The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 291

Chapter 291

Ethan's POV

Prisca's lips were soft against mine.

Warm. Insistent. Moving with a hunger I couldn't reciprocate but couldn't seem to escape either.

My hands were on her bare shoulders—when had I let them get there?—and she was pressed against me, her naked body seeking heat and connection and something I couldn't give her.

This is wrong, the rational part of my brain screamed. Stop. Push her away. This isn't—

And then I felt a bright and sudden and overwhelming.

Like lightning cracking across a dark sky.

…

I was in a car.

Night outside. The ocean somewhere close—I could hear waves.

And there was a woman beside me.

Short blonde hair. Beautiful face. Eyes that held years of pain and longing and something fierce that made my chest ache.

Cynthia.

My wife.

I could see her. Actually see her for the first time in six months.

I had just finished kissing her then I led her to a beach house close by and she turned and looked at me.

"Kiss me again," she said, her voice raw, desperate.

And I did.

God, I did.

My mouth crashed into hers with a hunger that felt like it had been building for years. Teeth clashing. Tongue invading. Claiming her like I had every right to, like she was mine and always had been.

She tasted like everything I'd been missing.

Like home.

Her hands were on my shirt, yanking, ripping, buttons scattering as she tore it open with a desperation that matched my own.

I fisted her hair, pulling her head back, exposing the long line of her throat.

And I bit down.

Hard.

Felt her cry out beneath me, felt the way her body arched, responding to the pain-pleasure mix like she'd been made for this. For me*.*

We crashed onto a couch—leather, cold at first, then warm from the heat of our bodies and the fire crackling nearby.

Her dress—some beautiful thing that probably cost a fortune—tore under my hands. The strap giving way, fabric sliding down to expose her breast.

Perfect.

She was fucking perfect.

I took her nipple into my mouth, sucking hard, teeth scraping, tongue swirling, listening to the sounds she made—desperate little gasps and moans that drove me absolutely wild.

She ground against me, against the rigid length straining in my trousers, and I groaned against her skin.

"But I won't have sex with a man who's thinking of another woman," she said, her voice breaking. "I won't be her substitute. I deserve better than that."

"You do," I said quietly. "You deserve so much better than me."

Prisca stared at me for a long moment, tears streaming down her face.

Then she turned and walked out, slamming the door behind her so hard the walls shook.

I stood there in the empty room, my heart pounding, my hands shaking, my mind reeling.

Was that the memory of my moments with my wife?

Her face. Her eyes. The way she'd looked at me with such desperate hunger. The way she'd tasted. The way her body had felt beneath mine.

It wasn't just a name anymore.

It was a memory.

Real. Vivid. Undeniable.

I sank down onto the edge of Prisca's bed, my hands going to my hair, gripping hard enough to hurt.

My eyes were shaking, my entire body trembling.

Because for six months, I'd been lost.

Wandering through fog with nothing but a name to guide me.

But now… I knew what Cynthia looked like.

And suddenly, the desperate need to find her—to get back to her—became absolutely overwhelming.