The warmth of Ethan's words still lingered in the air, settling over Vanessa like the weight of The pendant lay warm against her skin, nestled just above the swell of her breasts, and Vanessa still wasn't sure if she'd fully processed it—what it meant for Ethan to say "It's hers now," with that effortless, unshakable certainty.
No hesitation. No room for misinterpretation.
It's hers now.
The words echoed in her head like a bell toll, resonating deep in her bones. They weren't just possessive—they were final. Claiming. And they did something to her… something she couldn't quite put into words.
Her fingers brushed over the chain absently, the fine gold links sliding under her touch. It shouldn't have meant so much. Shouldn't have felt like a weight anchoring her heart—or setting it loose in freefall.
As good as a proposal, she thought again. And this time, it didn't feel like exaggeration.
But maybe she wouldn't get the chance to sit with that truth. Not yet.
Because just as Ethan's uncle's teasing began to die down, Ethan's phone buzzed.
He reached for it, glanced at the screen, and exhaled—a quiet, sharp breath that made something tighten in her chest.
"I have to take this," he murmured, already stepping back as he raised the phone to his ear.
Vanessa watched him go, a subtle prickle of unease brushing her spine. It wasn't just the interruption—it was the shift in his expression. That familiar glint of mischief, that ever-present amusement—it vanished. His whole body stilled. Shoulders squared. His voice dropped into something smoother, colder.
Serious.
She had seen this version of Ethan only a handful of times—when he was navigating something important, something weighty. And it always made her feel like an intruder on something far larger than her.
When he came back, minutes later, his jaw was tight, his stride composed. Purposeful. Controlled.
"That was my lawyer," he said, his voice low.
Vanessa blinked, straightening instinctively. His lawyer?
"From my mother's side," he clarified, reading her thoughts like he always seemed to. "He's based here in Germany."
That surprised her. Not just because of the connection—but because of the timing. Why now? Why here?
Ethan's gaze lingered on her then, and the tension in his shoulders softened just enough to make her heart twist.
"I was hoping to spend the whole day with you," he said, and the way his voice dropped on you made her breath stutter. It wasn't casual, no matter how smoothly he tried to play it. There was heat behind it—coiled, waiting.
And then he reached out, brushing his fingers over the pendant at her chest.
The touch was barely there, but it seared through her like a spark.
"But I really need to take this meeting."
His hand lingered just a moment too long.
Vanessa nodded, even as her chest clenched. She didn't want him to go. Not when her body was still humming from his kiss. Not when the scent of him still clung to her clothes. Not when she felt so seen—so utterly exposed—by one line from his grandmother, and one glance from him.
But she forced her voice into something light. "Go. I'll survive a few hours without you."
Ethan's brow lifted.
"Will you?"
Heat flared in her cheeks. Between her thighs. She hated how easily he could do that—how one look, one smirk, could undo her from the inside out.
"Shut up and go before I change my mind," she snapped, but her voice lacked any real bite.
He chuckled low, the sound dark and warm and full of promise. He leaned in then—too close, his breath ghosting over her skin as he murmured something she couldn't even process. All she knew was the way it made her legs feel weak.
And then—he was gone.
The silence he left behind was louder than it should have been.
Vanessa exhaled hard, rolling her shoulders like she could shake him off. But she couldn't. Not really. He lingered in her like heat after lightning. In the aching pulse between her thighs. In the chain pressing against her collarbone. In her heartbeat—fast, irregular.
She needed a distraction.
Something sharp. Something not Ethan.
And then she turned—and saw Ethan's grandmother in the kitchen.
Vanessa smirked.
Perfect.
She padded across the floor and leaned into the cozy space, inhaling the comforting scent of herbs and sugar, watching the older woman tidy up like this wasn't the aftermath of emotional chaos.
"So," Vanessa began, folding her arms with faux casualness. "Earlier, you mentioned something about embarrassing childhood memories?"
The older woman paused, then turned with a look that made Vanessa grin wider.
"I did, didn't I?"
"Oh, you absolutely did," Vanessa replied, sinking into a nearby chair. "And I would love to hear them."
Ethan's grandmother chuckled, her eyes glinting with mischief. "You really are perfect for him, aren't you?"
Vanessa felt her face heat again, but this time, it wasn't the same kind of heat Ethan ignited. It was something quieter. Softer. Unsettling in a completely different way.
She didn't answer. Didn't want to answer. Not yet.
"Alright," the woman relented, sitting across from her with a sly smile. "Let's see… Oh! You might enjoy this one."
Vanessa leaned in, curiosity piqued.
"When Ethan was little—oh, maybe four or five—his mother used to call him Schneeflocke."
Vanessa blinked. "Schnee—what?"
"Schneeflocke," the woman repeated. "It means Snowflake."
Vanessa stared at her.
And then burst out laughing.
"Snowflake?!"
She could barely breathe. Her Ethan—smug, cocky, impossible Ethan—was called Snowflake?
The same man who smirked like sin, kissed like war, and had the audacity to own her with a necklace?
"Oh, that's amazing," she gasped, clutching her stomach.
His grandmother laughed with her. "Oh, but there's more. His mother used to dress him in little coats and scarves. Layers and layers. He looked like a tiny doll."
Vanessa tried to picture it—rosy cheeks, tousled hair, bundled up in fluff—and almost lost it.
"I need pictures," she wheezed.
"I'll see what I can do."
Vanessa was still catching her breath when the woman's expression shifted—mischief giving way to something sharper.
"Now, if you really want something fun…"
Vanessa's ears perked up.
"It involves Anna."
Just like that, the laughter drained from her lungs.
Her smile froze.
Anna.
Vanessa tensed, even before she could stop herself. She hated that name had the power to do that—turn warmth to ice in a single breath.
"I don't know if I like where this is going," she said carefully.
His grandmother laughed. "Oh, don't worry, dear. This was when they were children. Six, maybe seven."
Vanessa hesitated… then curiosity got the better of her. "Okay…?"
"One day, Anna and Ethan were playing outside. And Anna decided they should have a wedding."
Vanessa's stomach clenched.
No. No, no, no.
"And little Ethan—being little Ethan—just went along with it. She made him wear a flower crown, hold her hand, and she declared them married."
Vanessa sat very still.
The story was harmless. Innocent. Cute, even.
But something sharp twisted in her chest anyway.
It shouldn't matter. It was a child's game. But that image—of Ethan being married to someone else, even pretend, even then—sat like a stone in her gut.
"You should've seen his mother's face when she found them," the grandmother continued, still laughing. "She nearly fainted."
Vanessa exhaled, trying to force herself to laugh too. But her mouth felt dry.
"I swear, I'm never letting Ethan live this down," she muttered, trying for levity.
"Oh, I'm sure you won't," the older woman said, her smile gentle—but her eyes sharp, assessing, like she saw far more than she let on. Like she was measuring something invisible in Vanessa's expression. Something even Vanessa hadn't fully admitted to herself.
By the time an hour had passed, Vanessa was—unexpectedly, thoroughly—in heaven.
Not the kind of heaven Ethan sent her to—God, no. That was its own brand of exquisite torment.But this? This was an entirely different kind of bliss.
It was petty. It was ridiculous. And it was perfect.
Because Ethan's grandmother—sweet, steel-spined, charmingly ruthless—was feeding her an endless supply of ammunition. And not just stories. Oh no. She had gone for the jugular.
Photos.
So. Many. Photos.
Vanessa was practically vibrating with glee, legs curled beneath her on the worn kitchen chair, eyes wide and hungry as another photo album hit the table like a dropped secret. She couldn't stop smiling. Couldn't stop laughing. Couldn't stop feeling this wild joy that bubbled up and spilled out every time a new image made its way into her hands.
"Ohhh, this one is a classic," the older woman said, pulling out a particularly battered album with a reverent kind of glee.
She flipped through the pages like someone handling live dynamite, fingers sure and practiced, and then—there. She found what she wanted and turned the book toward Vanessa with a grin that said brace yourself.
Vanessa looked—
And immediately howled.
"Oh my God!" she wheezed, doubling over with laughter so violent it brought tears to her eyes. Her stomach hurt from laughing. Her face hurt. But she couldn't stop.
There, in full photographic glory, was a six-year-old Ethan drowning in an oversized black suit, his tiny shoulders squared like a CEO in miniature, clutching a briefcase that looked like it could swallow him whole. His hair was an unruly white halo, and his expression—so serious, so intense—was the final blow.
"What is this?!" she gasped between gulps of air, pointing accusingly at the photo like it had personally betrayed her.
His grandmother laughed, clearly delighted. "He went through a phase where he wanted to be just like his father. Wore suits everywhere. Even to bed."
Vanessa gawked. "You're telling me Ethan—the Ethan who rolls his sleeves up like it's foreplay—willingly wore a full suit to bed?"
"Oh, absolutely. His mother had to bribe him with sweets just to get him to change."
Vanessa collapsed against the table, giggling uncontrollably as she wiped tears from her cheeks. "I can't—this is gold."
And just as she thought she had recovered, another photo surfaced.
Her breath caught before the laugh even formed, a high, startled wheeze stuck in her throat.
"Is that—?" she choked out, blinking hard.
His grandmother's grin turned wicked. "It is."
Vanessa slapped a hand over her mouth, half-cackling, half-shrieking as she took in the image—Ethan, no older than four, proudly wearing a bright pink tutu, arms outstretched, tiny feet pointed like a ballerina in mid-pose.
"Oh my God—what—why—how—" Words abandoned her.
"This one's my favorite," the older woman said, eyes twinkling like a woman who'd been waiting years to unleash this story. "His mother took him to a ballet class—just to watch—but Ethan got so fascinated by the movements, he insisted on joining. One of the little girls had a spare tutu. Said he had to wear it to 'look the part.'"
Vanessa's brain stuttered.
"And he just… did it?"
"Oh, not just that," the woman said smugly. "He was good. The instructor said he had perfect balance and flexibility."
Vanessa's jaw dropped. Her brain conjured unholy images—Ethan's strong arms, the effortless grace in the way he moved, that low hum in his throat when he leaned over her. And now she knew—that grace, that ease—it wasn't just natural. It was trained.
"Ohhh, he is never living this down," she gasped.
And then the final nail in the coffin: another photo. Ethan mid-spin, arms raised like a dancer on stage, utterly focused, a small furrow between his brows.
Vanessa was gone.
She doubled over, laughter shaking her entire body, hands braced against the table as she tried to breathe. Her vision blurred with tears. Her ribs ached.
"If only he could see your face right now," the grandmother mused.
"I would frame this," Vanessa gasped, still breathless. "I will frame this. I will commission a painting—oh my God—"
"I imagine not," the woman said, amusement warm in her voice.
Vanessa's giggles faded slowly, a hiccup of joy still fluttering in her chest as she leaned back and exhaled hard. She felt good. Light. Almost high.
But then—something shifted.
A glint of paper, tucked between the pages. Barely visible. Forgotten, maybe.
Vanessa's fingers, still tingling from laughter, reached for it.
And everything inside her stilled.
The photo was small. Faded. More natural than the others. No costumes. No posturing. Just Ethan—maybe ten, maybe eleven—sitting on a wooden porch step. His hair was longer, messier, falling into his eyes. A small notebook rested in his lap, one hand clutching a pen. And his expression…
Her breath caught.
He looked lost in thought. Somewhere far away. Somewhere she couldn't reach.
"What's this one?" she asked softly, her voice instinctively hushed, reverent. Like she was intruding on something sacred.
His grandmother glanced over, and her smile shifted into something quieter. Sadder.
"That was taken the summer before everything changed for him."
Vanessa's fingers tightened on the photo.
"Before his parents…?"
A small nod.
That was all it took.
Something in her chest curled. Folded in on itself. The ache came out of nowhere—slow, hot, blooming like a bruise.
She looked back at the photo. And saw someone else.
Not the Ethan she knew. Not the flirt, the storm, the relentless force who knew exactly how to hold her still with a glance. No. This boy was softer. Lighter. Like he hadn't yet learned how to build walls behind that smirk.
"He used to write a lot," his grandmother said after a moment. "Poems, mostly. He was always in his own little world."
Vanessa blinked.
Poems.
Ethan. Writing poems.
It didn't fit. And yet… it did.
Something inside her twisted with sharp, aching clarity. Because of course he did. Of course there was more to him—more under him. Things he kept folded away in quiet corners. Things he'd never let her see.
He'd never told her that. Never even hinted at it. And for some reason, the idea of little Ethan, scribbling in a notebook while the world changed around him—dreaming things he didn't get to keep—hurt.
Her thumb brushed over the corner of the photo, and her throat tightened.
"Do you think he still does?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper.
The older woman smiled gently. With a kind of sadness that felt knowing.
"You should ask him."
Vanessa was still grinning when Ethan stepped back into the room.
And God, wasn't that just like him? Composed. Crisp. Every movement tucked and calculated like a secret. His expression gave away nothing, as always—cool, unreadable—but the way he carried that sleek leather folder, snug under one arm like it might bite if handled wrong, told her everything she needed to know. Whatever was inside it wasn't casual. It was important. Private.
But he didn't offer a word of explanation. Didn't glance at her. Just walked in like a storm biding its time.
And Vanessa? She was practically buzzing with mischief.
Still high from the photo album ambush, drunk on the pink tutu and tiny suit memories, and the quiet ache of that unexpected photograph of young, thoughtful Ethan—she was a riot of heat and delight under her skin.
So, when they all sat down for dinner, the table warm with quiet conversation, and Ethan settled beside her like a king claiming a throne, Vanessa leaned back in her chair—calm, slow, deliberate.
She crossed her legs under the table.
Tilted her head.
And in her sweetest, most innocent purr, dropped the grenade with a sugar-coated smile.
"So, Snowflake… when were you planning on telling me that you were already married?"
Silence detonated across the table.
Ethan froze.
And then—slowly—turned toward her. His eyes narrowed. The absolute horror that crept across his face would've been comical, if not for the undertone of real, visceral panic.
His gaze snapped to his grandmother like a man betrayed.
"What did you show her?" His voice was sharp. Controlled—but only just. Anger, disbelief, and a faint thread of dread warred behind his eyes.
Across the table, the old woman sipped her tea with a grace honed by decades of strategic maternal warfare.
"Not much," she said airily, like she hadn't just launched a nuclear strike in the form of baby ballerina Ethan.
Vanessa beamed, eyes glinting.
Ethan's glare whipped back to her. There was suspicion in his eyes now. And caution.
"You're lying," he growled.
She tapped a finger against her lips, pretending to think. Innocent. Devious.
"Am I?"
"Yes."
She raised a brow, curling her lip into a slow smile. "Then why do you look so nervous, darling?"
His jaw locked. Just a twitch of muscle—but she saw it.
"Because I know you."
Oh, yes. That delicious tension—cat and mouse, predator and prey, and neither of them entirely sure who was which. She reveled in it. Danced in it.
"And yet," she said sweetly, "you seem very worried, Snowflake."
His fork slipped from his hand, clattering against the plate. It sounded like a warning shot.
His grandfather chuckled softly into his napkin.
Vanessa felt the ghost of his leg brush against hers under the table. A whisper of contact, barely there—but she felt it like lightning up her spine. She fought the shiver threatening to ripple down her body.
He was answering. Quietly. Deliberately.
And not backing down.
"Vanessa," he said, voice low and rough and entirely too dangerous. That edge. That tone.
She met it head-on. Smiling like sin.
"Ethan."
His fingers flexed beside his glass. Knuckles pale. Jaw clenched.
"You're playing a very dangerous game, sweetheart."
Oh, she knew.
And she wanted more.
So she moved—just a little. Just enough.
Her bare foot slid up his calf, slow and teasing, the jeans tightening ever so slightly higher under the table. She didn't look away from him.
"Am I?" she whispered, soft enough only he could hear.
His gaze darkened. Not just irritated—possessive.
And then—shift.
So subtle. So quiet. But it changed everything.
The muscles in his jaw relaxed, only to tighten again. His fingers curled, then stilled. His lips parted—just barely—as his eyes dropped, slow and deliberate, trailing down the column of her throat. Heat bloomed there instantly, under the weight of that gaze.
Then his eyes snapped back to hers—and she forgot how to breathe.
The corner of his mouth curled upward. A slow, merciless smile.
"Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice like smoke winding through her bones, "you really want to test me tonight?"
Her stomach flipped. Her breath stuttered.
She had poked the bear.
And the bear had noticed.
The look in his eyes was a promise. Of games he would win. Of retribution measured in touches and moans and gasps he'd drag from her throat. But not here. Not yet.
Dinner table diplomacy, after all.
So, naturally, Vanessa did what she did best.
She poked again.
With a smile like she didn't know any better.
"So," she said lightly, brushing the edge of her napkin against her lips, "do you still write?"
Shift.
A stillness settled around Ethan like a cold fog.
He didn't speak. Not right away. But Vanessa felt it—the slow, calculating flick of his gaze toward his grandmother. Then his grandfather. Then back to her.
For a moment, she thought he might deflect. He always deflected. But not this time.
Because his grandmother—goddess bless her—leaned in with a kind smile and said, "Oh, yes. Ethan, do tell—have you been writing again?"
And that did it.
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
His hand tightened around the fork. The silver clicked against his plate—quiet, controlled. He was unraveling by degrees.
Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose, like he was giving in to gravity.
"I started again…" he said, voice low, unreadable, "about eight months ago."
Eight months.
Vanessa's heart stumbled.
That was the beginning. Their beginning.
Heat rose in her chest—low and hot and terrifying. It curled downward, coiling deep in her belly before she could stop it. She didn't want it to mean something. But it did.
And Ethan saw it.
Of course he did.
His eyes locked onto her like he was reading the thoughts she hadn't even formed yet. And what he found made him smile—slow, predatory, full of purpose.
He knew exactly what he'd done to her. What he was doing now.
"Something wrong, sweetheart?" he asked, and oh—his voice was silk wrapped around a blade. So soft. So sharp. He picked up his water glass with the kind of controlled grace that made her remember—vividly—exactly how those hands had felt around her.
Vanessa swallowed. Hard.
He didn't blink.
But something shifted. The kind of shift that wasn't seen, only felt—like the drop in pressure before a storm breaks. The air between them thickened, electrified, threading itself between her ribs, wrapping tight. Vanessa felt it everywhere: the pulse in her throat, the slow throb between her thighs, the heat crawling up the back of her neck like a hand.
That look in his eyes—lazy, confident, dangerous—seared through her like a brand. There was no mistaking the message behind it.
You started this. I'll finish it.
And then—he moved.
No grand gesture. No obvious shift.
Just his hand—sliding under the table, slipping beneath the hem of her jacket, settling on her thigh like it belonged there. Heavy. Warm. Possessive.
She nearly jolted in her seat, breath catching in her throat.
Because it wasn't innocent. Not even close.
His fingers rested just high enough that it made her ache. Not high enough to be blatant—no, Ethan was too composed for that. Too calculating. But the weight of his palm soaked through her jeans, radiating heat straight into her core, and suddenly her clothes felt too tight, too suffocating. Her nerves screamed beneath her skin.
And the bastard?
He didn't even look at her.
He turned instead—smooth as silk—and engaged his grandfather in polite conversation about vineyard soil compositions and cabernet aging profiles, like he wasn't actively tormenting her under the goddamn dinner table.
Vanessa's breath came short and shallow. Her posture was perfect, her hands folded neatly in her lap, but inside?
She was shaking.
Because Ethan's hand wasn't still.
His thumb dragged—slow, almost absentminded—back and forth along the inner seam of her thigh. Just enough friction to set her on fire. Just enough pressure to make her forget every word in her vocabulary.
She clenched her fingers together in her lap, squeezing until her knuckles whitened, desperate for something to hold onto.
And then—oh God—his knuckles brushed against her center. Just once.
A feather-light stroke. Nothing direct. Just the barest graze.
But she felt it everywhere.
Vanessa dared a glance at his grandparents, panic fluttering in her throat like trapped wings. They weren't looking. Or worse—they were, and they were just too damned old and wicked to care.
Because that's when his grandmother chuckled and said, with maddening fondness:
"His father was the same. Used to fluster Julia just like that at the dinner table."
Vanessa froze. Fluster Julia—?
Her entire face went up in flames. Mortification and arousal collided in a perfect storm inside her chest.
But Ethan didn't stop.
He rewarded her silence by dragging a single finger—slow, deliberate—up the center seam of her jeans, pressing against her zipper just enough to make her hips twitch.
A strangled noise escaped her lips—half gasp, half helpless whimper.
She tried to close her legs. Tried to trap his hand between her thighs.
Big mistake.
It only wedged him deeper. Made it worse. And he knew it.
Finally—finally—he turned to her. That wicked, knowing smile was pure sin carved into flesh.
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. Intimate. Illicit.
"Guess it runs in the family," he murmured.
Vanessa didn't know whether to punch him or climb into his lap.
Instead, she stood. Too fast. Too stiff.
Her legs barely held her.
But the moment her heel touched the first step of the staircase—he was there.
No sound. No warning. Just Ethan, suddenly behind her, tall and hot and absolutely unrelenting.
His chest pressed to her back, one hand snaking around her waist, the other sliding up between her thighs. Not even pretending to be subtle now.
Her breath stuttered.
And then he lifted her—like it was nothing. Like she was nothing but heat and want in his arms. She gasped, fists clinging to the fabric of his shirt, her heartbeat crashing in her ears.
He didn't speak.
Didn't look at her.
He just moved—fast, focused, barely restrained. Through the hallway. Up the stairs. Into the dark heat of his room.
The door shut behind them with a soft click that echoed like a scream.
Then she was airborne.
He threw her—gently, but without hesitation—onto the bed. Her body bounced on the mattress, the shock of it stealing her breath.
She barely had time to blink before he was on her. Covering her. Claiming her.
His mouth crushed hers, wild and hungry. Tongue pushing past her lips like he had a right to. His hands were already dragging her jacket down her arms, then tugging her tube top so hard it snapped against her skin before baring her completely.
She cried out, breathless. Her nipples pebbled instantly in the cold air—already so sensitive, they throbbed.
And then his mouth was there.
Hot. Wet. Starved.
His tongue flicked, his teeth scraped, and when he sucked—hard—she arched off the bed with a broken sob of pleasure.
"You were asking for this," he murmurer against her throat.
And maybe she was.
Because when he shoved her jeans down, taking her panties with them in one impatient tug, she didn't stop him. Couldn't. She was burning, unraveling, slick with want.
The moment the air touched her bare pussy, she gasped. But Ethan?
Ethan groaned.
"You're soaked," he muttered, sliding two fingers between her folds like he'd done it a hundred times. Like he'd earned the right.
"All this for me?"
She couldn't answer.
Could only nod. Moan. Arch.
Then he was gone.
And then—his mouth.
He buried his face between her thighs, tongue lashing through her folds, lips wrapping around her clit with obscene precision. He devoured her—slow, deep licks followed by relentless suction, his growl vibrating through her bones.
Her hands flew to his head, fingers tangling in his hair.
Her thighs clamped around his face—but he didn't stop. He thrived on it. Hummed against her clit, his tongue moving faster, deeper, dragging her straight to the edge.
"Please—Ethan—" she gasped, "I can't—"
"Yes, you can," he growled. "You will."
He rose, face wet with her slick, eyes wild.
She watched, dazed, as he undid his belt—slow, deliberate. Freed himself.
Her breath hitched.
He was thick. Hard. Heavy in his hand as he stroked once, just to tease her. Her mouth watered.
Then he grabbed her hip.
"Ass up."
Her body moved before her brain caught up.
She flipped onto her stomach, rose to her knees, arched her back. Offered herself.
His cock slid through her folds once—coating himself with her wetness—then lined up.
And drove in. Hard.
She screamed into the mattress, body splitting in half, back arching violently as he filled her in one brutal, breathtaking thrust.
He reached around, rubbed her clit in tight, filthy circles as he fucked her harder. Deeper.
She shattered.
And he kept going.
Ethan gripped her hips like he was staking a claim. His fingers sank into her flesh, dragging her back onto his cock with every brutal, perfect thrust. The slap of skin on skin echoed through the room—loud, wet, relentless.
And then—God help her—his hand slid up.
One palm wrapped around her breast, squeezing, kneading, his fingers pinching and rolling her nipple until it throbbed, raw and tender. The other snaked forward, over the curve of her waist, until it looped around her throat.
He didn't squeeze. Not yet.
He just held her there—possessed her.
Anchored her.
Every roll of his hips sent her spiraling, each one hitting that devastating spot deep inside her, again and again. It was ruthless. Precise. Like he knew exactly how to destroy her.
And Vanessa? She shattered—again. A sharp, full-body quake that left her sobbing against the mattress, mouth open in a silent scream.
But Ethan didn't stop.
He kept going—his hand sliding from her throat down her chest, his fingers flicking over her other nipple, twisting it, punishing it until her back bowed like a bowstring.
She was panting now, moaning without rhythm, her voice raw.
His hand kept going—down her stomach, knuckles brushing the ridge of her abs slick with sweat, down to the trembling mound of her pussy. And then—he was there again. Rubbing her clit in tight, vicious circles that synced perfectly with the punishing rhythm of his thrusts.
He was everywhere. Surrounding her. Filling her. Owning her.
She didn't stand a chance.
Her climax tore through her with a ragged cry, and this time it felt like drowning. Her vision went white. Her body locked. Her knees buckled under her, and she collapsed forward onto the mattress, trembling, boneless.
But Ethan—relentless, insatiable Ethan—caught her before she could fall too far.
He grabbed her. Flipped her.
The world spun, and then she was flat on her back, her hair fanned out on the sheets, legs flung open wide as Ethan settled between them, his hands locking onto her thighs.
He pulled her open like a gift—eyes burning, body straining.
And then—he plunged back inside her.
Hard. Fast. Deep.
Vanessa cried out, head thrashing against the bed, hands clawing at the sheets. She was beyond words, beyond breath, her mind a static blur of heat and sensation.
All she could manage were fragments—broken sounds torn from her throat:
"Ethan—fuck—God—"
Over and over.
His pace was feral now—hips pistoning, sweat dripping from his jaw onto her skin. Her thighs trembled around his hips, slick and shaking.
Every thrust pushed her higher. Every stroke left her closer to unraveling.
And the way he looked at her—like he was consuming her—that almost broke her all over again.
Ethan was everywhere.
On top of her. Inside her. Around her.
The rhythm of his thrusts was punishing, devastating, like he was trying to break her apart and hold her together all at once. Every time he moved, it was like the air vanished from her lungs. Her eyes fluttered open, then shut again—too much, too intense. He kissed her like he was starving, lips crashing over hers before trailing heat down her throat, then lower, until—
God.
His mouth found her breast, lips closing over her nipple with a wet, desperate sound. He sucked. Bit. Licked. Her back arched beneath him with a helpless cry, and she could feel the answering groan rumble through his chest as it vibrated against her skin.
And still—his hand was at her other breast, fingers rolling, pinching, tugging with practiced cruelty that made her whimper and buck beneath him. Every nerve in her body lit up, burned hot, then brighter still when his other hand slid lower—between them—between her legs.
He didn't stop. He didn't slow.
He was thrusting into her, deep and fast, and still that hand was there. On her clit.
Circling. Pressing. Slapping.
She didn't know whether she was gasping or sobbing now—just that she was unraveling at the seams.
I can't—I can't—
But her body said otherwise. It tightened. Coiled. Then exploded.
She convulsed beneath him, the orgasm tearing through her like a lightning strike. She clenched around him so hard that he slipped out of her with a guttural curse, her thighs still trembling as the aftershocks rolled through her. Her hands were fists in the sheets, her mouth open in a soundless cry.
Time stopped. She shook. Drenched in sweat. Barely aware of her own name.
She couldn't form a single word.
Ethan didn't speak.
He just watched her.
Eyes dark. Hands ready. Waiting.
And then she moved. Not because she had the strength—but because she couldn't not move. She needed him again—now.
She climbed onto him, dazed and hungry, straddling his hips with shaking thighs.
Her hand guided him back to where he belonged—sliding him into her slowly, almost reverently.
The stretch made her moan, her head dropping forward as she took every thick, pulsing inch. He was so hard—so hot inside her—it was like being filled with fire. She began to move, hips rolling, riding him with soft, broken sounds spilling from her lips.
He let her take control—for a moment. Let her move the way she needed to. Let her find the rhythm that sent sparks shooting through her spine. But soon his hands were back—on her hips, guiding, gripping.Then her breasts.
"Vanessa," he breathed—raw, wrecked.
She didn't respond. She couldn't. She just moved faster, chasing that edge again, the pressure building like a storm inside her.
And then—another climax crashed over her.
She gasped—clenched—tipped forward into him. And in the same heartbeat, Ethan groaned beneath her, his hips surging upward, thrusting into her so deep it knocked the breath from her lungs.
He came hard.
Hot. Deep.
Filling her as she trembled and collapsed against his chest, sweat-slick and utterly shattered.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Their breathing was ragged. Bodies locked together.
Vanessa didn't try to speak.
She just curled into him, skin to skin, heart to heart.
And when Ethan reached up—brushed the damp hair from her face and pressed a kiss to her temple—she let her eyes close.
Still joined. Still full.
Still his.
Morning came too soon.
Golden light filtered through the curtains, warm and soft against tangled sheets and bare skin. Vanessa lay curled against Ethan, her body sore, deliciously ruined. His arm draped around her waist, his breath steady and warm against her neck.
She felt his heartbeat against her back. Felt the faint ache in her thighs. Felt everything.
Then her eyes opened.
There, at the foot of the bed, were her clothes—mostly.
Her dress, her belt, her bra… but no panties.
She blinked.
No. No way.
Before she could ask, the mattress shifted. Ethan's sleep-rough voice rumbled behind her.
"You're awake."
She turned slowly to face him, suspicion narrowing her eyes. His hair was tousled, his grin lazy, far too smug.
"Ethan," she said carefully. "Where are my panties?"
He stretched, shameless, muscles flexing as if to prove a point. "Wear the dress," he murmured. "Or my sweatshirt."
"You're not serious."
He didn't even blink. Just smiled.
Vanessa, red-faced and grumbling, snatched the dress and stalked to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
Smug bastard.
By the time they came downstairs for breakfast, Vanessa had managed to collect herself.
Or so she thought.
The moment she entered the dining room and saw the smirk on Ethan's grandmother's face, she knew.
They'd heard.
Every. Damn. Thing. Last night
She wanted to disappear. To melt into the floor. Ethan, of course, remained perfectly at ease, greeting his grandparents like nothing happened.
"You two must've slept well," his grandmother said, stirring her tea with a twinkle in her eye.
Vanessa burned.
"We did," Ethan replied smoothly, casting Vanessa a look that made her want to strangle him. "Vanessa especially."
She nearly kicked him.
Desperate to redirect the conversation, she cleared her throat, took a long sip of coffee, and forced a smile. "So… where are we going today?"
His grandfather lowered his newspaper. "That depends. Do you want to see the town—or would you prefer something… more private?"
She choked.
Ethan's hand was already on her thigh beneath the table. She hadn't noticed. Now she did. And now it was moving again.
Bastard.
Vanessa's glare was deadly.
But Ethan didn't even flinch.
"Vanessa likes exploring," he said, calm as ever. His fingers trailed higher.
"Mmm," his grandmother mused. "Exploring is lovely… but sometimes, staying in can be even better."
Vanessa froze.
And Ethan's hand?
Kept moving.
She was in hell. A beautiful, sensual, maddening hell.
And she couldn't wait to fall deeper.
"The town sounds great!" Vanessa blurted a little too fast, the forced brightness in her voice only making her panic more obvious. "Let's do that. Fresh air. Walking. Sightseeing. Sounds wonderful, doesn't it, Ethan?"
Ethan's grin spread slow and wicked, his hand retreating from her thigh with maddening leisure. His fingers had been tormenting her for the last ten minutes, barely-there strokes against the inside of her thigh that left her struggling to breathe, to sit still—much less carry on a conversation with his grandparents who, to her horror, seemed vaguely amused by the entire situation.
Ethan leaned back in his chair, every inch of him relaxed and cocky, his voice a smooth purr. "If that's what you want, sweetheart." He tilted his head, his eyes raking over her with a heat that made her squirm. "But you're already so… breathless."
She kicked him under the table—hard.
He only laughed, low and pleased, and his grandmother chuckled behind her teacup.
"Oh, you two are going to be trouble," she said, her eyes sparkling with knowing mischief.
Vanessa wanted to die.
Breakfast continued, safer now that Ethan's hand was off her, but not by much. His gaze remained heavy on her, simmering with promises that made her thighs press together instinctively under the table. The teasing continued in conversation form—his grandparents recounting old local legends, Ethan twisting each one into something suggestive, each comment laced with innuendo that made her skin flush hotter and hotter.
"The old town market is always lively this time of year," his grandmother said. "Handmade crafts, local delicacies—you might enjoy that, Vanessa."
"Or the Black Forest," his grandfather added. "A beautiful place, if you don't mind the myths."
Vanessa perked up. "Myths?"
"Ah, yes," his grandfather said, folding his paper. "Hauntings. Creatures in the woods. And of course, the romantic tales. Stolen kisses. Lovers who got lost… and never wanted to be found again."
Her breath caught, and she didn't need to look to feel Ethan's eyes on her.
"Sounds like the perfect place for us, doesn't it?" His voice was soft, low, and far too intimate.
She kicked him again.
Desperate for a break, Vanessa stood quickly. "I should call home," she said. "I forgot to check in yesterday."
"Of course, darling," his grandmother said, barely hiding her smile.
Vanessa fled.
She ducked into the quiet hallway, pulled out her phone, and dialed her parents' house number. No answer. Frowning, she tried her mother's cell.
It rang… and rang… then connected.
"Sweetheart!" Her mom's voice was breathless. "How are you?"
"Fine," Vanessa said slowly. "Are you okay?"
There was a pause. Her mother's breathing sounded odd—ragged. Like she was trying to calm herself.
"Oh, I'm fine, darling! Just—" A sharp inhale. "Just a bit… busy."
Vanessa's brows drew together.
"Right… well, sorry for not calling sooner—"
"Oh, don't worry! Ethan has been keeping us updated. He's such a nice boy."
Wait. What?
She hadn't seen him call anyone.
And then—
A soft, unmistakable moan crackled through the line.
Vanessa froze.
What the actual—
Click.
The call ended.
Her phone slipped slightly in her grip. She stood there, paralyzed as realization hit her like a wrecking ball.
No. No, no, no. She had called in the middle of… that.
Her face flamed as horror surged through her veins. Her body locked in place, her soul leaving her. She had absolutely forgotten about the time difference. It was early morning here… but back in California…
Oh. My. God.
She turned on her heel, making for any room, any door—anywhere that wasn't here.
And slammed right into Ethan's chest.
His hands closed around her arms, steadying her, and the smugness in his grin told her he already knew.
"Caught them at the wrong time, huh?" he murmured, his voice a velvety tease.
Vanessa's stomach dropped.
"I—I don't—Shut up!"
His laugh was dark and warm, brushing against her skin like silk. "Feeling a little flustered?"
She made a strangled noise, shoved past him, and collapsed onto the couch with a groan, burying her face in her hands.
"I hate everything."
Ethan's laughter followed her, deep and amused. Within moments, his arms wrapped around her from behind, strong and possessive. She stiffened at first—reflexive—but then she melted into him with a sigh, the comfort of his presence too familiar to resist.
"You just forgot about the time difference," he said, his lips brushing her ear.
"That doesn't make it better."
"It does make it better." His voice dipped, dark amusement threading through every word. "How many times has she teased you about us? At least now you can return the favor."
Vanessa groaned again, but her lips twitched.
Okay. Maybe he had a point.
She pulled back slightly to glare at him. "You're enjoying this way too much."
Ethan just smirked. "Oh, absolutely."
She shoved him, half-hearted, but he caught her wrist and dragged her back into him.
Her body responded before her brain could deny it—hips shifting, heart racing, skin prickling under his touch. Damn him.
Vanessa sighed into his chest, her pride barely holding itself together.
"I need a distraction."
Ethan's hands slid down to her thighs, thumbs brushing dangerously close to bare skin. "I can offer a few ideas."
She shot him a warning look. "I meant outside. Fresh air. Moving vehicle. Public setting."
His smirk didn't fade, not even a little. Instead, he reached into his pocket and held up the car keys without a word.
Vanessa blinked.
No teasing? No negotiation?
Suspicious, she took them slowly.
"You're giving me these way too easily."
Ethan's eyes dipped to her legs, where her dress had ridden up just enough to be dangerous.
"Oh, I have my reasons."
Heat licked up her spine. She cursed internally for not wearing something less… inviting. But it was too late. She'd walked into that trap all on her own.
Ethan stepped toward the door, his tone deliberately light. "Let's see if you can handle German roads, sweetheart."
Vanessa gritted her teeth, gripping the keys tighter.
Oh, she'd handle them just fine.
Vanessa's grip on the wheel tightened, her fingers curling around the leather with barely restrained tension. The engine responded with a low, throaty growl—powerful, seductive, vibrating through the frame of the car and into her bones. Into her core.
She wasn't just driving. She was commanding. Owning every inch of the road, every pulse of acceleration, every tremble of mechanical force that shuddered up her thighs with electric precision.
She wasn't wearing any panties.
Every subtle shift of the car sent those vibrations higher, tighter, deeper. The hum beneath her was maddening—soft, consistent, teasing. The pressure built slowly, an erotic ache that crept through her belly and coiled between her legs like fire waiting to be fed.
Beside her, Ethan sat still. Too still. One leg cocked, his arm resting casually on the door, but his gaze? It was locked on her. Unmoving. Unforgiving.
Not on the road. Not on the scenery flying past in a blur. On her.
Vanessa's lips curved, a dark, dangerous smile twisting at her mouth. So now he was paying attention? Now that she was in control?
Good.
She pressed the pedal harder. The car surged forward, sleek and hungry. Her thighs clenched involuntarily, the motion dragging the hem of her dress higher along her bare skin.
She didn't adjust it.
Let him look.
She shifted gears slowly, deliberately, the motion sensual, almost obscene. And she saw it—the flicker of reaction in Ethan's posture. The brief, telltale twitch of his fingers against his thigh. Subtle. But it was there.
He noticed.
Heat flared low in her belly. She didn't speak. Didn't have to. The silence between them was thick, charged, vibrating with withheld hunger. She wanted to break him. Wanted to feel the moment his calm cracked, his control slipped. When he'd stop pretending and finally admit just how badly he wanted her.
The next bump in the road sent a shiver straight through her. Wet heat pooled between her thighs, her breath catching. She couldn't stop the soft sound that escaped—barely a whisper, but Ethan heard it.
His hand moved.
Vanessa didn't have time to react before his fingers slid between her thighs and found her clit—exposed, aching, soaked. The touch was devastatingly precise. A sharp gasp tore from her lips, her foot jerking on the pedal, the car veering slightly before she caught herself.
Her knuckles whitened on the wheel.
"Fuck," she hissed, breathless.
Ethan said nothing. Just leaned in, his touch slow, teasing, maddening. His fingers moved with cruel control, stroking her in soft, tormenting circles, dipping just enough to tease her slit before retreating again.
He was enjoying this.
Of course he was.
She tried to focus on the road—on the blur of trees, on the sound of the engine, anything to ground herself. But Ethan made it impossible. Every stroke of his fingers sent white-hot pleasure spiraling through her. Her body trembled, hips lifting subtly, chasing more.
Then—he reached out with his other hand and tapped a button on the dash.
The windows darkened instantly.
Privacy glass. One-way. No one would be able to see inside
Her stomach dropped.
He planned this.
The thought made her wetter. Hotter. The shame, the thrill, the dangerous promise of being completely exposed and still completely at his mercy—Vanessa was unraveling.
But just as she teetered on the edge—
He stopped.
Her breath hitched violently, hips rocking forward, chasing his touch, but his hand was gone. Gone like it had never been there at all.
She turned to him slowly, breath ragged, disbelief burning in her eyes.
Ethan?
Smirking. Calm. Infuriatingly composed.
"You—" Her voice broke with frustration. "You absolute bastard."
He reclined slightly, that maddening smirk deepening. "Better keep driving, sweetheart."
Her thighs clenched hard. She could still feel the ghost of his fingers. Still aching. Still desperate. Her arousal throbbed through her, hot and thick and impossible to ignore.
She glared at him, furious—and impossibly turned on.
And then he tapped the button again.
The windows turned clear.
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
She could see the world now. Which meant if anyone passed by—anyone at all—they could see her too. Flushed. Disheveled. Bare beneath her dress. Dripping and trembling with need.
He wanted her to feel it.
All of it.
The humiliation. The thrill. The awareness of how wet she still was for him.
"You're driving awfully slow," he murmured, voice dark velvet. "Losing focus?"
Her blood boiled. She slammed on the brakes.
The tires screeched. The car jerked to a sudden stop on the side of the empty road.
Vanessa turned to him, breathing hard, body still pulsing with denied release.
"You're a menace."
Ethan didn't flinch. Just watched her.
Waiting.
So she moved.
One quick motion—her seatbelt unclicked. Then she was on him. Climbing over the console, straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips, hands braced on his chest.
He let her.
Didn't touch her.
Just stared—dark eyes gleaming, mouth curved in wicked anticipation.
She rolled her hips hard, dragging herself over the bulge straining against his jeans. The rough fabric rubbed her swollen clit and she gasped—head tilting back, pleasure shooting straight through her spine.
Ethan exhaled slowly, his hands finally rising to settle on her hips. Firm. Commanding. Holding her in place.
Still, he didn't thrust. Didn't grind.
He made her move.
Vanessa rocked again, harder this time, chasing the friction, losing herself in the maddening rhythm. Her breath came fast. Shaky. Desperate. She was losing control—right there in his lap, in the front seat of a goddamn car on an open road with God and nature watching.
She didn't care.
She needed it. Needed him.
Ethan, sensing her unraveling, reached forward again.
The windows blackened.
Privacy returned.
Her hips stuttered, a choked moan slipping out as relief and arousal clashed.
His lips brushed her neck, his voice a low whisper.
"Go ahead."
Not permission.
A challenge.
Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. She rocked harder, her clit dragging against the thick ridge beneath his jeans, her slick soaking into the denim. She was on fire—every inch of her flushed, trembling, begging for more.
And then he finally gave it.
One hand slid between them, fingers finding her again, guiding her rhythm, stroking her to the edge.
She shattered.
Hard.
The orgasm ripped through her with brutal force, her body convulsing in his lap, forehead dropping to his shoulder, breath coming in shattered, gasping waves.
But he didn't stop.
He didn't let her rest.
Instead, the seat clicked.
Reclining.
Before she could recover, he shifted, rolling her to the back seat in one smooth motion. The world tilted, and then she was on her back, legs open, dress bunched around her waist, too spent to move.
And then he was inside her.
One deep, slow thrust that knocked the breath from her lungs.
Vanessa cried out, her nails digging into the leather seat as her walls clenched around him, body reacting instantly, overwhelmed by fullness, heat, the shocking intensity of him inside her again.
Ethan groaned low, his mouth against her throat.
"Good girl."
Then he began to move.
Each stroke was deliberate. Measured. Devastating. He owned her body—pushed her higher with every thrust, every grind of his hips, every slap of skin against skin echoing in the enclosed car.
She moaned.
She whimpered.
She begged.
And still he kept going.
Driving her through a second orgasm.
Then a third.
By the time he came, she was limp beneath him, her body soaked, trembling, utterly ruined.
He stilled inside her with a deep, feral groan, his release hot and pulsing, his breath ragged against her neck.
And then silence.
Only the hum of the engine.
Their wrecked breathing.
The lingering heat between them.
Ethan shifted, pulled her into his chest, kissed the top of her head.
"Rest," he whispered, fingers tracing soft, slow circles along her thigh.
Vanessa didn't argue.
Couldn't.
She sank into him, eyes fluttering closed, the last thing she felt was the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the warmth of his skin, and the slow, spreading satisfaction curling through her like silk.