it! Her mother says she’s talked about nothing but you since she met you this morning.”
“Well, that’s only fair, since I’ve spent a good part of the day talking about her, as well. She’s such a lovely child.”
“Si, si. I definitely think there is a mutual admiration society going on between the two of you.”
“There is at that,” I tell him with another wave as I stumble toward the front steps.
“Are you okay, Senorita Chloe?” Rodrigo calls. “Do you need help into the house?”
“No, I’m good. I’m good.” I wave him away. “Just a little tipsy.”
Then again, tipsy might be an understatement. I have a sneaking suspicion that I might actually be really, really drunk. Though I swear, I’m not exactly sure how it happened. One minute I was having a good time at the wine tasting, listening to Lucia expound with enthusiasm on the various types of red wines Ethan’s vineyard is known for.
She was very excited about a full-bodied cabernet, which was a little too dry for me. But the pinot noir she poured for me was as fantastic as Ethan promised. As was the house blend of reds and a couple of others that I lost track of somewhere along the line.
The typical wine tasting consists of four small glasses of wine, but being the vineyard owner’s girlfriend comes with some perks, I guess, because it seems like I had at least double that. Maybe more. All I know is I tried a lot of wine today, including a delicious moscato. I bought several bottles of it—or should I say, accepted them as a gift, take that Ethan Frost—and can’t wait to show them to Tori. If there’s anyone who likes sparkling wines more than I do, it’s that girl.
Drunk, happy, more than a little in love, I all but float into the house determined to find Ethan—and maybe convince him to have a short middle-of-the-afternoon nap with me. After a not-so-short middle-of-the-afternoon lovemaking session …
I have to admit, just the thought of finding Ethan in the middle of some boring business call and dragging him off to bed makes me more than a little horny. Then again, it could be the wine. Or the fact that I am totally relaxed for the first time in longer than I can remember. Whatever it is, it feels good and I plan on going with it. The real world will intrude soon enough.
It’s our fourth day in Napa and while the forest fires are finally getting contained in San Diego—after burning hundreds of thousands of acres that included businesses, homes and even part of the famous Safari Park—Ethan has decreed that we don’t have to leave until Sunday. Which means we’ve got two more glorious days up here. Two days that I plan on taking full advantage of.
Humming, this time out of happiness rather than a determination not to think, I make my way down the front hall to Ethan’s office. He’s spent pretty much every minute with me since we got here, but this afternoon he had some calls to take care of—Trifecta merger type calls—so he got Rodrigo to babysit me. He called it showing me around the vineyard, but I know a babysitter when I see one.
I probably would have been insulted if Rodrigo, his wife, Lucia, and their daughter, Padma, hadn’t been such delightful company. But they were—so happy and charming and nice, so nice—that I couldn’t do anything but enjoy spending time with them.
And now I’m back and tipsy—or drunk, depending on how you want to look at it—and horny. If I’m very lucky, Ethan will be willing to take advantage of the second in order to do something about the third.
Except when I get to Ethan’s office, he’s not there. He’s not in our bedroom, either, or out on the patio taking a call as he often likes to do. He’s not in the kitchen or the family room or the upstairs media room. In fact, he’s not in any of the places I’ve seen him frequent since we got here and I’m beginning to think I missed my chance. That he’s gone on some business errand and I’ll have to spend the rest of the afternoon amusing myself.
Suddenly, everything seems just a little dimmer, a little less sparkly.
I want Ethan.
Pulling out my phone, I text him a quick, Where are you, then wait impatiently for an answer that doesn’t come. Which is strange—unless he’s in the middle of something really, really important, Ethan never ignores a text from me.
I’m not too alarmed yet—how can I be when we’re in Napa and everything is beautiful? He’s probably just on a business call that he can’t break away from. Or in a meeting where it would be rude to pull out his phone to check it.
That’s all it is, I assure myself as I make my way back to the kitchen. While I’m enjoying the wine buzz, I should probably have a little food to help soak it up. Especially if Ethan’s not around to put the buzz to good use.
So that’s where I am when it happens. In the kitchen, bent over and rummaging in the refrigerator for the last of the tortellini salad. I’m humming at the top of my lungs and composing a law school application essay in my head when a cultured, well-modulated voice sounds from behind me.
“Well, well, nice to know nothing has changed. You’re still a low-class little thing, aren’t you?”
I whirl around at the voice—I’ve only heard it once before but I know exactly who it belongs to. Aural memories are powerful things and the last time I heard it was the most miserable day of my life. I’ve never forgotten it. Never forgotten the woman it belongs to. And never forgotten the emotions I was feeling the last time I heard it.
Sure enough, Vanessa Frost Jacobs is standing at the d
oorway into the kitchen. Ethan’s mother. Brandon’s mother.
She’s dressed in a pale pink suit that costs more than my entire wardrobe—the Armani suit Ethan just bought me notwithstanding—and she looks like a beautiful, blond viper. It’s truth in advertising, if you ask me. I’ve never met a more cold-blooded, scaly and poisonous woman in my life. Not to mention the fact that she’s more than willing to take a bite out of anyone who gets in her way.
Judging from the narrow-eyed look she’s giving me at the moment, I’m the latest offender—and more than likely her latest victim. But I’ve already been one of her victims, and I swore to myself when it happened that I would never let it happen again. No matter how much she scares me, no matter how intimidated I am by her frigid, frankly terrifying confidence, I’m not going to back down to her. Not here. Not now. Not this time. I’m a far cry from the fifteen-year-old girl I was when she last tangled with me.
The thought gives me comfort, or it would if I wasn’t so damn drunk. As it is, I stand frozen to the spot, swaying and seeing two of her as I try desperately to sober up.
“Chloe, isn’t it?” she says as if we’re at an afternoon garden party. As if she has no idea who I am. As if she isn’t here specifically to see me.
I know it’s all part of a plan—she can’t make it seem like she actually cares enough to remember my name. But she does, oh she does. I wonder how much it must be grating on her that I’m with Ethan now. A hell of a lot, judging from the fact that she’s here. And looking like she swallowed a lemon.
“It is,” I tell her after a long minute of trying to decide how I want to play this. Besides plucking her bald-headed and then rolling her and her pretty pink suit down the huge hill at the back of the house, I mean. “And you’re Vanessa.”