Page 49 of Ethan: The Untouchable CEO

“Not now,” she replies. Then she steps closer again, rests a hand on my shoulder and rises onto her tiptoes. Her lips brush the corner of my mouth, soft, brief, warm. “Thank you, Ethan.”

And then she’s gone, slipping back into the crowd and leaving me standing there, watching her disappear into the movement of the party. The view from behind is no less dangerous than the one from the front—her dress clings to her figure, her hair swaying with each step.

I drag a hand over my face, trying to subdue the heat rising up my neck.

One night. One.

So why the hell does it feel like I’m already being pulled toward another?

After dinner, once we’ve laughed ourselves breathless and played every childish game imaginable, the entire group drifts into the living room.

The atmosphere softens around us. Music lowers, lights dim slightly, voices settle from loud bursts into easier conversations. The chaos eases into something warmer, more contained.

I’m leaning back on the couch, phone in hand, while Colt sits beside me. We’re talking business, because of course we are. Even here, surrounded by balloons and party lights, we end up in the same place.

“It works for me,” Colt says, scrolling through his calendar. “Think we’ll need more than two nights?”

“Doubt it,” I mutter, sliding my phone back into my pocket after checking my schedule. “Two should be enough. I’m not wasting that much time on a single project.”

By instinct, my eyes find Thalia.

She’s moving with a slow, sensual rhythm in Noah’s arms, and all night I’ve caught myself watching her more than I should, realizing she’s had far too much to drink, her usual restraint stripped away.

That boldness from earlier, the teasing edge in her voice—it makes sense now. The alcohol is doing what she normally keeps suppressed.

With a firm handshake for Colt and a brief nod to the others, I let them know I’m heading out.

I don’t allow myself another glance at Thalia. I already know what I’d see, and my mind is crowded enough with the images of her that refuse to leave—impossible, intrusive, and entirely unwelcome.

TWENTY

Thalia

Nope. He’s nowhere to be found.

I search the room again, scanning every corner, but he’s gone. He left without saying a word, at least not to me. Maybe he told the others, but I sure as hell didn’t get a goodbye. And wasn’t he supposed to be here for my birthday? Shouldn’t he have said goodbye to me, of all people?

I’ve spent the entire night trying to ignore his presence, trying to pretend he doesn’t affect me. But the truth is, my eyes kept betraying me, drifting toward him whenever no one—especially him—was looking.

The moment I saw him leaning against the kitchen counter, so casual, so effortlessly sexy, my brain stopped working. Every thought, every ounce of reason dissolved into the memory of that night—a month and four days ago.

No, I don’t actually count the days. I’m not that obsessed. It just crossed my mind when I did the math quickly.

But still… it’s the night I lost my virginity. That’s a date a woman is allowed to remember, isn’t it? Perfectly normal. Except it’s also the only night of sex I’ve ever had in my entire life.

The idea almost makes me laugh. For him, it was just one of many. Ten, fifteen women since then? At least. That’s the kind of man he is.

And yet, this realization makes my chest ache. It shouldn’t. He told me from the start what this was, what he wanted from me, and I agreed. I walked into it with my eyes wide open.

Fueled by the alcohol I’d already downed, I was ready to turn the tables tonight, to ask him for a night together, another one, and then we’d both go to our separate lives.

Again.

But when I realized he’d actually bought me a gift, when my plan of wrapping my proposition as a “present” back to him collapsed, I dropped it. From then on, I just kept drinking, the way I’d started earlier this morning.

And maybe you’re wondering—who the hell starts drinking the moment they wake up on their birthday? Well, when the first call you get is from your mother, who—surprise—rings you up not to wish you a happy birthday, but to ask for money for booze and other substances, after spending the first five minutes tearing into you for forgetting where you came from, for being ungrateful, for owing her and your father for every sacrifice they made…

Yeah, I think that earns me the right to drink as much as I damn well please. If anyone disagrees, too bad. I’m not changing my mind.