Vanessa stood just inside the threshold of Ethan's room, the air faint with the scent of him—warm, clean, maddeningly familiar. It was like walking into a space that wasn't entirely hers and yet was saturated with pieces of her: the book she'd left on his desk, the coffee mug that still bore a faint lipstick print, a tangled hair tie abandoned on his nightstand.
She hadn't been here in a week.
One week.
And yet it felt longer. Or maybe just heavier.
Being with her parents had been necessary—practical, even—considering their upcoming departure and the logistics of the trip. But it had also been a quiet torture. She'd spent every day imagining how Ethan was spending his nights here without her. Every mundane hour without him had felt stretched, overexposed. She'd missed him. Desperately. Stupidly.
Not that she'd admit that out loud.
Especially not now.
Because he was doing that thing again. The one where he looked completely at ease—like the king of his own little castle—while simultaneously plotting the exact method by which to get under her skin. His movements were casual, almost lazy, as he rifled through his wardrobe, pulling things out with far less urgency than the situation warranted.
They were supposed to be leaving tomorrow morning.
And Ethan, in true Ethan fashion, hadn't packed a single damn thing.
Vanessa leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him like a storm cloud waiting to burst. The whole room smelled like him, and that—combined with the smug little smile teasing the corner of his mouth—was doing unspeakable things to her self-control.
He was up to something.
She knew that look.
That slight tilt of his head. That flicker in his eyes that always preceded chaos. He didn't even need to speak; she could feel the mischief in the air, the shift in his energy.
And then he pulled it out.
The sweatshirt.
Vanessa's brows dipped, the first sharp thread of suspicion pulling tight in her chest. She knew that piece of clothing. Knew it too well. It was one of the ones he'd bought in her size—under the guise of being 'for emergencies.' As if she hadn't seen his closet with things that would only fit her.
But this one?
This one was intentional.
It wasn't just hers—it was designed to be hers. Oversized. Soft. That muted, dusky charcoal grey that made her skin look warmer, her eyes darker. She remembered trying it on once, half-asleep and cold, and catching a glimpse of herself in his mirror. How it had slipped off her shoulder with almost no effort. How it had clung to her just enough to make her feel like she was wearing him.
Now, watching him hold it up with mock scrutiny, she felt heat crawl slowly up her neck.
He was performing.
He was enjoying this.
"Hmmm," Ethan mused, brow furrowing in pretend concentration. "This might be too big for you."
His tone was pure mischief—lazy, indulgent. The kind of voice that made her stomach tighten even before her mind caught up with the words.
"Oh, you think?" she shot back, but her voice betrayed her. It wavered just slightly—just enough to amuse him.
Ethan tilted his head, running a single finger along the hem of the sweatshirt, like it was the most important artifact in his possession. "Mmm," he murmured, slow and dangerous, "might just end up swallowing you whole."
The words curled around her like smoke, sinking into her skin.
Vanessa fought the urge to step back. Or forward. She wasn't sure which.
Damn him.
He was already winning, and he knew it.
Without further commentary, he tossed the sweatshirt into his suitcase like it was nothing. Like he hadn't just lit a match and dropped it into the middle of her nervous system.
Vanessa's eyes narrowed.
She could feel the smugness radiating off him like heat from a stove. He turned back to the wardrobe, the topic dismissed from his end.Huffing, she crossed the room, marched right up to the bag, and yanked the sweatshirt out.
Holding it in front of her, she let her eyes roam over it, just to confirm what she already knew: the sleeves were too long, the neckline dangerously wide. It would slide off her shoulder if she moved the wrong way. The hem would fall past her hips. It was the perfect size to curl up in and get lost inside.
But worse—far worse—it smelled like him.
Not just his cologne, though that was there, soft and clean and expensive.
It was the layered scent of him—of old book pages and coffee, of skin and comfort and home. Of memories she wasn't ready to admit she'd started collecting like souvenirs.
It wasn't just a sweatshirt.
It was a statement.
A trap.
A mark.
He wasn't offering it to her.
He was claiming her with it.
Vanessa's fingers curled tighter around the fabric. She could already feel the way it would cling to her when worn. The way she'd feel when it settled over her shoulders, like she belonged somewhere specific—to someone.
With a scowl, she turned and hurled it at him.
"I'm not wearing that."
Ethan caught it without flinching, one brow raised in quiet amusement. "No?"
"No."
His fingers caressed the fabric again—slow, reverent. "That's a shame," he murmured. "I thought you'd look cute in it."
Her breath stuttered.
That word—cute. She hated it. Or rather, she hated the way it made her feel. Like she was something delicate. Precious. Not that he ever treated her like glass. No, he tested her, pushed her, dared her to bite back.
But every once in a while, he let something soft slip through.
And it wrecked her.
Before she could come up with a response sharp enough to wound, he added, far too innocently, "But I guess I could wear it instead. If you don't want it."
Her gaze snapped to him.
He wouldn't.
Except—he would.
The bastard absolutely would.
She could already picture it—him tugging the sweatshirt over that stupidly lean frame, stretching it out, tainting it permanently with his size and scent and ownership.
Once he wore it, it wouldn't be hers anymore.
It would be his.
A silent, unspoken line crossed.
Her jaw clenched. Fingers twitched. Her mind scrambled to find a logical excuse to not want it back, but all she could think was mine.
Ethan's smile grew. He could read her without even trying.
"You're insufferable," she muttered, yanking it back with a swift motion.
His laugh broke across the room, low and genuine.
And just like that, something inside her cracked. A sliver of warmth split the tension like a hairline fracture in ice. She hated that he could do that—make her burn and melt all at once.
Ethan stepped closer, gaze dipping to the fabric still clutched in her arms. Then he reached out, fingers brushing the hem as he tugged it lightly.
"You will wear it."
There was no question in his voice.
Only certainty.
Vanessa met his eyes, and everything else dropped away. The room, the suitcase, the looming flight. There was just the heat between them. His unwavering gaze. Her heart beating far too fast.
He wasn't asking.
He was telling her.
But not in the way that demanded obedience.
In the way that told her he knew her. That she'd wear it because he wanted her to, yes—but also because she wanted to. Needed to. Because it was his way of saying mine without needing to say it aloud.
Her throat tightened.
"…Fine," she whispered.
Ethan didn't grin. He didn't gloat.
He just looked satisfied.
And somehow, that was worse.
She was going to wear it.
And when she did, she'd remember this. The way he looked at her now. The weight of his touch, even if it was only on fabric. The way she gave in, not because she lost, but because she wanted to lose to him.
She wasn't even wearing it yet.
But it already felt like skin.
When Vanessa stirred the next morning, her body reluctantly blinking its way into consciousness, the first thing she became aware of wasn't the light filtering through the curtains or the distant hum of the coffee machine.
It was the neatly folded set of clothes on the nightstand.
Her brow creased before her eyes even focused. The arrangement was too precise, too intentional—the fabric placed with care, every piece stacked like it had been measured. Calculated. And when she reached for them, her fingers confirmed what her instincts already knew: a skirt. A white tank top. Soft cotton, worn-in in that way that made it perfect for travel. Simple. Innocent, even.
But something wasn't right.
Not just right.
She'd been with Ethan long enough to know the difference between convenience and design. And this? This had his fingerprints all over it.
Her hand brushed lower, sinking past the top layers.
Something softer.
Lighter.
She froze.
No. No, no, no—
Yanking the outer layers aside, she found the real offense buried underneath: a matching set of red lace underwear. Bra and panties. Minimal coverage. Maximum effect. The kind of set that practically whispered when it moved, promising things it had no business implying before 9 p.m.
Her breath caught in her throat.
That absolute menace.
The blood in her veins surged, heat clawing its way up the back of her neck, settling in her cheeks like wildfire. Her jaw locked. The delicate lace still sat in her palm, mocking her with its unapologetic confidence.
He'd picked this out.
Not just the outfit—this.
And he'd done it with the same maddening ease with which he did everything else. Quietly. Casually. Like laying out lingerie for her was no different than setting the coffee timer or grabbing the keys.
As if it was his right.
As if she belonged in it.
Vanessa stared at the pile for a second longer, trying to convince herself to breathe, to blink, to not imagine what his hands had looked like holding this fabric—touching something that was meant to touch her.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
Her fingers curled tightly around the clothes like she could crush the audacity out of them.
She stormed out of the bedroom, her bare feet thudding against the hallway floor, robe swaying angrily behind her. The clothes swung from her clenched fist like evidence in a trial she fully intended to win.
Ethan was already in the kitchen.
Of course he was.
Leaning against the counter, sleeves pushed up, mug in hand, that same calm dripping off him like honey. He looked up at the sound of her approach—eyes bright, mouth twitching the barest bit at the corners.
Smug.
He knew.
Vanessa slammed the offending garments onto the counter between them. "No."
Ethan blinked once, took a lazy sip of his coffee, and said, "Morning to you too."
The infuriating calm in his voice made her want to throw something. Preferably him.
She crossed her arms, trying not to betray the way her face was burning. "I'm not wearing these."
He tilted his head, completely unbothered. "Why not?"
Why not?
How was she supposed to answer that?
Because just touching them made her skin feel too tight?
Because if she wore them, she'd feel his eyes on her all day, even when he wasn't looking?
Because she couldn't wear them without thinking about the way he'd touched them first?
Her mouth opened. Closed. She had nothing. Nothing coherent, anyway.
Ethan set his mug down, slow and deliberate, the faint click of ceramic meeting granite somehow loud in the thick quiet between them. He crossed his arms, mirroring her stance, but with far more composure.
"They're your size," he said, as if explaining something to a child. "They're comfortable. And…" he let the word drag, watching her carefully, "…they'd look good on you."
The casual way he said it.
The way he meant it.
It made her stomach lurch and twist, made something tight wind itself deeper around her ribs.
She hated that her skin warmed at the praise.
She hated more that she liked it.
Vanessa broke eye contact, staring at the wall behind him, at the coffee maker, at anywhere that wasn't him. "I'll wear something else."
A pause. A breath. And then:
"Vanessa."
The way he said her name.
Low. Steady. Not a command—but not a question, either. He could say a thousand things in one word, and right now, it said: don't fight me on this.
Her grip on the counter tightened.
She could feel it—the weight of him pressing in, not physically but psychically. Like he was already inside her head, unraveling her reluctance stitch by stitch.
"You're impossible," she muttered, but the words had no venom. Just heat. Just surrender, dressed up in irritation.
Ethan chuckled quietly, the sound dark and amused. He pushed off the counter, closing the space between them without rush, without warning. His presence felt thick, crowding her in, filling her senses.
Then his fingers reached out—barely touching the hem of her robe. Just a brush. But it was enough. Enough to make her inhale sharply, to feel the moment catch in her lungs.
"Wear them," he murmured, voice smooth as sin. Not seductive. Not playful. Just a simple truth. A decision already made.
Her defenses buckled.
She hated that it felt like a ritual now—this game they played where he pushed and she pretended to resist, only to fall apart with a single word or look. And every time, she told herself never again.
But she always gave in.
Always.
Because it wasn't just about what he asked.
It was about the way he asked it.
Softly. Unshakeably.
As if her yes was a given.
As if he already belonged to the version of her that would say it.
She stared up at him for a beat too long.
"…Fine," she whispered, the word slipping out like a confession.
He smiled. That slow, patient smile that said he'd known all along.
Then he stepped back, just like that, as if he hadn't just pulled the ground out from under her.
"Good girl."
Vanessa snatched the clothes off the counter with a scowl she didn't fully mean and turned on her heel before he could see the shade her cheeks had bloomed into. It was fire. It was humiliation. It was something else entirely.
She shut the bedroom door behind her with a soft click, but she didn't move right away. Just stood there, back pressed against it, chest rising and falling too fast.
The clothes were still clutched in her hands.
Red lace.
His hands.
Her skin.
Her eyes slid shut for a moment.
She was going to wear them.
And the worst part?
A tiny, traitorous part of her wanted to.
Her heart was still hammering—too fast, too loud—like it was trying to fight its way out of her chest. A slow, burning heat coiled beneath her skin, smoldering in places she didn't want to acknowledge. It wasn't just heat—it was something heavier, stickier. A tension that clung to her ribs, made it harder to breathe, harder to think.
That smug, infuriating idiot.
Even now, with him out of sight, she could still hear him. That voice. Low. Smooth. Velvet-drenched steel. "Wear them."
God, he'd said it like it was nothing. Like it didn't mean anything.
But Vanessa knew better.
That tone—quiet and commanding—had sunk into her like a whisper she couldn't shake, curling around her spine, making her fingers twitch.
They were still wrapped tight around the fabric he'd handed her. Tight enough to wrinkle it, tight enough that her knuckles ached. She hadn't even realized she was gripping it that hard.
Like hell he didn't know exactly what he was doing.
She could still see the way his eyes had lingered. The glint in them. That edge of challenge.
Vanessa took a long breath through her nose, trying—failing—to shove down the warmth still curling in her chest. Her skin still tingled from the memory of his gaze, her mind too traitorously focused on the way he'd said it. That smooth, maddening confidence. Like he knew what effect it would have.
Fine.
Whatever.
She wasn't going to let him crawl under her skin like this.
Except…
She already had.
She hated that she was still standing there, still clutching the clothes like they held answers. Like maybe if she stared hard enough, she'd feel in control again.
But she didn't. Not even a little.
Her eyes flicked to the mirror across the room. She didn't want to look. She knew what she'd see—knew the flush in her cheeks wouldn't have gone away, no matter how deep she buried the heat.
Still, she moved. Set the clothes on the bed, peeled off her shirt, her motions clipped, annoyed. Controlled.
Too controlled.
Out of the corner of her eye, the reflection caught her—bare skin, flushed cheekbones, eyes too bright, like she was on the edge of something and trying too damn hard to pretend she wasn't.
Vanessa muttered a curse under her breath and slipped into the shower , she came out and wore the lace. She barely spared the mirror another look—she didn't want to see what those clothes did to her silhouette. Didn't want to admit that he'd known exactly what would fit her body, what would cling just right.
But it was the last pieces that made her hesitate.
Her fingers hovered. Then curled into a fist.
She stared at them like they were an insult. Like they knew what they were doing, too. Like they were mocking her for hesitating.
The audacity. His audacity.
The nerve to just keep them for her and say nothing else. Just that look. That smirk. That goddamn tone.
Vanessa exhaled sharply through her nose, then grabbed them, quick and angry, like that would make her feel better. Like it would reclaim some of the power she hadn't meant to give away.
Fine.
But she wasn't going to think about it.
Not about him. Not about the way this would look. Not about the fact that she'd feel every inch of him watching when she walked out of that room.
Not. One. Bit.
When she finally stepped out, she regretted it immediately.
Her awareness sharpened to a knife's edge. Every brush of fabric, every shift of movement—the way the hem of the skirt flirted against her thighs, the whisper of air against skin. She felt exposed, despite being dressed. Or maybe because of it.
Then she saw him.
Ethan stood casually in the kitchen, mug in hand, looking like he hadn't done a thing wrong in his life.
But the moment his eyes landed on her, something flickered. Just for a second—just enough. A dark glint, a twist of satisfaction that made her spine lock straight.
Vanessa stopped a few feet away, arms folding tight across her chest like armor. "Happy?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, his gaze slid down her body, slow and deliberate. Like he was reading a language only he understood. Like he was drinking in the effect of his choices, savoring it, and her, and every beat of silence between them.
Her stomach coiled. Tight. Too tight.
Then he set the mug down and met her eyes—like it was nothing. Like he hadn't just stripped her bare with a look.
"Very."
Two syllables. That was all.
But the way he said it—low, rich, certain—struck something deep in her. His voice curled around her like smoke, dragging her back to every thought she'd tried to bury.
Vanessa clenched her jaw. Her arms crossed tighter. "You're insufferable."
He smiled—not wide, not smug, but knowing. Subtle. Infuriating.
"And yet," he murmured, stepping forward, closing that short space between them like it meant nothing, "you still listen to me."
Her breath caught. Her pulse skipped.
He reached for her—only briefly. Fingers brushed the hem of her skirt, light as a whisper against her thigh, a feather of sensation that vanished as quickly as it came.
Too light.
Too fleeting.
Too intentional.
She didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't give him what he wanted.
Instead, she tilted her chin and met his gaze head-on, her smirk sharp enough to draw blood. "Enjoy it while you can," she said, voice calm, even as heat pooled low in her belly. "It won't last."
He chuckled. Quiet, dark. But didn't push.
No. He lingered.
Then leaned in—closer than she expected—and brushed his lips against her temple. Soft. Fleeting. Gentle in a way that felt like a dare.
And then he was gone.
"Breakfast?" he asked, tone light, almost bored. Like the last two minutes hadn't happened. Like he hadn't just unraveled her with a look and a touch and a voice she couldn't forget.
Vanessa exhaled slowly. Controlled. Tight.
"…Fine."
The curve of his smirk said everything she refused to admit.
Breakfast was quiet. Uneventful. He didn't touch her again, didn't press. But she could feel him watching her over the rim of his mug. Not constantly—but enough. Just enough to keep her off balance.
Afterward, the airport came quickly. Too quickly.
Check-in. Security. Boarding.
It all moved too fast. Too smoothly.
Which meant one thing, and she knew it in her bones.
Ethan was planning something.
Something he hadn't said yet.
Something that waited—just out of reach.
And Vanessa could already feel it circling.
The moment Vanessa sank into the plush leather seat of the business-class cabin, she knew something wasn't right.
She should have questioned it hours ago—should've demanded to know why Ethan insisted on upgrading their tickets when coach would have been perfectly acceptable . He'd brushed her off with one of his trademark half-smiles and a vague, dismissive comment. And she, distracted by his presence and her own roiling thoughts, had let it go.
Now, midair and at cruising altitude, she was beginning to understand why.
He was watching her. That same damned smirk playing at his lips—cool, knowing, carved with a confidence she hated herself for finding so goddamn attractive. Vanessa shifted in her seat, already regretting not digging deeper.
Because something was happening.
A low hum. A vibration. Gentle, at first—so faint it could have been imagined. A subtle thrum between her, a tickling warmth that seemed to echo against her skin. Vanessa blinked, confused, adjusting her legs slightly. The vibration followed. Stronger now.
Her breath caught. A sharp inhale she couldn't quite suppress.
Then her eyes snapped to Ethan.
His attention was fixed on the safety pamphlet in the seat pocket, one finger casually flipping the corner of a page. Feigned disinterest, deliberate and cruel.
"What the hell are you doing?" she hissed under her breath, the edge of panic sharp against her voice. She turned to him, her body already tensing, thighs pressing together involuntarily. The heat coiling inside her was unmistakable now—delicious, insidious, and entirely not her choice.
Ethan tilted his head lazily in her direction. "Hmm?"
That was all he said. One syllable. One perfectly irritating syllable.
"Don't hmm me." Her fingers curled into the armrest, knuckles pale with pressure. "What. Are. You. Doing?"
He turned toward her fully now, his expression neutral but for the faintest lift at the corner of his mouth. "Vanessa," he said, voice thick as melted honey, "we're on a plane. What could I possibly be doing?"
But he was doing something. Oh, he fucking was.
The smirk he barely suppressed gave him away.
And the vibrations continued—steadily building inside her, curling deep inside her pelvis with every pulse. She could feel the heat licking up her spine, a flush spreading beneath her skin. Her nipples tightened beneath the tank top, hypersensitive and lightly brushing the soft cotton with every breath. Her core throbbed, warmth flooding in slow, wicked waves that made her thighs tense harder.
"Ethan," she breathed, a tremble threading through her voice, "if this is what I think it is…"
He didn't answer. Just leaned back in his seat, eyes closing like he hadn't just detonated a mine under her restraint.
Forty-five minutes of torture.
That's how long it lasted—an entire stretch of airspace measured not in miles but in delicate, maddening tremors. Vanessa tried everything. Subtle shifts in her posture. Crossing and uncrossing her legs. Tilting her hips away from the seat cushion.Getting up.
Nothing helped.
In fact, every movement only made things worse.
Each minute dragged across her skin like silk dipped in fire. She could feel the slow drip of arousal building, slick heat pooling in her panties, the ache becoming unbearable. Her breath came shallow and quick, nostrils flaring as she forced herself to remain composed.
But Ethan? Ethan sat there like a fucking saint. Reclined. Calm. That smug bastard even had the nerve to read his damn book.
When the flight attendant passed with blankets, Ethan accepted two. He handed one to Vanessa with a little flourish, his fingers brushing against hers—too light, too intentional, as though to remind her what was going on with her.
The moment the blanket settled over her lap, he moved.
A flick of fingers against her side—barely perceptible. She twitched.
Another pass near her waist.
Then it clicked.
Her tank top slackened. Something shifted. The straps felt loose.
Vanessa's eyes widened, and her hand shot down beneath the blanket. Her skirt. The waistband was no longer secure.
A strangled sound escaped her throat.
She didn't even see him move, but somehow, in that brief window, Ethan had undone both her top and her skirt. She was sitting there—on a plane full of passengers, barely shielded by a airline-issued blanket—in a lace bra and panties that now clung damply to her increasingly aroused body.
Her head whipped toward him. "Are you insane?" she hissed.
He turned his face just slightly, that infuriating calm painted all over him. "You really should stop making it this easy."
She wanted to scream. Or strangle him. Maybe both. But more than that—more than the anger and panic and disbelief—was the arousal burning hot and molten through her veins. Her body liked this. Her nipples were hard, her breathing ragged. Her clit throbbed with every pulse of the vibrations beneath her.
And he knew it. He knew.
That realization sent a jolt through her. This was a game to him. A test. He wanted to see how far she'd go. How long she could hold on.
But Vanessa was not going to fold. If he wanted a war, he'd get one.
"Give. Them. Back," she ground out.
Ethan chuckled under his breath. "Make me."
Her nails dug into her palms as she forced her body to relax. He wanted her flustered. Wanted her panicking. She wouldn't give him the pleasure.
Instead, she moved.
Slowly, deliberately, she slid one hand beneath the blanket—appearing casual to anyone looking from outside. But Ethan wasn't fooled. His gaze flicked down, and for the first time, she saw a crack in his composure.
Her fingers brushed his thigh.
He tensed.
Vanessa smiled.
She let her nails drag slowly up the seam of his jeans, letting the pressure mount just enough to provoke, not enough to be obvious. She felt the heat of his body rise, watched the subtle twitch in his jaw, the slight parting of his lips as he inhaled sharply.
"Something wrong?" she murmured, her voice dipped in silk, sweet with venom. "You look a little tense."
His gaze locked onto hers, darker now, pupils dilated. Dangerous.
"You're playing with fire," he warned.
She leaned in, her mouth close to his ear. "Then maybe you should stop dousing me in gasoline."
She pressed her palm against his cock, feeling the hard line of him beneath the fabric. Ethan's breath caught, his hips shifting—barely, but enough.
But then he retaliated.
A blur of movement.
A rustle beneath the blanket.
Vanessa stiffened.
Her back arched involuntarily as she felt it—the snap of her bra unclasping. One second it had been secure, the next, it was gone—vanished into the folds of his bag like the rest of her clothes. She stared at him in stunned disbelief, her breasts now unbound and brushing soft fabric with every breath, every tremor of the plane.
She was almost fully naked under the blanket.
On a crowded plane.
In public.
While still vibrating.
She gasped—sharp and uncontrolled—as another pulse surged beneath her, stronger than before. It was getting worse. Closer. Her clit was throbbing, desperate and swollen with need. Her whole body ached for friction, for touch, for release—but none came. Ethan had her in the palm of his hand, and she was drowning in arousal.
Her hands clenched the blanket, her jaw tight.
"Ethan," she ground out, trembling.
He looked up from his book with maddening calm. "Yes?"
Her lips parted. She could barely speak. "Turn it down."
He blinked. "Turn what down?"
The vibrations surged. Higher. Deeper.
She bit her lip, hard, stifling a sound that was more moan than breath. Her body was slick now—panties soaked, thighs trembling. She couldn't hold still. She was going to come. Right there in her seat. In public. In front of him.
Ethan leaned toward her slowly, like a wolf savoring the scent of its prey.
His lips brushed her ear. "You could always try asking nicely."
She turned toward him, eyes blazing, chest heaving, mouth open—but no words came.
Because he smiled.
And the vibrator increased in speed.
~~~~~