The kiss wasn't gentle. It was a dam breaking. His mouth crashed into hers, all heat and bourbon and five years of silence. Maya’s back hit the trailer wall with a soft thud, the metal cool through her shirt, his body a solid, burning line against her front. His hands cradled her face, thumbs pressing into her jaw, holding her like she was the only anchor he had left.
She met him, bite for bite. Her fingers twisted in the worn cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space for air, for thought, for the past. Only this. The familiar-unfamiliar taste of him. The low, ragged sound in his throat.
His mouth left hers, trailed fire down the column of her neck. His teeth scraped her pulse point.
“Ethan.”
Her voice was wrecked. A plea or a warning, she didn’t know.
The sound he made against her skin was pure surrender. A raw, broken thing. He pressed his forehead to her collarbone, his breathing harsh. His hands slid from her face, down her arms, coming to rest on her hips. He didn’t move. Just held on, his fingers digging in.
She could feel him shaking. The great Ethan Vale, who’d walked away from a sixty-foot fall and from her without a backward glance, trembled against her. It undid something deep in her chest.
“Look at me.”
He didn’t.
Maya slid her hands up, over the broad plane of his shoulders, into the short, rough hair at the nape of his neck. She tugged, gently. “Ethan.”
He lifted his head. His eyes, storm-blue and devastating, were glassy. Raw. The scar on his temple stood pale in the low trailer light.
“This is a bad idea,” he whispered, the words scraping out. But his hands were already moving under the hem of her shirt, calloused palms skating up the bare skin of her back. “I told you I wouldn’t be able to stop.”
“I didn’t ask you to stop.”
She found the scar with her thumb, traced its length. A map of the end. His breath hitched.
He kissed her again, slower this time. Deeper. A tasting. An exploration of a country they’d both once called home. His tongue swept against hers, and a shudder ran through her, straight to her core. Heat pooled, low and insistent. She was already wet, the sudden slickness a humiliating, thrilling truth.
He must have felt it. The way she arched into him. The soft, involuntary sound she couldn’t swallow back. His hands tightened on her hips, dragging her flush against him. The hard ridge of his erection pressed against her stomach through his jeans.
“Fuck,” he breathed into her mouth.
He walked her backward, never breaking the kiss, until the backs of her knees hit the edge of his narrow bunk. He eased her down onto the scratchy wool blanket. He followed, bracing himself above her, a shadow blocking out the ceiling light.
For a long moment, he just looked. His gaze traveled over her face, down her throat, over the rapid rise and fall of her chest. It was a director’s gaze. A coordinator’s assessment. And something else, hotter and more terrifying.
“Tell me this is real,” he said, his voice gravel.
“It’s real.”
He lowered himself. The solid weight of him settled between her thighs, and the breath left her in a rush. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaled deeply. “You still smell the same.”
His mouth found hers again. One hand slid up her ribcage, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast through her bra. She gasped. He did it again, a slow, deliberate stroke. Then his palm covered her fully, squeezing. The ache was immediate, sharp.
She fumbled for his belt buckle. Cold metal. Her fingers felt clumsy, frantic.
He caught her wrist. “Slow.”
“I don’t want slow.”
“You’ll get slow.” He brought her captured hand to his mouth, pressed a kiss to her palm. His eyes held hers. “We have all night. And I have five years to make up for.”
He released her wrist. His hand slid down, fingers finding the hem of her shirt. He tugged it upward, just an inch, exposing a strip of skin above her waistband. His thumb stroked there, a slow pass over her hip bone.
“Slow,” he repeated, the word a low command against her mouth before he kissed her again.
He peeled the shirt up, over her ribs, her breasts trapped in the simple cotton bra, over her shoulders. The trailer air was cool on her newly-bared skin. He broke the kiss to pull the shirt free from her arms and toss it aside. It landed on the floor with a soft whisper.
He looked at her. The lamplight painted her torso in gold and shadow. His gaze was physical—a touch that made her stomach tighten.
“Still perfect,” he murmured, not like a compliment, but like a fact he was cataloguing. A correction to his memory.
His hands returned to her waist. He leaned down and pressed his lips to the hollow between her ribs. A soft, closed-mouth kiss. Then his mouth moved lower, following the line of her stomach, his stubble a delicious scrape. He paused at the button of her jeans.
Maya’s breath shuddered. Her fingers found his shoulders, gripping the solid muscle there.
He undid the button. The sound of the zipper lowering was obscenely loud in the quiet trailer. He hooked his fingers in the denim at her hips and dragged the jeans down her legs. The movement was efficient, practiced. He left her in just her bra and a simple pair of black cotton underwear.
He sat back on his heels, knees bracketing her thighs, and just looked. His eyes were dark, the blue nearly swallowed. His own arousal was unmistakable, straining against the fly of his jeans.
“Your turn,” she said, her voice unsteady.
He shook his head once. “Not yet.”
He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the bunk on either side of her head. He lowered his mouth to the lace edge of her bra, just above her nipple. He breathed in. “Still the same soap,” he said, the words vibrating against her skin.
“Ethan—”
“I missed this.” He said it into her skin. “I missed the smell of you. The sound you make right before you come.”
Her hips lifted off the blanket, a helpless arc. He pressed a hand flat against her stomach, holding her down. The weight and heat of it stole her breath.
He found the clasp of her bra at her back. A flick of his fingers, and it loosened. He peeled the cups away slowly, letting the lace drag across her sensitized skin. Then she was bare to the waist.
The cool air tightened her nipples. His gaze dropped, and his jaw flexed. He didn’t touch her there. Not yet. He lowered his head and kissed the center of her chest, just above her sternum. A reverence that felt like devastation.
His hands slid down to the waistband of her underwear. He hooked his thumbs in the elastic. He met her eyes, a question held in the silence.
Maya nodded, a sharp, small movement.
He drew them down, exposing her completely to the lamplight and his gaze. He let out a slow, controlled breath. His knuckles brushed the inside of her thigh as he tossed the underwear aside.
He settled back between her legs, his jeans rough against her inner thighs. He didn’t move to take his own clothes off. He just looked at her, all of her, his expression so raw it felt like a violation.
“Tell me you want this,” he said, his voice rough. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you.” The truth was simple. It was the only thing left.
He finally reached for his own shirt, pulling it over his head in one swift motion. His chest was broad, scattered with old bruises and pale scars from a career of impacts. He was still Ethan Vale, just a quieter, harder version. He unfastened his belt, the buckle clinking, and shoved his jeans and boxer briefs down just enough to free himself.
He was fully hard, the head flushed and slick. He didn’t stroke himself. He just guided himself to her entrance, the blunt pressure making her gasp. He held himself there, not pushing, just resting against her slick heat.
“Look at me,” he said.
She forced her eyes open. His face was inches from hers, every line of strain and want etched clear.
He pushed in, just the head. The stretch was exquisite, familiar and brand new. He stopped, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still.
A broken sound escaped her. Her nails dug into his back.
“Again,” he gritted out. “Tell me again.”
“I want you.”
He sank deeper, a slow, devastating inch. “Again.”
“I want you, Ethan.”
He drove home, filling her completely in one smooth, relentless stroke. Her back arched off the bunk. A choked cry tore from her throat.
He buried his face in her neck, his breath hot and ragged. He didn’t move. Just held himself deep, his body shuddering above hers. “God,” he whispered, the word a prayer or a curse. “Maya.”