“Stop teasing me,” I gasp between broken breaths as he gently squeezes my nipples, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger until I feel like I’m going to lose my mind.
“Baby, this isn’t teasing. ” He drops to his knees, runs his tongue all the way down to the dimples at the base of my spine. Then he moves even lower, licking inside my bikini bottom as he continues rolling the wetsuit down my hips and legs.
“What—what is it then?”
“Pleasure. ” He nips gently at my ass, making me giggle even as he sends heat rushing through me. “Pure, unadulterated pleasure. ”
I can’t argue with that, not when my entire body is awash in the most amazing sensations. He keeps kissing me, touching me, stroking me, anywhere, everywhere, until the last remnants of uneasiness slowly slip away and all that’s left is desire. Need.
Ethan seems to know instinctively when my apprehension disappears, because his touch becomes firmer, more aggressive. His fingers dip below the edge of my bikini bottom, skimming lightly over the curve of my ass and my hips before circling around to the front.
I gasp at the first glide of his fingers over my sex, stiffen despite myself. In my head, I know he’s touched me here before and that he’s given me nothing but the most amazing pleasure in doing so. But I can’t help it—the position is freaking me out. It’s so eerily reminiscent of that long-ago night with Brandon when he forced me to my knees and came at me from behind that I’m having trouble separating the past from the present.
Memories swamp me—fear, pain, helplessness—and I can’t help stiffening. Can’t help panicking. I try to ignore them, to push past them. I remind myself that this is Ethan, sweet, gentle Ethan who has never been anything but kind to me. Who has never done anything to hurt me. But it’s too late. Brandon’s already in my head and the fear is already coursing through me. It turns my desire to panic, my need to despe
ration.
I try to force the words through my suddenly tight throat. No. Stop. Don’t. But all that comes out is a low, inarticulate sound that makes no sense to anyone, not even me.
Shame courses through me. Five years have passed, five years filled with self-defense courses and counseling and learning how not to be a victim, and here I am, right back where I started. Unable to enjoy the lovemaking of a kind, generous man and unable to find the words to stop him, either.
But Ethan isn’t Brandon, not in any way, and it turns out he doesn’t need words. That one, desperate sound is enough to have him pulling back, dropping his hands.
“Baby? You okay?”
Tears burn in my throat and behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I haven’t cried about this since that long-ago week, and I’m not going to start now. What happened with that bastard might still have the power to shake me up and shut me down, but I won’t give him anything else. I won’t let him break me any more than he already has. Won’t let him ruin what’s growing between Ethan and me the way he ruined me.
I can’t talk, so I nod. I reach for Ethan’s hands, put them back on my stomach, my hips. I can do this, I tell myself. This is Ethan. Ethan, not Brandon, and I’ve already shared more of my body, and myself, with him than I have with any other man.
But that’s the problem, too, because Ethan knows me. Knows what it feels like when I’m responding. Knows what it sounds and looks and smells like. And he knows this isn’t it.
“Chloe?”
I try to hold on to him, try to keep his hands pressed to my body, because in some crazy, wild corner of my mind I think that if I can just let him do this it will make everything better. Make me better. Because I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to be broken. Not with him. Not anymore.
“Chloe, stop. ”
I don’t listen. I hold on to his hands like a lifeline, press them against my breasts, my sex. But I’m shuddering now, my whole body shaking with fear and rage and a horror I don’t even know how to acknowledge.
In some random, disconnected part of my brain I’m aware of Ethan cursing, low and long and vile. I want to apologize, to explain, but the words won’t come. Nothing will, but a low, keening cry I can’t seem to control.
Ethan pulls away from me again, and this time he pushes to his feet before circling around so that he’s standing in front of me. “Chloe, baby, talk to me. What do you need? What can I do?”
He doesn’t sound angry, doesn’t sound disgusted. No, the only thing I hear in his voice is a deep, aching concern, and just the sound of it nearly brings me to my knees.
I want him to hold me, to tell me that it’s okay.
That he doesn’t blame me for freaking out.
That he still wants me.
And that everything between us is somehow going to be all right.
But even as I think it, I know better. I gave up on fairy tales five long years ago, and nothing, nobody, is going to be able to change that now.
Besides, nothing is okay. How can it be when Ethan is standing in front of me, his hands out in the universal I’m-not-going-to-hurt-you position? When he’s staring at me with eyes gone dark and blank?
“I’m sorry. ” I finally manage to choke the words out.