Connection | 18+

ETHAN:

   She doesn't fucking get it.

   How close I am to snapping. How fucking fragile my self-control is around her.

   She's standing there, all defiance and fire, her smirk like a blade pressing against my skin, daring me to break. And fuck, I want to. I want to rip that fucking confidence apart, see if she still smirks when she's gasping, shaking, looking at me with something other than that goddamn challenge in her eyes.

   I inhale slowly, steadying myself, gripping onto the restraint with every ounce of willpower I have.

   Because Olivia doesn't know what the fuck she's playing with.

   She thinks this is a game. That she's fucking with me, taunting me, making me chase her. But all she's doing is making it worse. Making me want her in ways that are quickly slipping past reason.

   I want to close the distance between us, crowd her against the nearest surface, force her chin up, and drag my knuckles down the column of her throat just to feel her swallow around the weight of my presence. I want to feel her breath hitch the way it did last night, when she was against me, desperate, needy, out of her fucking mind with want.

   But I don't.

   Because I know the second I do, I won't stop. And she's not fucking ready for that.

   Not yet.

   My jaw clenches as I drag my gaze over her. She's a mess. Damp hair, oversized clothes swallowing her frame, skin still too fucking irritated from the showers. She looks soft like this, too fucking real—not the reckless brat who pushes and pulls, who smirks as if she has any fucking power here.

   She tilts her head, arms crossing over her chest, that smirk still playing at the corners of her lips.

   "Something wrong, Ethan?"

   Fuck.

   It's the way she says my name. Like it doesn't weigh anything. Like it's not the fucking match to the gasoline she keeps pouring between us.

   I exhale slowly, flexing my fingers once before forcing them to relax.

   I have to be careful. She is reckless enough for both of us.

    She's still looking at me like that. Like she's won something. Like she's not standing at the edge of a fucking cliff, dangling herself over the edge just to see what I'll do.

   And maybe she has won something. Maybe she's figured out exactly what she does to me, exactly how deep she's dug her fucking nails into my self-control.

   Because I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't have stayed. Shouldn't have lied about my business with Daniel. I shouldn't be watching her like this—like she's mine to watch, mine to keep, mine to fucking ruin.

   But she is. Somewhere in my mind, she has become mine.

   And that's the goddamn problem.

   My grip tightens against my knee, the only outlet for the tension curling up my spine. I force my face into something blank, something unreadable because she doesn't get to see what she's doing to me. She doesn't get to fucking know.

   Not yet.

   Instead, I keep my voice steady, let my silence stretch just long enough for that smirk of hers to flicker, for the air between us to grow thicker.