Chapter 107 A Kick Below the Belt
Resisting Ethan Bennett had consequences. Severe ones.
He'd kept me up until after 1 AM, his body relentless against mine, punishing me for my defiance with pleasure that bordered on torture. By the time he finally allowed me to sleep, I felt like half my life force had been drained away. I closed my eyes and practically passed out, falling into a black void of exhaustion.
When I finally woke, golden afternoon light was streaming through the bedroom windows. The space beside me was empty—Ethan wasn't in the room. I sat up slowly, my head fuzzy with oversleep, and swung my legs over the side of the bed.
"Shit," I hissed as I stood, a sharp ache radiating between my thighs. Everything hurt. Front and back, I felt raw and tender in ways that made walking awkward.
Ever since Ethan had... expanded his repertoire, he'd become even more intense. Before, he'd at least show some restraint, afraid of truly hurting me. Now he held nothing back, switching between approaches with devastating effectiveness.
I limped to the full-length mirror and stared at my reflection, a wave of fury washing over me as I took in the damage. My formerly pale skin was now a canvas of red marks—my neck, collarbone, chest, arms, and legs all decorated with evidence of his possession. The worst were along my waistline and inner thighs, where angry purple bruises had bloomed overnight.
"Goddamn you, Ethan Bennett," I muttered, cursing his ancestors all the way back to the Mayflower. "May your dick shrivel up and fall off."
I dug through the walk-in closet for something that would cover everything. Long sleeves and pants would have to do. The marks on my body were now hidden, but my neck remained a problem. I dabbed thick foundation over the visible bruises until they disappeared beneath a layer of makeup. Up close, someone might still notice, but who besides Ethan would be examining my neck that carefully?
The heavily made-up neck looked strange against my bare face, so I applied foundation to my cheeks as well, then added crimson lipstick and defined my eyebrows. The whole process transformed into an impromptu makeup session, creating a mask of normalcy over the evidence of last night.
Just as I finished and was about to leave the bedroom, the door swung open. Ethan walked in, his eyes immediately locking onto my made-up face. His gaze narrowed, taking in my red lips and pale foundation, and something dangerous flickered in his expression. In three long strides, he crossed the room and pulled me against him, one arm snaking around my waist.
"Who are you looking so seductive for?" His voice was low, almost a growl.
The pressure against my tender waist made me wince. I shot him a resentful glare, but Ethan misinterpreted completely. To him, my pained expression and flushed cheeks must have looked like an invitation. His breath caught, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. His eyes darkened, and his grip on my waist tightened.
"Don't tempt me," he warned. "You can't handle any more right now."
"Excuse me?" I felt my eyebrows rise. "Who's tempting you? And you're right about one thing—I can't handle more." I flinched as his fingers pressed into my sore spots. "Ouch. That hurts."
Ethan immediately loosened his grip. "Where does it hurt?"
"Everywhere," I said with a pointed glare.
Without warning, he lifted me and carried me back to the bed. Despite my protests, he began methodically removing my carefully selected clothes.
"I need to apply ointment," he explained, reaching for a tube on the nightstand.
Ethan ignored my objection, leaning closer as he gently applied the ointment. His fingers moved with deliberate slowness, spreading the cool gel over my heated skin. His touch was both clinical and intimate, careful yet possessive. His warm breath fanned across my skin as he worked, each exhale like a burning feather against my sensitized nerve endings.
I couldn't help the small gasp that escaped my lips—a sound so sensual it startled even me.
Ethan's head snapped up, a knowing smirk spreading across his face as our eyes met.
Mortified and frustrated, I kicked out instinctively, my foot connecting squarely with his face.
I froze, instantly horrified by what I'd done.
Oh god, he's going to lose it.
Surprisingly, Ethan didn't seem angry. He simply worked his jaw sideways and gave me a cold, dangerous smile. "I see the medicine's working well. You've already recovered enough strength to attack me."
"You put your face too close," I defended weakly.
One eyebrow arched. "Did I? I seem to recall last night you were grabbing my head and demanding I—"
"Stop!" I shot upright, slapping my hand over his mouth before he could finish that mortifying sentence.
The sudden movement sent another jolt of pain through me, and I winced audibly.
Ethan firmly pressed me back down. "Lie still."
What followed was more torture than treatment. Ethan deliberately tormented me as he applied the ointment, alternating between the rough pad of his thumb pressing into tender spots and featherlight strokes of his fingertips that made me shiver.
When he finally finished, I lashed out again, aiming for his chest. He dodged, and my foot landed somewhere much more vulnerable.
Ethan let out a strangled grunt, his eyes turning glacial.
I stared at him in terror for a heartbeat, then shut my eyes and went limp, pretending unconsciousness.
At that perfect moment, his phone rang.
Thank fucking god.
I heard him answer his phone, his voice returning to that cool, clipped tone he used for business. After a brief exchange, he hung up and returned to the bedside.
"Get up. It's time for dinner."
I cautiously opened my eyes. "You're not mad, are you?"
"Do I strike you as someone who angers easily?" he asked.
I blinked up at him. "...Isn't that exactly who you are?"
Ethan frowned, his face tensing into hard lines.
I quickly grabbed his hand, offering my most appeasing smile. "No, no, of course not! You're the most even-tempered person I know!"
"Don't wear those," Ethan said, snatching them away and tossing them aside. "Wear a long skirt instead."
He was right—tight pants would only aggravate my tender skin and slow the healing.
"Oh," I murmured, about to get up to find a skirt.
"Stay," he commanded, walking to the closet himself. He returned with a flowing Southeast Asian-style maxi skirt and a white long-sleeved top that would complement it.
I accepted the clothes with a quiet "Thank you" and turned away to dress.
Ethan laughed softly. "What part of your body haven't I seen by now?"
I ignored his comment and kept dressing, unwilling to engage in that particular argument.
When I finally emerged from the bedroom, I noticed Ethan with a cigarette, tendrils of smoke curling around him.
"You smoke and drink regularly but still want children?" I remarked. "Aren't you worried about birth defects?"
His hand froze mid-air, cigarette hovering. He looked up at me. "Are you saying if I quit smoking and drinking, you'd be willing to have my child?"