The sun was low now, a heavy amber glow spilling across the patio and seeping into Vanessa's skin. She stirred slowly, the heat pressing against her bare back like a memory—one that didn't just belong to the sun. Her body still tingled where his fingers had ghosted down her spine earlier. It had been fleeting, teasing, barely even a touch... and yet, it lingered.
She stretched languidly on the towel, muscles loose and heavy, the heat lulling her into a slow awareness. But her thoughts had turned sharp. Focused. Her body remembered—too well—the way Ethan's voice had dropped, the way his touch hadn't asked for permission. The way she hadn't resisted.
With a soft exhale, Vanessa rose onto her knees, the towel slipping from her hips. Her skin was golden, kissed by the sun, warm to the touch and flushed in places only she could feel. She peeled off her bikini top with a lazy flick of her fingers, her breasts catching the fading sunlight, nipples already tightened—not from cold, but anticipation.
Without a second thought, she stood and walked to the pool's edge, the surface gleaming with liquid silver in the light. And then she dove—headfirst, clean, slicing through the water with the grace of someone chasing a feeling.
The cold hit her like a sigh of relief, an electric balm to the simmering heat that had been coiling in her belly all afternoon. She surfaced with a gasp, hair slicked back, skin taut and tingling, alive. She floated for a moment, letting the weightlessness suspend the growing ache in her core. But it didn't fade. If anything, the contrast made it worse—made her want.
Ethan still owed her.
The thought came unbidden, curling in her chest like smoke. She climbed out slowly, water sliding over every inch of her body, dripping in trails down her thighs, tracing the inside of her knees, the swell of her ass. Her skin was alive with sensation, damp and flushed and hungry.
Inside, the house was cool, dim. A breath of reprieve from the outside heat—but it didn't cool her. Not really. She moved through the space like a shadow, silent, barefoot, predator-smooth. The ache between her legs pulsed with every step, her body humming with tension that had no outlet. Yet.
And then she saw him.
Ethan stood in front of the stove, shirt clinging to his back, his shorts slung on his hips. Headphones on, humming softly to himself, utterly unaware. The way his muscles moved beneath the cotton as he stirred—casual, controlled, unbothered—it was almost offensive.
Her lips curled.
Too perfect.
Vanessa didn't pause. Didn't announce herself. She stepped up behind him, close enough to feel the body heat coming off him, and with two fingers slipped just beneath the waistband of his shorts—then yanked them down to his thighs in one quick, ruthless tug.
Ethan froze.
His spine went rigid, one hand still gripping the spoon, the other flexing against the counter. A sharp inhale split the silence.
Vanessa's smile deepened.
She didn't give him time to react. She dropped to her knees, water from her hair soaking into the back of his thighs. Her fingers slid up, nails grazing along his inner thighs—soft enough to tease, sharp enough to make him twitch.
His breath came out rough. Almost a growl.
And then she saw it—that shift. That beat of realization when his mind caught up to his body.
He turned slightly, just enough to look down, and caught her gaze. Her mouth was inches away from him, and the look she gave him was nothing short of filthy.
His expression changed.
Slowly, deliberately, Ethan reached down, gripping her chin, lifting her face with maddening ease. His thumb dragged across her bottom lip, eyes heavy with something dark, hot, and dangerous.
"You really are wicked, aren't you?"
The way he said it—like it turned him on, like he was already deciding how he'd make her pay for it—sent a bolt of molten heat straight between her thighs.
Vanessa parted her lips, just enough for her tongue to flick against the pad of his thumb. A teasing taste. A dare.
He exhaled hard through his nose, grip on her jaw tightening just slightly.
"Careful, Nessa," he said, voice a low warning. Too calm. Too quiet. That razor-thin edge of control.
But the smirk tugging at his lips told another story entirely.
He liked this. The power. The play. Her on her knees, soaked and sin-drenched, looking up at him like she needed him to break.
And she did.
She leaned in slowly, dragging her mouth across the skin of his thigh, her breath hot, her lips parted.
The second she took him into her mouth, the smirk vanished.
A sharp, bitten-off curse broke from his lips. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, the illusion of control shattering in a single devastating thrust. His hand shot to her hair, fingers tightening, anchoring her there.
Vanessa hummed around him, the vibration of it pulling another sound from deep in his chest. Her tongue worked in slow, torturous circles, alternating between soft suction and slick heat, taking him deeper, letting him pulse against her tongue as he began to move.
The rhythm came fast—his control slipping with each wet slide of her mouth. He thrust, she took him. Again. Deeper. Her lips stretched around him, her jaw aching, but she didn't stop. Didn't want to. She craved the way he lost composure, the way his breath stuttered, the sounds that escaped when he thought she wouldn't notice.
The kitchen filled with sharp exhales, groans, the wet sounds of her mouth, the slap of skin. It was desperate. Hungry. Not soft—not now.
His hands gripped the counter, knuckles white, muscles trembling, body drawn tight.
And then—with a broken sound, a half-growled version of her name—he shattered.
Vanessa felt it, the heat spilling into her mouth, the way his body spasmed, the helpless press of his hips as his fingers curled tight in her hair. His chest rose and fell in fast, uneven bursts, body straining against the edge of release.
She swallowed him down, every drop, slow and deliberate, her tongue dragging one final time before she let him slip from her lips.
She rose to her feet slowly, legs unsteady, thighs clenched tight against the deep, throbbing ache that had only grown. Her nipples were tight, her core slick and wanting, her breath ragged.
Across from her, Ethan stood—undone, chest heaving, hair a mess from running his hands through it. His eyes were still clouded with lust, but behind it—something else.
Challenge. Hunger. A promise.
The air between them shimmered,
Vanessa was still catching her breath.
Her knees were weak, lips swollen, throat aching in the best way. The taste of him lingered faintly on her tongue—salt, heat, power. Her skin was flushed, pulse racing beneath the surface, a deep, delicious ache thrumming between her thighs. She clutched the edge of the counter as if it were the only thing tethering her to the ground, still dizzy from the force of what had just passed between them.
And that's when he hit her with it.
"Are you on birth control?"
The words came out low and casual, but they cut through her post-orgasmic haze like a blade—sharp, unexpected. She blinked, stunned, head still buzzing from the intensity of the moment.
That was not what she'd expected to come out of his mouth.
A flicker of warmth bloomed at her chest and climbed to her neck, betraying her before she could even think to control it. Her skin flushed—visibly—and Ethan saw it. Of course he did. His gaze flicked over her, sharp and alert, tracking every shift in her expression, every micro reaction.
Then came that smirk. The one that said he knew exactly how much power he had over her body. And worse—her mind.
"Why are you blushing?"
Vanessa hesitated. Her heart fluttered against her ribs, not from shame exactly... but from knowing what she was about to admit. Should she tell him? It wasn't sexy. It was mortifying. But this was Ethan. If she couldn't tell him, who the hell could she?
She exhaled hard and rolled her eyes. "Because," she muttered, trying to sound annoyed and failing, "the day after your little magazine stunt, my mother dragged me to the clinic and got me set up with a full-on birth control plan."
His grin stretched wider, damn near gleeful, lips curving in that slow, devastating way that made her want to punch him and ride him in equal measure.
"Yikes," he said with zero remorse, clearly loving this way too much.
She narrowed her eyes at him, crossing her arms over her chest.
Big mistake.
The movement pushed her breasts together, still bare, nipples peaked from the cool air—and Ethan's eyes dropped, a flicker of heat breaking through the humor. But it only fueled his smirk.
"What?" she snapped, flustered.
He tilted his head, that infuriating calculating look taking over his face. Like he was savoring the moment, the power, the tease. Then—deadpan, smug, merciless—he dropped the next bomb.
"All that embarrassment... for nothing."
Vanessa frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"
Ethan leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, entirely too pleased with himself. "I had to go buy Plan B just in case you weren't on birth control. Got stared at the entire time at the clinic."
Her brain stuttered.
She stared at him, jaw slack, the mental image of Ethan—tall, confident, utterly unapologetic—standing in line at a pharmacy with Plan B in hand, trying to look inconspicuous. She couldn't decide if it was absurd or weirdly hot.
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Then—she burst out laughing. A shocked, breathless sound that echoed through the kitchen, part hysteria, part disbelief. "Oh my God," she gasped, covering her face with both hands.
Ethan just shrugged, that shit-eating grin refusing to budge. "So, technically, we both suffered equally. Fair trade, don't you think?"
Vanessa groaned, half-laughing still, her cheeks burning. She peeked at him through her fingers, exasperated beyond reason. "I hate you," she said, the words lacking any real venom.
He moved then—slow, predatory. Closed the distance between them in three easy steps. His body brushed against hers, not enough to trap her, but enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. His hand slid around her waist, warm and firm, and his mouth found her ear.
"No," he murmured, voice like sin and velvet, "you don't."
Her breath caught in her throat.
God, that voice. That voice. It didn't just touch her—it reached inside her and coiled low in her belly, tightening everything. Her thighs pressed together instinctively. He hadn't even touched her properly, and still, her body was already responding. Craving.
She scowled, but it was weak, half-hearted, undone by the flush blooming across her chest. Her body was betraying her. She wanted him again. Already. More than she should.
And he knew it.
His fingers trailed along her spine, slow and deliberate, just the whisper of contact—but enough to make her shiver.
Ethan's breath ghosted along her jaw. "You're still wet."
She swallowed hard. "From the pool."
"Mmhmm," he hummed, clearly not believing her, his hand skimming lower, resting on the curve of her hip.
Her heart thundered.
She hated how good he was at this. How easily he twisted her up. How badly she wanted him to push her over that edge again—and again. But God help her... she'd let him. She'd invite it.
Because the truth was...
She didn't hate him at all.
Vanessa watched him from her seat at the edge of the kitchen, her bare legs crossed, the cool surface of the chair a sharp contrast to her still-heated skin. Ethan moved with maddening ease—every shift of his body, every stretch of his arms as he stirred, plated, turned—was casual perfection. Like he wasn't even trying. The muscles of his back flexed beneath his shirt with each movement, and her eyes traced them automatically, her mind slipping into places it shouldn't while food was involved.
It wasn't fair—how someone could look so ruinous while just making dinner.
She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, unsure if it was the ache between her thighs or the quiet comfort of this new rhythm that had her more flustered. Her body still hummed from earlier—each breath a subtle reminder of how thoroughly he had claimed her just an hour before. She could still feel the imprint of his fingers on her thighs, the ghost of his mouth on her skin.
And then—like he was timed to strike when she was just beginning to settle—Ethan's voice broke through the haze.
"Even though we can't be too sure," he said, tone measured but laced with something heavier beneath, "I think you should take the Plan B."
The words weren't crude or clinical. Just... firm. Unapologetically rational. Ethan in a single breath.
She blinked, caught off-guard—not by the suggestion itself, but the way he looked at her when he said it. Like he'd already weighed every possible outcome. Like he wasn't just speaking for the sake of precaution... but ownership. Responsibility.
"You didn't take your pill this morning," he continued, eyes locking on hers, sharp and unreadable. "Even though you've been on it for three months, there's still a risk."
She swallowed.
Hard.
And that—that—he noticed. His gaze flicked downward, catching the movement of her throat, and for a split second, something raw passed behind his eyes. Dark. Focused. Possessive. He didn't say anything, just watched her, like the act of swallowing his suggestion down was somehow intimate. Erotic.
And maybe it was. Maybe everything between them had become a language of glances and silences and tension so thick it blurred the line between caution and foreplay.
She reached for the small packet on the counter and obediently popped the pill from its foil. No argument. No second guessing.
Just... trust.
She took it with a sip of water, his eyes still on her like he was memorizing the way her lips closed around the rim of the glass. The way her throat worked. The way she obeyed.
Then—just like that—he turned back to the stove, cool as ever, plating food as if he hadn't just unsettled her entire hormonal system again.
Vanessa arched a brow, folding her arms beneath her bare chest. Her nipples peaked from the lingering chill of the house, but it wasn't discomfort—it was stimulation. Constant. Heightened.
"You really expect me to eat like this?" she said dryly, gesturing to her unapologetically topless state.
Ethan's reply was immediate. That smirk.
"Would you rather be bottomless too?"
Her breath caught.
He said it like a joke, but his tone dipped—just slightly—enough to set her pulse racing. She rolled her eyes and made a show of sighing, but the truth was, her thighs pressed together under the table without her even realizing it.
She didn't put her top back on.
He didn't ask her to.
They sat across from each other, eating like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like her skin wasn't flushed, like his eyes didn't keep drifting from her face to the swell of her breasts to the soft, damp line of her inner thighs.
And God, he was so calm.
Too calm.
She hated and craved that about him in equal measure.
Conversation moved easily between them, drifting between lazy bites and the occasional pointed look. He asked about a new song she'd been playing on repeat. She teased him about his disastrous attempt at folding laundry the day before. It was effortless, weirdly domestic, and oddly... nice.
But then—inevitably—her curiosity crept back in.
"So, Caltech, huh?" she said, twirling her fork between her fingers, watching him over the rim of her glass.
Ethan nodded, chewing slowly. "Yeah. I applied. I should get in. Figured it was the best choice for what I want to do."
There was no arrogance in his tone, just quiet certainty. He knew he would get in. And he probably would. He was that kind of person—focused, methodical, relentless when it mattered.
Vanessa went quiet.
She hadn't really thought about college. Not seriously. Her grades were decent but nothing special. Caltech felt like another world entirely—one she'd never even considered walking into.
"That's cool," she said, forcing her voice into neutral territory.
But privately?
Privately she felt something unravel in her chest. She had assumed he'd be going far. Some elite school on the opposite coast. Hell, maybe even overseas. Somewhere unreachable. Untouchable.
But Caltech?
That was... here.
Close.
Still in California. Still in reach.
Something small and soft bloomed in her chest before she could crush it.
Vanessa stabbed her fork into her food, trying to disguise the smile that tugged at her lips. A part of her hated how much it mattered, how much relief curled through her. But it was there.
After they finished eating, Ethan moved to feed the dogs—Fenrir bounding forward with unfiltered joy, Nyx watching lazily from her perch, Ares hovering protectively at his side. She watched him, unable to stop.
The way he crouched. The way his fingers skimmed over the dogs' heads. The quiet, capable steadiness in him.
Vanessa leaned back in her chair, one knee pulled up, a lazy hand trailing down her thigh as she watched the man who, just hours ago, had fisted her hair and made her come apart at his mercy.
She hadn't said anything.
But the smile still lingered.
And Ethan?
He definitely noticed.
But—for now—he said nothing.
By the time they made it back to his room, something in the air had changed.
The door clicked shut behind them, but there was no flurry of motion, no wild kissing against walls, no frantic clawing of clothes. The tension between them hadn't lessened—but it had shifted. Deepened.
This wasn't about heat anymore.
This was about hunger. The slow kind. The aching kind. The kind that builds behind every heartbeat.
Ethan reached for her wordlessly, his touch no longer teasing or smug—but reverent. Intent. His fingers curled around her waist, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear with barely-there pressure that made her breath stutter. Vanessa's pulse thrummed at the base of her throat.
She melted into him, letting him lead. But this time, it didn't feel like surrender.
It felt like trust.
Clothing slipped away one piece at a time, each removal an intimate unveiling. His gaze followed every inch of skin he uncovered, as if her body was something sacred and he wasn't just undressing her—he was unwrapping a secret. One he already knew, but needed to rediscover slowly. Thoroughly.
When she was bare beneath him, Vanessa didn't hide.
She didn't flinch from his eyes.
Because the way Ethan looked at her made her feel invincible. Unapologetically wanted.
He kissed her like he was mapping her, like the taste of her skin was something he'd been starved for. His mouth moved along her collarbone, then lower—his tongue flicking over the soft underside of her breast, making her arch into him with a soft gasp. He was patient. Devastatingly so. And with every brush of his lips, every slow, dragging stroke of his fingers, her body grew tighter, wound taut with anticipation that refused to break.
Her thoughts blurred, fragmented into sensation. The scrape of his stubble on the inside of her thigh. The burn of his gaze when she opened her legs for him without a word. The way he kissed her there—slow, focused, like her pleasure was something he could drink.
By the time he moved over her again, Vanessa was trembling.
Not from nerves. From need.
And when he finally slid into her, there was no urgency. Just an unbearable fullness. A slow, stretching slide that made her cry out into his mouth, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. Ethan groaned against her lips, his hands braced on either side of her head as he sank in deeper, his eyes locked on hers like he needed to see it—every flicker of heat, every moment of surrender.
They moved together, no rush, no sharp edges. Just heat. Pressure. Connection.
Vanessa had never been touched like this. Like she was precious. Like her pleasure mattered more than his. Like this—they—mattered.
When the climax came, it wasn't violent.
It was overwhelming.
A quiet, shuddering quake that stole the breath from her lungs and left her clinging to him, her face buried in his neck as her body fluttered around his. Ethan followed not long after, his rhythm faltering, a low, wrecked sound slipping from his throat as he spilled into her, burying himself completely with a final thrust that left them both undone.
Silence.
The kind that only comes after everything has been said without words.
They lay tangled, skin slick with sweat, limbs too heavy to separate. His fingers traced slow, nonsense patterns across her back. She was weightless. Drifting. And when Ethan pressed a kiss to her temple, his voice low and rumbling, it felt like another kind of intimacy.
"All right," he murmured. "What's with that little smile you've had since dinner?"
Vanessa barely opened her eyes. Her voice was soft. Honest. Almost too honest.
"You're not going far away," she said, letting the truth fall between them with no armor, no sarcasm to soften it.
Ethan stilled.
His silence said more than any words could. Then his arms tightened, drawing her closer, anchoring her in the warm cocoon of him. No promises. No grand declarations. Just a quiet kind of certainty.
He was here.
By the time Monday morning crept in, she should've felt exhausted.
She didn't.
If anything, she felt alive.
Two nights at Ethan's place, and she was still reeling from it—in the best possible way. Her body ached in all the right places, each subtle movement a reminder of his hands, his mouth, the way he knew her so well now. His scent clung to her—on her skin, in her hair, in the fold of her clothes which were from that wardrobe. It was maddening. Addictive.
The powerful hum of his motorcycle between her thighs, the solid presence of his body in front of her as they flew down the road—it all made her heart thud faster. She held on tightly, her fingers digging into the warm leather of his jacket, and let the wind strip her clean.
When they pulled into the school parking lot, heads turned.
Of course they did.
She slid off the bike slowly, deliberately. Her legs stretched, her body a little sore, and she didn't miss the way people's gazes followed her movement like moths to flame.
Whispers.
Snickers.
Curiosity.
But for once, she didn't shrink from it.
She owned it.
She was still glowing, still warm from the night before, still full of Ethan in ways no one else would ever see.
And then—because it was high school, and of course people couldn't just mind their own damn business—the inevitable happened.
A sharp whistle sliced through the morning buzz, loud and leering.
"Damn, Vanessa! Didn't know you were into the biker look."
Vanessa didn't even flinch. Her middle finger went up without ceremony, her face blank, unreadable. She didn't need to look to know the guy was probably grinning, elbowing his friends like he'd just scored a point. But she wasn't biting. Not today.
Not when her body still carried the echo of Ethan's hands—his mouth—like a second skin.
She kept walking, the warmth of the morning sun brushing her shoulders, but it couldn't compete with the heat coiled low in her belly. A slow throb that hadn't fully faded since she'd climbed off Ethan's bike minutes ago. Her thighs still ached from the ride—and not just from the way she'd straddled the seat.
No, her muscles were sore from him. From hours tangled in sheets that still smelled like sweat and sex and leather. From gasps swallowed in the dark and whispered curses breathed against her throat.
And meanwhile Ethan—that bastard—walked beside her without a care in the world.
Hands in his jacket pockets. Shoulders relaxed. Gaze forward, steady, unreadable.
Like he hadn't just spent two nights fucking her senseless. Like he wasn't the reason her walk had a subtle wobble to it, or why every brush of denim against her skin made her shiver.
Vanessa's mouth tightened.
She hated how calm he looked. Hated that he could carry that goddamn smirk just behind his lips, hidden until the exact moment he chose to unleash it. Cool. Collected. Dangerous.
Meanwhile, she was still reeling.
"Okay, seriously—where the hell have you been?"
The voice jolted her. Vanessa blinked.
Hannah stood by her locker, arms crossed, one brow arched so high it practically touched her hairline. Her best friend scanned her with clinical precision—head to toe, eyes narrowing at the way Vanessa's hair was barely pulled together, the way her shirt collar hung a little looser than usual, and how her jeans rode low on hips that were still marked by Ethan's grip.
"I called. Multiple times."
Shit.
Vanessa's mind scrambled. Left my phone on silent felt too flimsy. Didn't feel like talking wouldn't hold. And I spent the weekend naked in Ethan's bed and I can still taste him on my tongue was... not hallway-friendly.
So she shrugged. "Didn't check my phone."
Hannah's smirk sharpened into something positively evil.
"Mmm. Right. And I suppose that has nothing to do with the fact that Ethan was seen at the clinic yesterday?"
Vanessa froze.
Her stomach dipped like the floor had just given out under her. And whatever expression slipped onto her face—shock, guilt, betrayal—Hannah saw it. Pounced on it.
"Ohhh, babe," she breathed, nearly giddy. "You should've seen my face when I heard it. I nearly dropped my smoothie. Your boy at the clinic? Asking for Plan B?" She leaned in, voice gleefully low. "Now that's commitment."
Heat surged to Vanessa's cheeks, and not the good kind. This wasn't the soft flush Ethan brought out in her with a well-timed look or the whisper of his thumb against her hipbone. This was pure, hot, mortified embarrassment.
Her grip tightened on her bag strap, fingers digging into the leather. She stared at her locker like it might open on its own and swallow her whole.
"That doesn't prove anything," she muttered.
Hannah arched a perfectly unimpressed brow. "Your face says otherwise."
Vanessa groaned, rubbing her temples with one hand, the tension pulsing just behind her eyes. She could feel the hallway watching now. Not just Hannah. Not just the guys still murmuring half-loud comments a few lockers down. But everyone. The energy had shifted. Speculation hung in the air, thick as humidity.
She hated this part.
Hated the way eyes followed her, like peeling back layers. Like they could see the things she hadn't even said out loud yet. The parts of herself Ethan had already claimed.
"Can we not do this here?" she muttered.
Hannah held up both hands in mock surrender. "Fine. Lunch. You're giving me everything."
Vanessa gave a tight nod, already resigning herself to the interrogation.
But as she turned back to her locker, she caught sight of Ethan in the distance—leaning casually against the wall, phone in hand, one brow cocked like he already knew what the conversation had been about. When their eyes met, he didn't wave. Didn't wink.
He just smirked.
That slow, infuriating, god-level smirk.
The one that said he'd do it all over again.
And probably harder.
Vanessa swallowed hard.
Because the truth was, she could still feel his fingers bruising the inside of her thighs. Could still feel the drag of his teeth down her stomach, the low, guttural way he'd said her name when she came apart under his mouth.
And now, while she stood here pretending to be unaffected, the evidence was all over her skin.
She was the one dealing with the stares. The whispers. The rumors.
And Ethan?
Ethan didn't give a damn.
Of course he didn't.
He'd already won.
Vanessa closed her locker a little harder than necessary.
The cafeteria buzzed around her—voices rising and falling in the usual lunchtime chaos—but to Vanessa, everything felt too loud, too bright, too exposed. She regretted everything. Every decision that had led her to this moment. Most especially not running the second Hannah had said, "Lunch."
She should've faked a migraine. A period emergency. Anything to escape this setup. But no. Here she was. Sitting across from her best friend, who looked like she might actually combust from sheer nosiness.
And Ethan?
Ethan, the source of all her problems, was seated right beside her. Cool, detached, infuriatingly calm as he chewed his food and flipped a page in his book like he wasn't the reason Vanessa could barely sit still without feeling the phantom weight of his hands on her hips. Like he hadn't pulled moans from her lips all weekend. Like he hadn't made her come so hard she'd nearly blacked out.
She shifted slightly, thighs clenching beneath the table.
Big mistake.
The movement reignited the ache between her legs, the raw, tender reminder of just how thorough Ethan had been. Her breath caught, and she cleared her throat, eyes flicking anywhere but toward him.
Hannah's smirk widened like a predator sensing weakness.
"So," she began, slow and syrupy as she stabbed a piece of lettuce like it personally offended her, "tell me, Vanessa... how was your very eventful weekend?"
Vanessa barely resisted the urge to throw her drink in her face. "It was fine."
"Fine?" Hannah repeated with mock horror. "That's all you have to say?" She leaned in, eyes gleaming with delight. "Because from what I heard... Ethan made a cute little trip to the clinic yesterday."
Vanessa's fork slipped from her fingers, clattering against the plate.
Hannah didn't even blink. "And he wasn't exactly low-key about asking for Plan B."
Every muscle in Vanessa's body went rigid. She could feel the heat rushing up her neck, blooming across her cheeks and ears. She didn't dare glance at Ethan. She knew he was aware of every detail of this conversation. And she also knew he was getting off on it in his own twisted, smug way.
"Which means..." Hannah sing-songed.
Vanessa shot her a warning glare. "Hannah."
"Oh, come on," she whispered conspiratorially, leaning across the table. "You have to tell me. Did it finally happen? Or based on that, should I be asking how many times it happened?"
Vanessa's jaw dropped. "Hannah!"
"What?" Her friend grinned, completely unrepentant. "I'm just trying to understand how urgent that little clinic trip was."
Vanessa buried her face in her hands, groaning. "I hate you."
"You love me," Hannah said, practically glowing. "Not as much as you love Ethan, clearly, but hey—understandable."
Vanessa's head snapped up. "Do you want to die?"
Hannah shrugged, unfazed. "Worth it."
God, she was insufferable.
And the worst part? Vanessa's silence was giving her everything. Her posture, her blush, the way she couldn't quite sit still without flinching—it was written all over her. Branded on her.
"You're so red right now," Hannah observed smugly.
Vanessa crossed her arms and glared. "You're insufferable."
"And you," Hannah pointed at her with a fork, "are very much not denying it."
Vanessa stared down at her plate. She could lie. Could deflect. Could pretend she didn't remember the way Ethan had dragged her across his sheets, the way he'd made her forget her own name. But her body remembered.
She clenched her jaw.
"Fine. Yes, okay? Yes."
Hannah beamed like Christmas came early. "See? That wasn't so hard."
Vanessa flipped her off.
Hannah didn't even care. She was too busy stealing a glance at Ethan, who—of course—was still pretending like none of this was about him. Calm, casual, unbothered. Reading. Reading, as if he hadn't rearranged Vanessa's entire nervous system less than 24 hours ago.
Vanessa risked a side glance. He turned a page. Didn't even blink.
Infuriating.
"Wow," Hannah said, following her gaze. "Look at him. Not even a little flustered. Just sitting there, all cool and collected. Meanwhile, you're over here practically vibrating."
"I am holding it together," Vanessa muttered.
"Sure, babe. Whatever helps you sleep at night."
Vanessa narrowed her eyes. "You wish you had a weekend like mine."
Hannah gasped in mock shock. "Oh, you admit it was that good?"
Shit. Vanessa froze.
Too late.
Hannah squealed and turned toward Ethan. "Damn, dude. You really—"
Vanessa kicked her under the table.
Hard.
Hannah winced and laughed all at once. "Fine, fine. I'll stop. For now."
Vanessa slumped in her seat, pushing her food around with her fork. Her appetite had long since vanished, replaced by a low, simmering mix of humiliation and something else. Something darker. Thrilling.
Because beneath the mortification, she could still feel Ethan. In her skin. Her breath. Her bones.
The conversation shifted—thankfully—but even as her friends talked around her, Vanessa couldn't stop feeling him beside her. His arm, the steady heat radiating off his body, the way her own traitorous shoulder leaned ever so slightly toward him.
And the worst part?
She knew he was going to use this.
Weaponize it.
Make her pay in the best—and worst—ways.
They weaved through the thinning crowd after lunch, Ethan's presence a steady pressure beside her. She was hyperaware of him. Not just visually, but viscerally. Every step they took toward the bike sent sparks along her skin. Her pulse throbbed beneath her collarbone, anticipation buzzing like electricity.
And then, as they reached the curb, Ethan finally spoke—low and smooth, like he'd been waiting for the moment.
"So..." he said, fingers brushing the ignition. "Was it really that good?"
Vanessa stiffened, eyes narrowing.
The engine roared to life beneath them, but the smug curl in his voice was louder than any mechanical noise.
"Because," he continued, twisting the throttle just slightly, "if you're still tired... or sore... we can always skip training."
The nerve.
Her breath stuttered in her chest, and heat rushed back to her cheeks. Again. But she masked it with a scowl and reeled her fist back, punching him in the shoulder.
Not hard enough to hurt. But enough to say shut the fuck up.
He barely flinched.
If anything, he laughed—a quiet, knowing sound that vibrated right through her chest, pressed tight against his back.
"Shut up and drive," she snapped.
Ethan tilted his head, not bothering to hide his amusement. "You didn't deny it, though."
Her fingers twitched around the waistband of his jacket. God, he was infuriating.
"Ethan," she warned, voice low and tight.
He chuckled, the sound dripping with wicked delight. "Alright, alright. To the gym. Unless... you change your mind."
Vanessa dug her nails into his side—just enough to make a point.
Ethan sighed dramatically. "Fine, fine. No teasing."
She didn't believe him for a second.
"—until after sparring," he added.
Vanessa groaned, pressing her forehead to his back as the bike pulled onto the road.
He was so going to pay for this.
And she was going to win today.
No distractions.
...She hoped.
The moment they stepped onto the mat, Ethan changed.
It wasn't gradual—it was instant. Gone was the cocky bastard who had spent the entire ride over pressing her buttons with smug smirks and teasing innuendos. In his place stood someone else entirely. Controlled. Focused. Quietly lethal.
Vanessa felt it like a shift in atmosphere—like the air itself tightened the moment his foot hit the mat. His posture was deceptively loose, relaxed even, but beneath that easy stance was something coiled and ready to strike. His eyes, once gleaming with wicked amusement, had gone sharp. Cold. Unreadable.
It threw her off immediately.
Because she wasn't composed. Not even close.
The high from the weekend still clung to her like sweat—her muscles faintly aching in the best possible ways, her skin hyperaware of every brush, every shift of air between them. Her core still throbbed faintly from being stretched, filled, owned in every way Ethan had made her his over those two nights.
And now she was supposed to spar with him? Pretend she didn't remember the feel of his mouth between her legs, the low groan he made when he came inside her, the sound of her name when he said it like it meant everything?
Fuck that.
Her focus was shattered before she even raised her fists.
Ethan didn't speak. Not a single word. No smirks. No cocky commentary. No taunts.
And that unnerved her more than anything.
Because it meant he was reading her. Watching. Calculating her every movement, every reaction, like she was just another opponent. Just another puzzle to solve.
And he wasn't distracted.
Which made it all the more humiliating when he flipped her onto the mat for the second time in under five minutes.
She landed hard, breath rushing out of her lungs as the impact spread across her back. Before she could curse, he was already reaching for her—strong fingers curling around her forearm, tugging her effortlessly back to her feet.
Her skin burned where he touched her. Her mind was screaming at her to focus, but her body... her body remembered what those hands had done when they weren't holding back.
She shook him off, scowling.
This had happened too many times now.
She tried to push everything else out of her mind. Focus on technique. Timing. Weight. Footing.
But the moment she stepped back in, Ethan was there—slipping past her guard with infuriating ease, spinning her momentum against her, and sending her crashing to the mat again. This time, she let out a sharp growl of frustration.
Ethan didn't laugh. Didn't gloat. Just stood over her with that same unreadable expression, reaching down again with that steady, grounding grip.
By the fifth takedown, Vanessa's body was buzzing—not just from exertion, but from the way her blood surged in response to him. It wasn't fair. He was too calm. Too controlled. While she was a mess of adrenaline and tension and arousal that simmered just under her skin like a live wire.
When their coach finally called an end to the round, Ethan stepped off the mat like he hadn't just completely dismantled her. His breathing was barely elevated. He reached for his water bottle with maddening nonchalance, taking a slow sip while she followed him, flushed and fuming.
Vanessa's eyes narrowed. "How do you do that?"
Ethan turned his head slightly, brows raised, as if her question was genuinely surprising. "Do what?"
She gestured sharply toward the mat. "That! Be so... locked in. Like a machine. And then the second it's over, you're right back to being an insufferable jackass."
Ethan capped his water, regarding her with mild curiosity. "I separate things."
She blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"I compartmentalize." He said it so casually it made her grit her teeth. "On the mat, it's training. My body reacts. My mind calculates. No emotion. No distraction." Then, that smirk reappeared—slow, lazy, and devastating. "But once we step off..."
Vanessa's stomach flipped.
He stepped into her space without warning. Close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him in waves, smell the faint trace of soap and sweat on his skin. His voice dropped just enough to brush against something low in her spine.
"...that's when the fun begins."
Her breath hitched.
She didn't move, didn't retreat. Couldn't. Because the way he was looking at her now wasn't smug—it was possessive. Like he knew exactly what effect he had on her and planned to exploit it.
His hand rose—slowly, deliberately—and brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face. His fingers skimmed along her temple, trailing heat in their wake, before tucking the hair behind her ear like it wasn't the most intimate thing he could've done in that moment.
Vanessa's entire body tensed—every nerve keyed up, every inch of her aching to either slap him or pull him in.
Ethan's gaze dipped to her lips.
Then he leaned in, just a fraction, enough for her breath to catch against his cheek.
"See?" he murmured. "Distractions."
Vanessa swore she was going to throw him onto the mat and straddle him until he couldn't focus. Until that perfect, detached control cracked. Until he was begging.
But for now, she swallowed hard, stepping back—barely.
"I'm going to break you," she muttered.
Ethan's grin widened. "Promises, promises."
Her fists clenched at her sides.
She really, really needed to get a handle on this.
~~~~~