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Ethan Chandler entered his chambers in a flurry, trench coat billowing, a river of black rippling behind him in dramatic glory. Vanessa looked up from her — well his — book, eyeing the flush to his cheeks; the crease between his brows; the harsh line of his lips, concern rising to the surface instantly, thrumming through her veins. When the door slammed behind him, she couldn't help but gasp, and it was at that moment his eyes met hers — warm brown met cool blue — with shame, running his hands habitually through his hair, leaving it tangled and disorderly.
It was clear to Vanessa that he hadn't expected to find her there, burrowed into the velvet chair by his window, reading about human anatomy, of all things, as he did all he could to avoid her steely gaze. Those eyes had a way of digging into the deepest pits of his soul, invisible tendrils penetrating this rough skin, dipping beneath muscle and weaving between bone, until she found her target. And she always did. She always did. There was nothing Ethan could hide from her, not since the day she laid her eyes upon his monstrous face, tender hand reaching out to comfort not just the man, but the beast within. Miss Ives could read him as freely as the book in her hand, and a part of Ethan resented her for it.
"You have an interesting collection of books, Mr. Chandler," Vanessa cut through the silence, her silken voice filling the air with familiarity; a symphony of sweetness emanating from that blessed mouth, and Ethan closed his eyes. It was strange, how completely and utterly she stripped him of his armour, shattering his walls as readily as a battering ram, and yet, the weight of her gaze made his skin itch. Crackling beneath his flesh was something he had not felt in many moons. It made him feel exposed.
A better man would have met her gaze, but Ethan could not. Instead, he found himself pacing, the fall of his feet matching the race of his heart, his mind clouded with visions dark and grim, brought to light by a newspaper, of all things. If he focused on the rough scrape of the carpet against the soles of his shoes, perhaps he could avoid those eyes a little longer, and his fear would not pour out like a faucet.
But Vanessa Ives could smell fear as sharply as blood in the water, and his heart — as heavily fortified as those defenses were — howled for the woman before him, drawing him as surely as the moon against a canvas of stars, and before Ethan could process where his feet were taking him, he was on his knees before her, head hanging in shame. She smelled of lavender and freshly fallen rain, but beyond that, she smelled of something so distinctly Vanessa that he couldn't help but melt into it; into her, his head falling against her knee in defeat, aching for something — anything — to ground him here, in the present, to pull him from the endless dark that loomed ever closer.
For a while, they were quiet, with only the chorus of their gentle breaths to fill the silence. He knew how it looked, this great bulk of a man curled into soft pale skin, long hair shielding his face from those knowing eyes, but he needed her. Try as he might, he could not ignore the warmth that spread across his chest, like a bubbling pool around his heart, and it was Vanessa — always Vanessa — that tethered him to the here and now; who somehow awoke something carnal and dangerous within him, whilst also soothing his very soul with little more than her scent. Need was a terrifying thing, but he could not fight it, not now.
And it was enough. God, she was enough, and when her slender hand combed through his matted hair, he released a breath he didn't even know he was holding. Her touch was soft — almost too soft — as she gently parted the tangles in his hair, nails scratching against his scalp so deliciously, he couldn't even bring himself to feel shame at the audible moan she pulled from his throat. His face turned, the dark fabric of her nightdress scraping against his coarse beard, his lips hovering over the softness of her thigh, cotton pressed against his lips like a barrier; a veil; a warning.
"Ethan…" she spoke, just as the silence became deafening, her voice filling him with too many feelings to name. It was paradoxical, the effect Vanessa Ives had on him, and he had fought relentlessly to tame the thing she awoke in him. He had built his walls high, forged them from the steel, and she melted them like dew, rushing through his body with each breath he released, and he looked up to meet those vibrant blue eyes — he always gave in — his chest ached with the understanding he found there.
What was the moon, compared to the pull of the sea?
"Why are you here?" He asked, finding his voice, as shaky as it was. She was here, waiting for him in his chambers, book resting on her lap, and Ethan hated the way his heart panged at the image before him; at the visions it evoked in the confines of his mind, visions of domestic bliss and the meeting of lips. Each day, he came home to her, but this… this felt different, somehow.
The hand in his hair descended to caress the roughness of his cheek. She looked down at him, bathed in moonlight as it seeped through the gap in the curtains, and the weight of her affection lapped at him like the waves of the ocean. She traced the line of his cheekbone with her thumb, before lowering to trace the softness of his lips, pouty and pink, which helplessly fall open, as if daring her to come closer. She looked over him like the deity he knew her to be, her face chiseled from smooth marble, from the severity of her cheekbones to the delicacy of her skin. Vanessa was his safe harbour; a beacon of radiant light amidst the sea of darkness, and the very same eyes he hid from called him home.
Her touch was sweet enough to sting, and when her gaze fell upon his parted lips, his tongue flicked out instinctively. She breathed deeply, eyes glazed with something Ethan had longed to see since the clap of thunder and the deafening desire in that isolated cottage. Dark and dilated, she edged closer to him, eyes fixed upon his mouth, to press her forehead against his, and he could feel her breath against his lips, and perhaps it was Vanessa's turn to dare.
"Because you need me," she whispered, her voice a song of sin, and the drag of her lips against his own was enough to drive him crazy; to rob him of the barest hint of restraint he was clinging to. She was right. He needed her. He needed her fire, her ferocity, her affection. He needed to feel the sweat of her skin against his own. He needed anything she had to give, and he was not above begging.
He needed her more than he'd ever needed anything in his life, and he had only a brief moment to think fuck it, I'm going to hell anyway! before he crashed his mouth against hers.
Ethan drowned in her light, like the gates of heaven itself had flung open at the union of their flesh, with each drag of those lips leaving him gasping for more. Vanessa chuckled against his mouth, before she nipped at his bottom lip playfully, tugging it between her teeth sharply, before soothing it with the gentle flick of her velvet tongue. Her touch filled him with a warmth he did not, and would not, deserve, but beyond that heavenly warmth there was also heat, a scalding, simmering heat that threatened to consume him entirely, body and soul, and God, he could not refuse, even if he wanted to.
The delicate caress of her hands through his hair soon took a fierce turn, the scrape of her nails against his scalp ripping a broken whine from his lips, a sound Vanessa Ives devoured whole, tongue dancing against his own with finesse. She was a goddess starved — a vision of moonlight and the prickling of translucent skin — and he, her mortal disciple, could only moan into her kiss, knees chafing against the rough carpet, relishing in the sweet ache of worship. Any slither of doubt in his mind was vanquished with each pull of his hair; with each glide of their silken tongues; with each hot, desperate breath he swallowed.
I am hers, he realised, and the dam broke within his chest. God's plan.
He chased the taste of her eagerly, hands gripping the velvet seat before him, not daring to touch the porcelain skin that tempted him so, or perhaps he was waiting for permission. Ethan could thing of nothing more delicious that commands falling from the very lips he claimed with his own; the ethereal deity using him as she pleased. It was that very image — of himself open and pliant beneath her confident gaze — that found him pulling away from that blessed mouth, to instead meet those vibrant eyes that had seen so much.
He watched as her eyes fluttered open slowly, as if waking from a dream, and when he caught sight of the deep black there, eclipsing the blue entirely, he swore he trembled. Her small hands cradled his face delicately — too delicately — and Ethan wished he had worshiped her sooner; given himself entirely, as he wanted to on that stormy night. He would offer himself on a platter; worship at the altar of her hips each night and beg for forgiveness he had no intention of seeking, if it meant those eyes would never lose their light, or the darkness of her desire.
And dark it was, their union. He could feel the pull between them, string drawn tight enough to snap, and beyond that, he could feel the danger there. Vanessa could too, more so than him. He recalled the way her dress had clung to her curves in the pouring rain, and the way her pale thighs had felt as they wrapped around his waist. Monsters lurked within the deep, passion drawing them ever closer to the surface, and he would be lying if he said he couldn't feel the wolf clawing at him from within, itching to escape his human flesh and give in to the darkness that radiated from Vanessa Ives. The beast within her called to his own, a song of dark reckoning, and with the taste of her fresh on his tongue, he could think of little sweeter than submission.
Submission not to the wolf, but to the woman before him. Her dark hair was a veil of silken shadow, contrasting exquisitely against the canvas of her tender flesh, and those eyes… God, the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her nightdress; the pale expanse of her neck and the pulse that beat there; the way she pulled her lip between her teeth sinfully, eyes never leaving his own. Sin incarnate, yet heaven sent, and Ethan knew none more worthy of worship.
"What do you want, Ethan?" she whispered into the night, and Ethan felt his skin prickle at the sound of her voice as she fought to rein in her desire, deep voice hoarse and low.
"You," he blurted eagerly, a picture of sheer desperation, yet utterly without shame. Shame clung to him like the lingering smell of death, but never for this… never for Vanessa. A slither of hope amidst the bleak, endless suffering of his life, Vanessa was his haven, and he never felt safer than he did in those hands. "Anything you want from me… anything, Van, just please let me… let me forget, for tonight."
Her eyes lit with a fire to defy hell itself, and Ethan offered himself in sacrifice.