His thighs shift and harden beneath me, and I realize he’s holding his breath. Maybe I am too, because I exhale on a long, ragged sigh.

“You mean that?” I whisper.

His throat works on a swallow. “Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”

“Ethan…” I can’t speak. My fingers thread through his hair, holding on. This is too much, and yet all I want to do is sink into him, rest against his strength for a good, long while. Never leave his side. “We just started going out. We’ve only been together a handful of times.”

All true and yet, even as I say it, I know I want this. I want to be with him.

“Doesn’t change the way I feel,” he says. “I’m miserable without you. I need you, Fi.”

A little sob bubbles up, and my voice breaks. “I need you too, Ethan.”

It feels like we’re saying something else. But it doesn’t matter because he’s kissing me, deep and searching, a little bit frantic as if he’s trying to convince himself this is real. And I’m kissing him back, every bit as desperate.

Ethan holds my head, angling his mouth so he can delve deeper, and, God, he tastes good—feels good.

Gently he touches my check, his fingers tracing it. “How is it,” he whispers, “that I was just fine being alone until you kissed me in that club?”

I swallow hard, my skin flushed with heat. A lump in my throat makes my voice thick. “I don’t know.” But it’s the same for me. One beard dare, and I was lost.

His fingers run down the side of my throat, then up again. “You’ve ruined me, Fiona. I’m not sure I know how to live without you anymore.”

Before I can answer, he pulls off my shirt. My bra follows as he kisses his way along my neck. His fingers fumble with the zipper of my skirt.

“Take off your shirt first,” I tell him, needing to see him too.

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t look away from me, just reaches back and hauls his shirt over his head. All those hard-earned muscles shift and bunch beneath his smooth skin as he flings the shirt away.

Not one to go by half measures, he gently sets me aside and stands to push his sweats down, leaving him gloriously naked, that thick, long cock of his straight and proud and hard, the silver piercings winking in the light.

While I stare, Ethan steps back to look at me, his brow raised in expectation. Waiting.

I rise to face him. The zipper makes a loud hiss as I lower it. I shift my hips, shimmying, and the fabric slithers along my skin, my skirt falling at my feet.

For a long moment, he stares at me, his chest lifting and falling with each breath he takes, his cock quivering, as if impatient. Then he sinks to his knees. I expect a kiss, his mouth exploring my body. But he doesn’t do any of that.

Ethan Dexter wraps his arms around my waist and presses his cheek between my breasts. He hugs me close and sighs with his entire body. “I love you.”

My breath hitches with an audible sound, and he glances up, his hazel eyes solemn and intent. “I do. So fucking much. Every hour of every day. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

Relief and happiness are a liquid warmth running through me. My hands tunnel through his silky hair and hold him secure against me. “I love you too, Ethan.”

A shudder wracks his body, and he lets go of a long breath. His arms squeeze me tighter. When he speaks, it’s a broken rasp, as if he’s come to the end of a long journey. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go again, Fi.”

I can’t help but smile. “We’re really doing this? Living together?”

He smiles too, his beard tickling my skin. “Fuck yeah, we are.”

For the rest of the night, it’s just Ethan and me, every touch an affirmation of all that we’ve been missing, of all we’ll have from this day on.

Living together? We got this. After all, what’s the worst that can happen?

Chapter Thirty-Six

Fiona

Having never lived with someone, I worry how moving in with Ethan will be. Awkward? Stifling? Will we crash and burn?

Because, no matter how much I want Ethan, we’ve only physically been together a handful of times.

But he doesn’t give me time to worry. Every night he’s in town and off early, we go out and explore New Orleans—at a jazz club, where I cajole and entice Ethan to dance, or at a restaurant so good, I’m hard pressed not to moan with every bite. I’m a New Yorker at heart, so I’m used to good food. But New Orleans could give New York a run for its money.

We don’t hide being together. And a few pictures of us have popped up, along with speculation about Ethan’s new girlfriend. But the virgin witch hunt remains. Mainly because Ethan stubbornly refuses to talk about me—even if to confirm or deny a sexual relationship.

“It’s none of their fucking business,” he grumps. In public, he’s more restrained and simply says, “Unless it’s about football, no comment.”

Despite that ugliness, I’m happy. There are so many things I come to anticipate and love, namely the look on Ethan’s face every time he walks through the front door, his expression lit with happiness, his eyes hot with need.

Because the second he’s home, he’s backing me up against the wall, or bending me over the arm of the couch, fucking me like he’s making up for years of lost time.

I can’t keep my hands off him either. I catch him doing sit-ups and jump astride his hips before he does another crunch. His chuckle dies in a strangled groan when I kiss and lick my way over his hard body, tugging his shorts down to pull out that glorious, thick cock I crave.