the hook-up. {ethma}

chapter 16

emma chamberlain

IT'S GETTING WORSE, this addiction. I need Ethan with greater frequency and with more urgency. At least there are rules. Rules to keep myself under control, safe. Rules that are somehow agreed upon and understood without having to say a word. We always meet at my place, never so late as to warrant a sleepover, never stay together more than an hour—or three if we are particularly... needy. And still no kissing on the mouth, though I'm starting to see more and more shadows of discontent from Ethan regarding this rule. But he's yet to vocalize it. And I do an admirable job of telling myself that it's for the best. I need to protect myself. Because I'm never getting left behind again.

Now we're naked and on my bed, my favorite fleece throw covering our bodies. I draw the line at getting under the covers with him. That's too personal, too much like making love verses hooking up. Not that getting under the sheets is an issue when, from the instant we close the door to my room, we think of nothing else but being skin to skin.

Even more concerning is that now that we've finished, he isn't leaving. Nor am I hurrying him out. Sweat gives his golden skin a fine sheen, and he's panting lightly as if he's run miles.

The light is fading outside, the rays of the setting sun stealing through my blinds and spilling into my room until we are painted in glowing stripes of deep orange.

One of his hands rests lightly on the rippled wall of his abdomen. I focus on that as I lay half on my side, one hand caught beneath his shoulder, the other hand still gripping the bedpost. I'd held on so tight to that post when he pounded into me that I wonder if he'll have to help pry my fingers free from the wood.

A luscious, little shiver runs over me. The things he does to me. The thoroughness in which he takes his pleasure and gives me mine. My nipples tighten. Thankfully, Ethan hasn't noticed. He's turning away to take long gulps of water from the bottle sitting on the bedside table. And that's when I see it. The room is shadowed but not enough to hide some things.

"You have a tattoo." There's a sing-song quality about my observation that I can't hide and don't want to. Because I'm grinning. An evil grin.

And he turns back to glare at me properly. "Yeah."

"It's a pineapple," I add with glee. A cute little cartoon style pineapple about the size of my thumb on the crest of his left butt cheek. Like something a child might draw. How can I not have seen this before? Right, because normally he'd have hauled his pants up and would be headed out the door about now.

Ethan's high-cut cheeks go pink. "Fucking Cancun. Spring break, my sophomore year, I got so wasted one night. I vaguely remember a burning sensation on my butt cheek while my teammates chanted 'Ethan,Ethan.' That's about it. I woke up naked in a bed full of...." The blush returns with force, and he runs a hand through his hair, which makes it stand up on end on the right side. It's kind of adorable. So is his embarrassment. "Full of girls and guys."

I laugh, a crackling mad witch laugh that earns a pillow tossed at my face.

"It's not funny," he insists, though there's a hint of humor in his voice. "I was in an orgy and don't remember a thing. Imagine the horrors." He mocks a shudder.

This only makes me laugh harder.

"With the mother of all hangovers," Ethan adds bitterly, though now he's definitely smiling. "And this fucking tattoo." He cranes his neck to glare down at his ass. "Fucking, stupid pineapple."

"pineapple-ass Dolan." I'm dying now. And give a small screech when he dives for me. There's a bit of a tussle, mainly involving Ethan cramming another pillow in my face while I howl with laughter. But then he ends up half over me, his thick thigh pushed in between mine and his chest pressed against my torso. We're still laughing a little, though, and he smiles down at me.