Chapter 11: The Grocery Bag Surprise
The key turned in the lock with a solid, familiar click. Ethan shouldered the door open, his arms laden with two heavy grocery bags, the plastic handles digging into his palms. He’d run out for coffee, eggs, and—because he’d noticed her glancing at the box—the specific kind of herbal tea she liked. The apartment was quiet, the usual soft rustle of pages absent.
“Clara? I’m back. They had your—”
He stopped. The words died in his throat.
She stood just inside the living room, framed by the doorway to her bedroom. She wore nothing but one of his old flannel shirts, the red and black check swallowing her frame. The sleeves were rolled to her elbows. It was unbuttoned, hanging open just enough to reveal a tantalizing sliver of her sternum, the shadowed valley between her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach. Her hair was down, a cascade of dark waves over her shoulders, and her feet were bare on the hardwood floor.
She didn’t speak. Her eyes, wide and dark behind her glasses, held his with a calm intensity he’d never seen before. It wasn’t shyness. It was deliberation.
A bag of groceries slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the floor with a thud. A lemon rolled out, bumping against his boot.
She moved.
In three silent strides she was in front of him. She dropped to her knees with a grace that stole his breath. Her hands went to his belt buckle, her fingers deft and sure. He was already hard, a swift, painful surge of blood that made him dizzy. The other grocery bag fell, forgotten.
“Jesus, Clara,” he choked out, his back against the still-open front door.
She got his jeans open, pushed them and his boxers down just enough. She took him in her hand, her touch cool and firm. She looked up at him, her gaze unwavering, and then took him into her mouth.
The heat was instantaneous, shocking. Her tongue swirled around the head, her lips stretched tight. A low, guttural sound escaped him. His head thumped back against the door. One hand found the top of her head, his fingers tangling in her soft hair, not to guide, but to anchor himself.
He was still coated in the chill of the autumn air outside, but she was all warm, wet silk. She took him deeper, her throat relaxing, until he felt the soft resistance. She held there, humming softly, the vibration traveling straight up his spine. Her hands rested on his thighs, her nails biting in just a little.
It was wrong. It was filthy. It was the most breathtaking thing he’d ever experienced.
She began to move, establishing a ruthless, perfect rhythm. Up, with a suction that made his eyes roll back. Down, slow and deep. Her free hand cupped his balls, rolling the weight of them with gentle pressure. She was studying him, learning what made him jerk, what made his breath hitch. She was deconstructing him with her mouth, and he was letting her.
“Stop,” he finally gasped, the word torn from him. “Clara, stop or I’m gonna—”
She released him with an obscenely wet sound. She sat back on her heels, looking up. A thin strand of saliva connected her lips to his glistening tip. She was breathing hard, her cheeks flushed. The flannel shirt had fallen completely open. The morning light from the window glanced off her naked skin, her peaked nipples, the sharp angles of her hip bones. She looked like some bibliophilic fantasy come to life, kneeling amid the scattered groceries.
“Then come,” she said, her voice husky. Her hand began to move on him, stroking with a deliberate, tightening pace. “I want to watch.”
It was a command. It unraveled him utterly. With a raw shout that echoed in the small foyer, he obeyed. He came over her hand, her wrist, stripes of white marking the open plaid of his own shirt on her chest. The force of it left him shuddering, weak-kneed, supported only by the door at his back.
He slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, facing her, his pants still around his thighs. They were both panting, the air thick with the scent of sex and fallen apples.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then, a slow, triumphant smile touched her lips. It was a little smug, entirely new. He reached out a trembling hand and wiped a stray drop from her chin with his thumb.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he breathed, his voice shot.
“You bought my tea,” she said, nodding toward the spilled bag.
He barked a laugh, the sound incredulous. “That’s what you’re focusing on?”
She shrugged, the motion making the shirt slip off one smooth shoulder. “It was a nice gesture. Consider this my thank you.”
He leaned forward, capturing her mouth in a deep, languid kiss. He could taste himself on her, a salty, intimate tang. He pulled her into his lap, heedless of the mess. She curled against his chest, her warmth seeping through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.
“You’re full of surprises, Clara Thompson.”
“You have no idea,” she murmured into his neck.
They sat there on the floor for a while, tangled together in the quiet mess. He nuzzled her hair. “We should clean this up. The eggs are probably dead.”
“In a minute.”
He held her closer. The fierce, possessive burn in his chest had settled into a deep, glowing ember. The woman who hid in loose sweaters and behind stacks of books was gone. In her place was this fierce, demanding creature who greeted him at the door with devastating hunger. He understood, with a clarity that was almost frightening, that he would do absolutely anything for her.
“You know,” he said softly, his lips against her temple. “This is a hell of a lot better than coming home to an empty apartment.”
She shifted, lifting her head to look at him. Her glasses were slightly askew. He reached up and straightened them gently. The simple, domestic gesture seemed to stretch between them, charged with more meaning than anything that had just happened.
“What was it like?” she asked, her voice small again. “Before? Coming home to nothing?”
He considered lying. Giving her the easy, tough-guy answer. But the floor was hard, and she was soft in his arms, and his defenses were in ruins.
“Quiet,” he said finally. “A different kind of quiet. Not peaceful. Just… empty.