Vanessa stirred slowly, limbs heavy and languid beneath soft, tangled sheets that still smelled faintly of sweat, sex, and Ethan. The dull ache between her thighs was the first thing she registered—sweet, raw, and impossible to ignore. A pulsing reminder of everything he'd done to her body. Every way he had taken her.
She stretched, her back arching with a soft, unconscious sound as she blinked herself into consciousness. The space beside her was warm, but empty. No Ethan.
Her brow furrowed, lips parting with a quiet, confused breath. The absence of his body—his heat, his weight, the subtle, possessive pressure of his arms around her—felt suddenly too loud in the silence of the room.
Pushing herself upright, she winced slightly at the movement. Her body was sore, and not in a way that invited complaint. The kind of soreness that made her toes curl under the sheets, that made her lips twitch in a secret, shameless smile.
God. He'd wrecked her.
She rubbed her face, trying to chase the blush from her cheeks, but it only deepened when her eyes landed on the folded black satin robe laid carefully at the edge of the bed.
Her fingers brushed the fabric—cool, smooth, expensive. Too expensive. And it fit her, she realized as she slipped it on. Perfectly. It clung in all the right places, cinched easily at the waist, almost like it had been tailored just for her.
Her eyes narrowed. He had done it again.
First the prom dress—somehow he'd gotten her measurements without asking, and now this?
"How the hell does he just know?" she muttered under her breath, adjusting the tie with a soft tug. It was impressive. Infuriating. And a little too accurate.
She padded barefoot out of the room, her curiosity slowly overtaking her as she began wandering the house. She hadn't explored much the last few times she'd been here—each visit had been... complicated. Charged. The first time, she was delivering the money that had sparked everything. The second, guilt-driven after the video incident. The third, dinner with their parents—awkward and formal.
And last night?
Well. That table would never look the same again.
She shook the thought away, cheeks heating as she passed it by.
The house was big, modern but lived-in, and quiet. Every step she took echoed in the polished floors, her robe whispering against her skin. The basement was all sleek machinery and power—weights, machines, and a punching bag that looked well-worn. It made sense. With the way Ethan moved—graceful, dangerous—she should've guessed how much discipline went into maintaining that strength.
No wonder he could hold her down so easily...
Vanessa shook the thought off with a soft groan, thighs clenching whitout her meaning to.
She found herself on the first floor, drawn to the three closed doors lining the hall. The first opened to a music room—guitars, a piano, even a flute tucked in the corner. She remembered the way he'd dominated the drums at prom, all rhythm and swagger. That same control translated to his touch—precise, confident, addictive.
The second door opened onto a room she stepped into slowly, her breath catching. A workspace—his parents', she realized. Books on fashion, design sketches, old accounting books. Blueprints. It was pristine, untouched. Sacred.
She stepped back. That wasn't her space to touch.
The third door remained closed until something outside caught her eye through a nearby window. Her gaze drifted—out to the backyard. Wide, private, framed with tall trees. A pool glimmered in the sun, perfect and still. Almost untouched. No floats. No towels. Just... silent.
And the dogs. Fenrir was on his back, legs kicking with abandon. Ares sat guard near the edge of the yard, alert and unmoving, while Nyx dozed on the patio like a queen surveying her domain.
Vanessa's lips curled into a smile. It was the most peaceful thing she'd seen in days.
She turned back to the third room, pushing the door open.
Ethan sat in front of a large monitor, his attention focused, his fingers dancing effortlessly across the keyboard. His profile was sharp in the glow of the screen—jaw tense, lips slightly parted in concentration. There was power in the way he sat, in the quiet confidence of someone who knew he was in control even when he wasn't looking at you.
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "So this is where you disappeared to."
He didn't look away. "Took you long enough."
Vanessa rolled her eyes. "Your house is a damn maze."
"Mm." He smirked slightly, eyes still locked on the screen. "You managed."
Curiosity pulled her closer. The screen displayed circuits—lines, diagrams, code. Complicated.
"What even is this?" she asked.
"Designing something," he said simply, like that explained anything.
She gave him a look. "You're impossibly vague."
Ethan finally turned his head. His eyes slid over her like a slow caress, pausing with appreciation on how the satin robe hugged her hips. That look—that look—made her pulse trip.
"Nice robe," he said, stepping away from the desk.
She lifted her chin. "You have a creepy habit of knowing my size."
He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. "I pay attention," he murmured. "Details matter."
Her breath caught as his fingers brushed the edge of the belt at her waist—not pulling, just tracing, slow and maddening. The tips grazed the knot. Barely.
"And," he added, voice dropping as he leaned in, lips near her ear, "I have a very good memory for what looks good on you..."
Vanessa's knees went a little soft. She hated that. Hated that her body responded so easily, so hungrily to his voice, to his presence. And he knew it. He thrived on it.
"You're—" she began, but the words evaporated as he tilted his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, warm breath tickling her skin.
"Wanna know what else I have an eye for?" he whispered.
Her voice betrayed her. "N-no."
She meant to sound firm, maybe sarcastic. It came out breathless.
Ethan's hand slid down her waist, fingers firm through the silk, lingering on her hip.
"You're blushing," he said, amused.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I hate you."
His grin was slow, dangerous, electric. "No, sweetheart," he murmured, fingers gliding to the knot of the robe, tugging just enough to loosen it. "You really don't."
And just like that, her defenses crumbled all over again.
By the time Ethan saved and closed his project, Vanessa was already fidgeting at the door, arms crossed, still wearing the black satin robe that clung to her skin like a whisper of last night. Her legs were bare, and she didn't bother pretending not to notice how his gaze lingered a second longer than necessary when he turned around.
"So," he said, cracking his neck as he stood, "lunch. You wanna go out, or should I cook something?"
Vanessa didn't hesitate. "Out."
But then she paused—eyes narrowing as she glanced down at herself. "Except... I don't exactly have anything to wear."
She expected it to throw him off. Maybe watch him squirm a little. Make him admit he hadn't thought that far ahead.
But Ethan just arched a brow and, without missing a beat, turned on his heel and strolled out of the room. Curious—and a little suspicious—Vanessa followed him as he moved into the guest room. He walked straight to the built-in wardrobe and pulled it open like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Vanessa stopped in the doorway.
And froze.
Her breath caught. She blinked.
Then blinked again.
"What the f—" Her mouth hung open, no words coming out.
Inside the wardrobe was a fully stocked collection of women's clothing. Not a couple of random emergency outfits, not a few borrowed shirts or oversized hoodies. No. This was a curated selection. Tops, skirts, t-shirts, fitted jeans, leggings, even a damn tailored suit. Gowns. Dresses. Footwear in every practical and impractical style, heels stacked neatly in rows beside boots and sneakers. A drawer cracked slightly open revealed a precise, folded array of lingerie and underwear—soft lace, smooth satin, and sinful silk.
But what truly caught her attention—what made her pulse skip and her thoughts derail completely—was the single black hoodie hung at the very front. Oversized. Well-worn. And unmistakably his.
Her mouth went dry. She couldn't look away. The hoodie felt less like clothing and more like a promise.
Slowly, she turned to look at Ethan, who now leaned lazily against the wall like this entire moment wasn't completely, absolutely insane. His arms were crossed. His expression? Infuriatingly smug.
She couldn't form a sentence. Her hands gestured vaguely toward the wardrobe, flailing. "Are you—why do you have—what is this?!"
Ethan shrugged, utterly unfazed. "Clothes."
Vanessa gawked at him. "No, really? I thought it was a portal to another dimension!"
His mouth twitched, amused. "Technically, it's a wardrobe—"
"Ethan." Her voice dropped low. Dangerous. She was unraveling and he knew it.
"What?" he asked, all faux innocence.
She stepped closer, eyes narrowing, fire creeping up her cheeks despite herself. "Why. Do you have. An entire fucking wardrobe. Full of women's clothes. In your guest room."
Ethan sighed dramatically, as if this conversation bored him. "Because asking your mother for a bag of your clothes felt a little too awkward."
Vanessa's brain screeched to a halt.
"What?"
He gave a one-shouldered shrug, casual as ever. "Figured you'd be here more often. Wanted you to have options."
"You bought me a wardrobe?"
"Pretty much."
"That's—" she started, then stopped, trying to find words that matched her disbelief. "That's actually insane."
"Or," Ethan offered smoothly, "efficient."
She stared at him, then turned back to the wardrobe. Her fingers itched to touch the fabric. It wasn't just clothes. These were chosen—deliberately, intimately. Every piece looked like something she would've picked herself. Even the lingerie.
Especially the lingerie.
That thought made her legs tense, a pulse throb low in her belly.
She swallowed hard. "And the hoodie?"
Ethan's smirk shifted, sharpened. His gaze darkened with something unspoken. "That," he said, voice smooth as melted chocolate, "is for something I'd like to try with you. If we ever get to that point."
She stiffened.
The magazines.
The memory hit her like a freight train—the ones he'd planted in her bag as payback, full of erotic rope play, dominant poses, and black-and-white fantasies she hadn't dared admit turned her on.
Her face exploded with heat. She couldn't meet his eyes.
"Oh my God," she groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "You absolute menace."
Ethan pushed off the wall, walking past her and into the room, his body brushing close enough to stir the satin hem of her robe. "Relax," he murmured. "I didn't say anything."
"You implied it," she hissed, still refusing to look at him. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily.
He ignored her, fingers flipping through hangers with casual ease. "You should pick something. Or I'll do it for you."
She turned toward him, mouth open. "Like hell you will."
Ethan hummed softly, pulling a tight black dress from the rack—corset-laced on the sides, cut to hug and expose in equal measure—and held it up. "This would look good on you."
Vanessa snatched it out of his hands before he could say another word and threw it into the wodrobe. "I will kill you."
He grinned. That slow, cocky, predatory grin that had no right to be as attractive as it was. "I'd like to see you try."
Her hands clenched around another dress hanging. With one last glare—weak, because the way he was looking at her made her want to throw the damn robe off and let him have her against the wall—she stormed toward the bathroom.
She slammed the door behind her, trying to muffle the sound of his chuckle echoing behind her.
That smug, insufferable, maddening bastard.
Vanessa cursed under her breath, her hands gripping the edges of the porcelain sink as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, frustrated breaths. What the hell was she thinking? She hadn't even looked at what she was grabbing when she stormed into the bathroom—just yanked the first hanger in sight like a challenge and slammed the door behind her.
And now?
Now she was wearing this.
The black cocktail dress fit like sin poured into fabric. It hugged her body like it had been tailored just for her (which might be true)—clinging to her waist, cupping her breasts with a plunging neckline that made her own eyes flicker downward, betraying her with a pulse of heat. The hem hovered dangerously above her knees, short enough to tease, tight enough to reveal the full curve of her thighs when she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. It shimmered faintly under the bathroom light, a soft sheen of fabric so smooth she could feel every shift of it against her bare skin.
No bra. She hadn't grabbed one. And from the way the dress sat, she didn't need it—but that realization only made things worse. Every breath she took, every movement of her chest, made her hyperaware of how exposed she felt. Of how ready her body already was.
She groaned, tugging lightly at the neckline. "Stupid. Stupid decision."
Her nipples were visibly hard, pressing faintly through the fabric. From the cold—or the tension. She wasn't sure anymore. Probably both.
Maybe she could switch into something else. Something less... provocative.
She cracked the door open, tiptoeing toward the wardrobe, trying to move quickly.
"Don't even think about it."
The voice stopped her cold.
Vanessa froze mid-step, her spine locking upright as she turned sharply—heat instantly flooding her cheeks.
Ethan stood in the doorway, one shoulder resting against the frame like he'd been waiting for her. Watching. His eyes were slow, deliberate as they traveled over her body, starting from the sharp line of her feet and moving up—lingering at the bare length of her legs, the dip of the dress as it hugged her hips, the deep, dangerous plunge of her neckline.
His voice dropped, slow and impossibly smooth. "If I could whistle, I would. But damn... you look good."
Vanessa flushed hard. Her skin prickled, every inch of her suddenly aware of how little she was wearing—and how much he was seeing. There was a different weight in his gaze now. Not teasing. Not smug. It was darker. Heavier.
Predatory.
Her heart pounded in her chest as if trying to escape. There was no way she could change now—not when he was looking at her like that. Like she was dessert. Like she was already his.
She crossed her arms, trying—and failing—to look unaffected. "Shut up."
Ethan didn't answer. He just grinned, eyes still eating her alive before he turned and vanished into his room, leaving her standing there like the air had been knocked out of her lungs.
She swallowed, hard. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, and she hated—hated—how damp she felt. How her body was already reacting without her permission.
Still breathing fast, she turned back to the wardrobe and forced her brain to function. She pulled a pair of black heels from the shelf—sleek, tall, and unforgiving. The moment she slipped them on, her legs looked longer, her calves flexing with each careful step. Perfect.
Vanessa pulled open another drawer, half-expecting more clothes. What she found instead made her groan aloud.
Makeup. Skincare. Denatl kit. Not just generic, off-the-shelf items, but the exact brands she used—her foundation, her moisturizer, her shade of lipstick, lined up with precision. Palettes curated like a professional had designed them, tools arranged in neat rows. It was too much. Too intimate. Muttering under her breath, she grabbed a handful of essentials and stalked toward the guest bathroom, her thoughts spinning.
The lighting inside was soft, almost indulgent, casting a flattering glow over the sleek fixtures and glass shelves. Too flattering, really, for someone trying to stay pissed off. She caught her reflection in the mirror and paused, just for a moment. The flush on her cheeks hadn't faded. Her pulse still thudded in her neck, stubborn and uneven. And all she could think about was that wardrobe, his maddeningly smug expression, and that black hoodie hanging like a promise.
When she emerged again, more composed on the outside but still bristling beneath the surface, Ethan was waiting.
He stood near the full-length mirror, impossibly casual—arms crossed, one foot angled just slightly out, the very picture of relaxed confidence. But his eyes... they tracked her with a slow, deliberate intensity. The kind of look that made her spine straighten and her chest pull tight.
And then her brain simply... stalled.
Because he was worse now.
He wore a navy-blue shirt that clung just right to his frame, sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing strong wrists and the lean stretch of muscle along his arms. His black pants were sharp, tailored to perfection, skimming his hips in a way that made her mouth go dry. When he turned slightly to pick up a blazer from the bed, the line of his jaw, the slope of his neck, the cut of him—clean, chiseled, composed—made her throat clench.
He looked like he belonged in a cologne ad. Or a very specific kind of dream.
He caught her watching—of course he did. His gaze flicked to her, and the faintest, wicked smirk curved one corner of his mouth. "Should I take this," he asked, lifting the blazer casually, "or would it be too much?"
Vanessa blinked, trying to find her voice. Her thighs pressed together almost involuntarily. She swallowed. "If it's not a formal place, you don't need it. You already look good."
That smug brow lifted. "So you do think I look good."
She rolled her eyes and brushed past him, her hair catching lightly against his shoulder. "Shut up and let's go."
His chuckle followed her out the door—low, rich, and infuriatingly pleased with himself. She could feel him watching her, could feel the weight of his eyes as she moved, her hips swaying with each step on instinct. Or maybe... not instinct.
Maybe she was doing it on purpose.
"You took your time," he murmured behind her, voice smooth and teasing as silk.
She paused just at the edge of the hallway, one hand on the frame to steady herself. "You bought me foundation and setting spray. I had to at least pretend to use it."
He shrugged, easy and slow. "I like you flushed."
The words shouldn't have hit as hard as they did. But they did. Heat bloomed low in her belly, and she shifted, trying not to let him see the way her body betrayed her.
She glanced back toward the guest room, to the open wardrobe doors still standing wide like an invitation. Her gaze snagged on the hoodie—the only piece in the entire collection that looked lived-in, loved, and entirely his.
"All of that..." she said, her voice rough, low, "you did that for me?"
Ethan stepped toward her, slow and deliberate, his presence tightening the air like a stormfront.
"You think I'd go to all that trouble for someone else?"
Her mouth parted, but no words came. Her heart pounded in her throat. It wasn't just the clothes, or the makeup, or the carefully folded lingerie. It was the intention behind it. The knowledge. The want.
This was someone who didn't just see her.
He anticipated her.
And God help her, she wanted to know—desperately, achingly—what else he saw when he looked at her like that.
The moment Vanessa slid into the leather seat of Ethan's sleek, midnight-black car, her mind was already spinning with revenge.
That damn wardrobe. That maddening look he'd given her. The way he had stood there, drinking her in like he already owned her.
Smug bastard.
He was always two steps ahead—playing some silent game only he seemed to know the rules of. But this time, this time, she was going to flip the board. She wasn't just going to take back control. She was going to make him squirm.
The engine purred to life as Ethan settled beside her, the space between them charged even in silence. Her legs crossed, the smooth fabric of her cocktail dress sliding high on her thighs. She caught the flick of his eyes down toward her legs before he looked away, too fast, too smooth.
Game on.
By the time they reached the restaurant—a high-end, marble-and-glass kind of place that oozed exclusivity—Vanessa had a plan. Ethan, of course, had made the reservation in advance. Of course he had. It was so him: meticulous, prepared, always in control.
Well, not for long.
Lunch started innocently enough. Sophisticated small talk, wine that tasted like money, and a menu full of items Vanessa couldn't pronounce but didn't care to. Ethan played his role perfectly—charming, composed, utterly unreadable. His blue shirt, fitted and clean, clung to his body in all the right places. Muscles shifted beneath the fabric when he reached for his glass, the sleeves rolled just enough to show off those strong, veined forearms she had definitely noticed too many times.
She watched him over her wine glass, her fingers idly stroking the rim in slow, idle circles. Her gaze dipped to his mouth as he talked—confident, unbothered, lips that curved just enough when he was toying with her. Bastard.
And yet... god, she wanted him.
The thought struck uninvited. Sharp. Raw. She could still feel the ghost of his hand on her earlier, the heat of his eyes undressing her before she'd even finished getting dressed.
She wanted to see him crack. To lose that iron composure he wrapped around himself like armor. To watch him unravel for her.
So, under the table, she slipped off her heel.
Her toes brushed his ankle—just the barest whisper of contact, a tease dipped in silk.
Nothing.
Ethan didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just turned a page in the menu with that maddening composure that made her want to scream and moan at the same time.
Vanessa's lips curled into a smirk.
Fine.
Let's play.
Her foot moved higher, slow and deliberate, like a striptease in motion. She glided up the fabric of his tailored pants, her toes tracing lazy paths up his calf, lingering at the bend of his knee. Still nothing—until she reached the curve of his thigh. There, her foot pressed firmer, her arch caressing him in slow, teasing circles, her toes grazing along the thick line of arousal she was certain she felt growing beneath the fabric.
That's when it happened.
His hand froze mid-turn of the page.
Just a beat. Half a second. But she caught it—the pause, the flinch, the momentary slip in his armor.
Got you.
Her pulse danced wickedly. Heat bloomed between her thighs, slick and throbbing. She slid higher, bold now, hunting for the ridge of his cock through the barrier of his jeans, just enough to stroke it with her toes.
And then he moved.
Fast.
One moment she was in control; the next, his hand shot under the table and seized her ankle with a grip that was pure command—firm, possessive, primal.
Vanessa gasped.
He didn't let go. Instead, he pulled—a sharp, unyielding tug that dragged her chair forward with a squeak, parting her thighs, hiking her dress scandalously high.
The cool air kissed her exposed inner thighs, and her breath caught when she realized just how much he could see. The lace of her panties, damp and clinging. Bare skin. Every inch of her aching, exposed flesh under the crisp white tablecloth. She reached instinctively to adjust her dress—but it was already too late. She was on display, like a feast served up just for him.
Still, he didn't look. Didn't acknowledge. Just raised his glass, sipped slowly, and murmured in a voice dark and molten:
"You really shouldn't start something you're not prepared to finish, love."
The words hit like a whip.
Her nipples tightened instantly, peaking hard beneath the fabric of her dress. A delicious shiver licked down her spine. She pressed her thighs together, desperate to quell the throb between them, but it only made her more aware of the heat—of how soaked that strip of lace had become.
He never looked at her.
They continued to talk—about the food, the service, the wine. Mundane words threaded through unbearable sexual tension. His fingers traced the stem of his glass slowly, deliberately, like he was imagining it was her throat... her waist... her clit.
And all she could think about was that hand on her ankle, the dominance in his grip, the way he'd tugged her open like a doll with strings.
By the time the check arrived, she was practically vibrating.
Outside, sunlight painted the sidewalk in gold, but the air between them crackled electric. Vanessa walked ahead of him, hips swaying with a deliberate roll, knowing he was watching. Wanting him to.
And oh, he was watching. She could feel it—the weight of his gaze devouring her, lingering on the curve of her ass, the movement of her thighs, the dress that clung to every inch like a second skin.
So she gave him one more gift.
She reached back—casually, like she was adjusting something—and flicked the hem of her dress upward. Just a flash. Just a second.
Bare ass. Soft. Taut. Glowing in the afternoon sun.
She didn't turn around. Didn't need to.
She heard the sharp inhale behind her.
Victory.
Or so she thought.
The smack came with zero warning.
CRACK.
His palm landed squarely across her ass, clean and sharp, the sound echoing like thunder off the restaurant glass behind them.
She gasped, stumbling forward, her heels wobbling as fire bloomed across her skin. The sting was exquisite—equal parts pain and pure, unfiltered lust.
Before she could even gasp out a protest, he was behind her, so close she could feel the heat of him pressing into her back. His breath brushed her ear, his voice low and lethal:
"Mine."
Just one word. One dark promise. It sliced through her defenses like a hot knife, branding her.
Vanessa's knees threatened to buckle. Her fingers clenched around her clutch until her knuckles turned white. Her breath was shallow, skin flushed, body humming with desperate need.
She should turn. Slap him. Tell him off.
But she didn't.
Because all she could think about was his hand—still tingling on her ass—and how much she wanted him to do it again.
He stepped back without another word. Calm. Cool. Casual. As if nothing had happened. He unlocked the car, the quiet chirp loud in the stunned silence between them.
Vanessa stood frozen, lips parted, her arousal soaked into her panties, her body screaming for more.
This wasn't over.
The sting of his hand still blazed across her skin.
Vanessa stood on trembling legs, every nerve lit with fire, her pulse thudding between her thighs. Her dress clung to her body like a second skin, the soft lace of her panties damp and tight against her heat. The way he had smacked her—so sudden, so casual—left her breathless.
Ethan didn't wait. Didn't speak. He just walked ahead, calm and commanding, unlocking the car with a single press like he hadn't just claimed her with one word and one perfectly placed slap.
Mine.
The word echoed in her chest.
She slid into the passenger seat, legs pressed together, skin still tingling. Her dress rode high on her thighs, the evidence of her arousal slick against her skin. She tried to pull it down discreetly, but his eyes caught the motion—sharp and unrelenting in the low interior light. Watching her. Knowing.
He slid in beside her, started the engine, and pulled out with smooth precision.
One hand on the wheel.
The other?
It landed on her bare thigh.
Possessively.
Warm fingers against overheated skin, slow and deliberate. He didn't grope. Didn't squeeze. He didn't need to. His thumb moved in maddening circles, inching higher, teasing the tender edge of her inner thigh, skimming just close enough to promise but never quite deliver.
He drove like he fucked—with patience, precision, and total control.
Vanessa bit her lip and turned to the window, pretending the city lights flashing by held her attention. But all she could feel was him—his hand, his heat, his unshakeable calm while her whole body screamed for more.
Her thighs tensed. She shifted in the seat, trying not to squirm, trying not to press into his touch like a needy little thing desperate to be stroked.
God, he knew exactly what he was doing.
The bastard was drawing it out—savoring it.
Her breath hitched as his pinky brushed against the edge of her panties. A touch so subtle she wasn't even sure it had happened. But her body knew. Her cunt clenched with desperate heat. She swallowed a moan.
His thumb slid higher.
She snapped.
At the next red light, she reached down—silent, sharp—and lifted his hand off her thigh, returning it firmly to the steering wheel.
A message: You don't get to tease me and pretend I won't bite back.
His gaze flicked toward her. He didn't speak. Didn't smile. But the air between them thickened. Crackled. The tension spiked, molten and electric, all heat and challenge.
She didn't look at him.
Instead, her fingers dropped to his belt.
Ethan didn't move, but his body did. His thigh stiffened. His breath hitched. She felt the controlled fury in him like a bomb ticking down.
Still, he didn't stop her.
Click.
The belt came undone with a clean, metallic sound.
Click.
She slid it from the loop, slow and smooth, drawing it free like a weapon. Her hand dropped to his lap, fingers moving with infuriating calm as she found the zipper and pulled it down, inch by delicious inch.
He was already hard. Thick and straining beneath the fabric.
Perfect.
She freed him with practiced ease, her fingers wrapping around him—warm, teasing, maddening. She stroked just once, slow and lazy, before leaning over.
But she didn't dive in.
No—Vanessa hovered. Let her breath ghost over his shaft, let her lips almost touch. She felt the heat of him, the twitch of his cock beneath her mouth, the taut, silent struggle in the man beside her.
"Vanessa," Ethan growled, voice rough, low—half command, half desperate warning.
She smiled. Wicked. Dangerous.
Then she flicked her tongue across the head. A single lick—wet and slow.
He groaned, deep and guttural, one hand flexing on the wheel as the other gripped his thigh hard enough to leave marks.
She looked up at him through her lashes.
Smug. Defiant. Dripping.
"Drive."
The light turned green.
He didn't speak. Just pressed down on the gas.
And as the car surged forward, so did she.
~~~~~