Chapter 14: Back to the real world
The knock was soft, insistent. It pulled Clara from a shallow sleep where the feel of his hands and the sound of the piano strings were still tangled in her dreams. The digital clock on her nightstand glowed 5:47 AM. Dawn was a thin, gray suggestion at the edges of her blinds.
She knew it was him. Who else would it be at this hour? She padded barefoot to the door, the cool hardwood sending shivers up her legs. She wore only the thin cotton nightgown she’d pulled on after her shower last night, after she’d washed the scent of him from her skin only to find it lingered in her memory, deeper than soap could reach.
She opened the door without looking through the peephole.
Ethan filled the frame. He was already dressed for his day—dark jeans, a plain gray henley stretched across his chest, a leather jacket. But his eyes were wild, his hair disheveled as if he’d been running his hands through it for hours. The clean, composed programmer was gone. In his place was the marine, poised on the edge of an objective.
He didn’t speak. His gaze swept over her, from her sleep-mussed hair to her bare feet, heating as it lingered on the peaks of her nipples visible through the thin cotton. His jaw was tight.
“Ethan? Is everything—”
He stepped forward, one hand slapping against the door to push it wider, the other grasping her waist. He backed her into her own apartment, kicking the door shut behind him with a heel. The loud thud echoed in the quiet hallway.
“No,” he said, his voice a graveled whisper. “Nothing is all right.”
He crowded her against the wall next to the door, his body a solid line of heat. His arousal was immediate and demanding, a hard ridge pressed against her lower belly through his jeans. One of his legs pushed between hers, forcing her stance wider. He smelled like cold morning air and coffee and a frantic, restless energy.
“I didn’t sleep,” he muttered against her temple, his breath hot. “I lay there and I thought about you. Sprawled on that piano. The sounds you made. The way you clenched around me.” His hands roamed down to her hips, gripping hard, pulling her tight against him. “It’s fucking with my head.”
“Ethan…” Her voice was a whisper, Part protest, part plea. Her body was already responding, a liquid warmth gathering between her thighs.
“I have a meeting at seven. Downtown. I’ll be gone all day.” He said it like a curse. His mouth found hers, not in a kiss but a claiming. It was hard, hungry, all teeth and need. She tasted the bitterness of coffee and a deeper, sharper desperation.
His hands rucked up the hem of her nightgown, pushing the cotton past her hips, up to her waist. The cool morning air hit her bare skin. He broke the kiss, lips trailing down her neck, nipping at the sensitive cord of her throat.
“I need to be inside you,” he growled, the words vibrating against her skin. “Now. Before I go. I need to know you’re here, like this, thinking of me.”
He fumbled with his belt, his fingers uncharacteristically clumsy. The rasp of his zipper was obscenely loud. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself. He was fully erect, the veins prominent, the tip already wet. He was beyond foreplay, beyond gentle musicianship. This was a blunt, physical need.
He hooked his hands under her thighs, lifting her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her back pressed into the cool wall for support. He used his body to pin her there, one arm bracing them, the other hand guiding himself to her entrance.
He pushed in. There was no gentle breach. She was still slick from the memory of him, from her body’s instant awakening, but he was thick and the angle was sudden. A sharp, full burn made her gasp, her nails digging into the leather of his jacket.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. He was fully sheathed, a tight, hot fit. He didn’t move for a heartbeat, just shuddered, letting her adjust to the sudden, profound invasion.
Then he began to move. Short, hard thrusts that jarred her against the wall. Each drive punched a soft “uh” from her lungs. This wasn’t the rhythmic cadence of the piano. This was a frantic, staccato beat. The doorframe dug into her back. His grunts were harsh in her ear, animalistic.
“That’s it,” he rasped. “Take it. Take all of me. I want you sore for me tonight. I want you to feel me every time you shift in your chair at that goddamn library.”
His words were filthy, possessive. They ignited something dark and reciprocal in her. She met his thrusts, angling her hips, taking him deeper. The friction was exquisite, a rough magic that coiled her nerves tighter and tighter.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his searing blue gaze. His pupils were blown wide, his expression one of tortured want.
“When I’m in that sterile conference room,” he thrust hard, emphasizing each word, “I’m going to remember your cunt gripping me like a fucking vise. I’m going to remember how pretty you look, impaled on my cock against your own door.”
She came then, violently, her internal muscles clamping down in a series of intense spasms that stole her breath and drew a ragged cry from her throat. It was a quicker, darker climax than the ones before, born of friction and filthy promises and the sheer audacity of the act.
Her convulsing rhythm pushed him over the edge. With a ragged groan that was half her name, half a curse, he slammed into her one final time and held, his body rigid. She felt the hot, pulsing release of him deep inside her, a claiming more primal than any words.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the faint creak of the wall. He stayed buried within her, his weight heavy and comforting. Slowly, the tension bled from his shoulders. He turned his head, lips pressed against her damp neck in something that was not a kiss, but an anchor.
“Christ,” he breathed, the word muffled.
He gently lowered her until her feet touched the floor. Her legs trembled, barely holding her. He withdrew, a slow, intimate slide that made her wince. He took care of himself, tucking away, fastening his jeans with swift, efficient movements. Then he reached down and slid her nightgown back into place, the cotton now damp and clinging. The gesture was oddly tender, a stark contrast to the animalistic coupling of moments before.
He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. His eyes searched hers, the wildness receding, replaced by a dazed, almost vulnerable stillness.
“I’m… I don’t usually do that,” he said, his voice rough. “Barge in. Take. Like a goddamn animal.”
“I know,” she whispered. Her own voice was shaky.
“I just…” He struggled for the words, the programmer seeking the correct code for an irrational, overwhelming feeling. “I needed a piece of you to take with me. A physical anchor. Something real to cut through the bullshit I have to wade through today.”
She understood. He was giving her his lexicon. An ‘anchor’ was as precious as a ‘secure line’. She leaned into his palm. “You have it.”
He nodded, swallowing hard. He leaned in and kissed her, softly this time. A seal. A promise. When he pulled back, he looked at her—really looked. His eyes caught on the place where his mouth had marked her neck. A faint red blotch was forming. He traced it with a feather-light touch, a possessive gleam flickering in his eyes before it was banked by concern.
“I have to go.”
“I know.”
He didn’t move. “Tonight. Dinner. Here. I’ll cook. No piano. Just… talk.”
“Just talk,” she repeated, a small smile touching her lips. The absurdity of it, after this.
He finally stepped back, his hand trailing from her face down her arm until their fingers linked, then slipped apart. He opened the door. The gray dawn light spilled in, outlining his broad frame. He paused on the threshold, a man straddling two worlds.
“I’ll be thinking of you,” he said, not looking back.
Then he was gone, pulling the door shut softly behind him.
Clara stood in the sudden silence of her apartment, leaning against the wall he’d just pinned her to. The scent of him—leather, coffee, sex—hung in the air. A dull, pleasant ache throbbed deep inside her. She could feel the slight, sticky evidence of him between her thighs.
She looked at the closed door, then at her quiet, book-filled living room. The ordered shelves, the silent armchair. It all felt different. Charged. As if the walls themselves were humming with the echo of his presence, the ghost of his raw confession.
She had a full day ahead. Work. The quiet routines of the library. But she knew, with a certainty that was both thrilling and terrifying, that not a single moment would pass where she wasn’t hyper-aware of the faint mark on her neck, the soreness in her muscles, the phantom feel of him embedded in her body. He had taken his piece of her. And in doing so, he had left a piece of himself behind.
She turned and walked slowly toward the shower, her body singing a complex, exhilarated, and quietly joyous tune he had composed against her door.