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I let the words linger, giving them space, letting him picture it—letting it get under his skin one more time.

“I think enough happened for one night,” I continue, a faint wicked smile pulling at my lips. “Maybe I should go get some rest.”

He growls roughly, his gaze sharpening as it locks onto mine.

“Don’t even remind me,” he mutters, tension radiating out of him. “Strip.”

Not a question. A command.

I laugh at his reaction, because it’s obvious how much it still bothers him—that I raced, that I got arrested—and I let my fingers curl around the hem of my dress, slowly dragging it down.

“You practically picked me up from the police station like a jealous man in front of everybody,” I say, watching him closely as the fabric slides lower. “What will the guys think?”

“I don’t give a fuck, Thalia,” he answers without hesitation, his voice steady, unyielding.

The dress drops to my waist, and because of its cut, I’m not wearing a bra—yet his eyes never leave my face. Not even for a moment.

It sends an unexpected jolt through me. Not just heat—something deeper, heavier. A mix of restraint and desire that burns inside me.

“I don’t get involved in anyone’s personal life, and no one has ever gotten involved in mine,” he continues, his tone honest in that personal, unfiltered way that always makes me believe him.

And I do.

Ethan isn’t the type to pry, to ask questions, to push into someone’s private life. People keep their distance from him naturally—it’s in the way he carries himself, in the control he never lets slip.

Sure, the guys probably tell him things, but his own life has always remained closed off. Untouchable.

I know he hasn’t been in a relationship since I’ve known him. Sierra says he wasn’t in one before either. Every woman who ended up in his bed stayed for one night. No attachments. No complications. No showing up at family events.

Thank God.

“That doesn’t mean people won’t ask what’s going on between us,” I say, rolling my hips for the dress to loosen and slide lower, letting gravity do the rest.

A few seconds later, it gathers at my feet in a small circle, leaving me standing in front of him in nothing but red panties.

I expect the usual reaction—the instinct to cover myself, the familiar flicker of embarrassment.

But it never comes.

Instead, something else rises in its place. A sharp pulse of confidence, a quiet sense of control that sinks deep under my skin. The way he looks at me—like he’s taking me in piece by piece, like even breathing takes effort—makes something inside lift, expand, take over.

“You can tell them whatever you want,” he says, his gaze finally drifting over me, unhurried, unflinching, hunger in every second it lingers. “You know I don’t like those kinds of conversations, so I’m not giving anyone explanations.”

Great. So everyone will come to me.

And what exactly am I supposed to say? That we agreed to a relationship built entirely on sex?

I mean… to Sierra, maybe. But to the guys? They’ve always felt like brothers to me. How do you even begin that conversation with a brother?

Before my thoughts can spiral any further, Ethan pushes off the kitchen island and starts toward me, each step steady, measured.

When he reaches me, he pauses, taking me in again as if committing the sight to memory, then lifts my chin with one finger, angling my face toward his.

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to.

He kisses me instead—warm, intentional—his hands sliding up my back, drawing me into him until every lingering thought dissolves under the weight of it.

Then he takes my hand and turns toward the stairs.