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His gaze snaps back to mine. “Someone was outside your apartment.”

I back toward the counter, needing something to hold on to. “I thought maybe I was overreacting.”

“You’re not.”

His voice is carefully calm, but the edge beneath it cuts deep. He steps closer. “You can keep lying to yourself, Ivy, but I’m done letting you lie to me.”

I open my mouth. I mean to tell him to leave, to say I can handle it. But the words shrivel on my tongue.

Ethan straightens, one hand curling around the back of a nearby chair, the other resting at his side. His eyes are locked on mine, waiting for something I don’t know how to give.

“You can’t fix this, Ethan,” I whisper, desperate to find some foothold. “You can’t.”

His throat works with a slow swallow. Then, his breath uncoils between us like heat. “Watch me.”

Before I can form a single thought, he pulls me into his arms, and my body gives in without hesitation. There’s no space between us, no room for resistance. My breath catches as he carries me across the room, his hold unshakable, like he’s made up his mind and nothing will break it now.

The table hits the backs of my thighs. He sets me down, but his hands never leave me. They drag slowly up my sides, gathering the fabric of my dress and bunching it around my waist. His gaze drops, scorching as it settles on the silk between my thighs. For a moment, he doesn’t move, just stares like he’s memorizing the sight of me like this—open, waiting, his.

Then one finger hooks the edge of my underwear and slides it down with maddening laziness.

“I’m not playing games tonight,” he says, voice honey-slick and soaked in intent.

“Ethan…” My voice trembles on his name, but I don’t finish. His head lowers between my thighs, and the first swipe of his tongue knocks the breath clean out of my lungs.

12

IVY

His lips are fire.

There’s no teasing. No slow warm-up. Just an all-encompassing heat as Ethan locks his mouth to my cunt and takes what he wants. His tongue drives deep, wet and greedy, lapping me open like I’m the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

I’m spread wide on the edge of the table, dress bunched at my waist, knees draped over his shoulders. He’s on his knees, face buried in my pussy like he belongs there, like nothing else in the world matters.

The first drag of his tongue through my folds makes me twitch. The second has me moaning, hips already lifting, aching for more.

He groans into me, and the sound makes my clit throb. One arm wraps tightly around my thigh, anchoring me. The other grips under my ass, lifting me higher, angling me up to meet his mouth. I try to shift, overwhelmed, but he growls.

“Stay still,” he snarls, mouth brushing my soaked flesh. “Let me have you.”

And he does. God, he does.

He licks me slowly at first—long, open-mouthed strokes that leave me panting—then switches to fast, filthy flicks over my clit. He slides lower again, tongue working my entrance, wet and hungry, groaning like he’s getting drunk on it. Then he does it—he bites. Not hard, just a sharp nip right to my pussy lips.

I cry out, legs jerking, and he does it again.

“Fuck, Ethan!”

“You like that?” His voice is ragged, filthy. “You want me to bite this pretty cunt while I eat you raw?”

I can’t even answer. He’s already moving again, sucking my clit hard, then nipping the hood with just enough pressure to make my back arch off the table. He dips two fingers in without warning, curling them fast and deep until I gasp.

“Oh, my God!”

He presses up, hitting that perfect spot, tongue circling my clit in tight, brutal strokes. Then he flattens his tongue and sucks. Hard.

The orgasm slams into me so fast it steals the breath from my lungs. I cry out, body locking, and then I’m gushing—legs shaking, cunt pulsing, a flood spilling over his mouth.