Ethan paused there for a moment, looking at her back.
The shape of her ass cheeks was clearly visible beneath the fabric, and that slick silk made them look even juicier. But after a short moment, Ethan turned his gaze away. He turned his head and left the kitchen without any further action.
Mrs. Willow stood there still.
A few drops of sweat had gathered on her temple. A clenched fist was pressed between her legs as she bit her finger. Her cheeks had turned red—so red that if something poked them slightly, they'd spill out, and her ears were steaming from the heat.
"Arghhh~ Can't believe he did it with her. Damn that woman..." she thought to herself, her fist buried against her cunt through the tight fabric—unintentional, but the pressure made her pussy throb like a needy whore.
Ethan walked through the hallway, rubbing the spot where Mrs. Willow had shoved her finger.
"Damn. That hurts," Ethan murmured.
The hallway of their house was wide and open—it was so big a guy like Ethan could sleep there horizontally without any discomfort, and there would still be space left over. The floor was polished marble with soft runner rugs laid out. The walls were mostly white, some decorated with textured panels, artwork, and backlit family photos. The floating staircase at the end of the hallway gave off a grand, welcoming feel.
Ethan's eyes were half-lidded as he walked silently. He entered his room, tossed his bag onto the table, and turned on the light.
The room was quite large for a single guy like him. The king-sized bed dominated the center, draped in crisp, high-thread-count white linens. A plush throw blanket in deep charcoal rested at the foot of the bed, while a handful of accent pillows—some in velvet, others in rich leather—added texture. Above the bed, a modern statement piece of abstract art in muted tones framed the wall—its sharp lines and organic shapes the perfect contrast to the warm, polished marble floors that gleamed beneath.
The ambient lighting bathed the room in a soft glow, thanks to recessed ceiling lights with LED strips hidden along the edges. Along one wall stood an expansive floating desk—dark wood with a glass top—home to a few carefully chosen items: a premium laptop, a wireless speaker, and an impressive collection of books stacked neatly. The desk was paired with a sleek ergonomic chair—minimalistic, yet incredibly comfortable.
Above the desk, a large mirror stretched to the ceiling, giving the room an open, airy feel. An immaculate walk-in wardrobe stood nearby, organized with rows of dark wood shelves and racks that housed his collection of well-tailored clothes. From premium jackets to a growing selection of leather boots, every item was displayed with care.
But the most eye-catching thing? His collection of black half-sleeve T-shirts.
Ethan stripped off his clothes, eyes still half-lidded. He dragged his shirt over his head and let it drop to the floor without a care.
His body stood firm under the soft light. Hanging at his sides were thick, veiny forearms—every tendon and muscle clearly visible under his skin. His chest was broad and full, his pectorals firm and dense, sitting strong above a tightly packed set of abs. Each line on his stomach was sharply carved, veins snaking lightly across his lower abdomen, hinting at how lean he was. His shoulders were wide and rounded, leading into thick, heavy biceps and strong triceps that filled out his arms without looking bloated. His waist was narrow and tight, giving his body a strong V-shape, and just above his hips, faint cuts of muscle framed the sides of his lower abs. His skin stretched tight over muscle everywhere—nothing soft, no extra weight.
Turning slightly, the deep ridges along his back stood out. His lats were wide, his spine framed by thick cords of muscle that ran down to a strong, narrow waist. His traps sat high between his shoulders, blending into a solid, powerful neck.
Tucked behind the walk-in wardrobe, a sliding matte-glass door led to Ethan's private bathroom. The floors and walls were lined with smooth Italian marble—cool and seamless—while the rainfall shower stood behind a frameless glass partition, its dark matte fixtures contrasting elegantly. A wide double vanity stretched across one wall, underlit and topped with a polished stone counter. Above it, a long mirror with ambient backlighting made the space feel even more expansive. To the side, a deep freestanding tub sat beside a narrow window—perfect for soaking in silence while watching the city lights at night.
Soft, folded towels rested on an open shelf, and the air carried the faint scent of cedarwood from a discreet reed diffuser on the counter.
With a sigh, he walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Since childhood, he had always preferred cold water over warm—it was just a habit. While most kids were scared of cold water, for Ethan, it was different. Cold water felt natural to him, like it ran in his blood. Since childhood, only a few people had truly gotten close to him. Despite his cold attitude toward others, it wasn't that he was heartless. He had a kind, soft heart. Only those who truly understood him knew how silly and stupid he could be at times.
The sound of falling water filled his ears, resonating through the entire room. A steamy fog began to rise from his body, causing the glass around him to blur. Ethan straightened his hand and brushed it against the glass in front of him. The glass reflected a pair of dark-blue eyes—lifeless, almost empty. He leaned back against the glass wall and pressed a palm against his left eye, staring at his reflection. This was a pair of eyes he'd never seen anywhere else. He just stood there, leaning back, for a long time.
Eventually, he turned off the shower and stepped out, a towel draped over his shoulder.
Ethan wrapped the towel around his waist. After taking a long, refreshing shower, his mind felt more relaxed. His fingers lingered on the towel, twisting it, as his gaze drifted toward the opposite wall. Near the corner of the room, a sleek dressing table rested—its high-gloss surface reflecting the soft light from the chandelier above. The table was compact yet elegant, with a round, frameless mirror above it, providing a full view of Ethan's reflection. A few designer colognes sat on top, next to a small tray holding his watches and other accessories. Soft ambient lighting illuminated the table, highlighting the deep grain of the dark wood frame.
Ethan slowly walked toward the mirror and stood in front of it. He stared at his reflection for a moment, then looked up at the ceiling and slowly closed his eyes.
"Huh~" he exhaled sharply. Then he brushed his hand over his damp hair.
"What should I wear?" he asked himself, brushing his chin.
"Everyone looks rather fancy tonight," he muttered, stretching his hand behind his back.
"Heh… whatever."
Saying that, he approached the wardrobe and pulled out one of his half-sleeve black T-shirts and a pair of white baggy trousers. He stood in front of the dressing table. His muscles stretched the fabric of the T-shirt, the fit tight across his chest and arms. He adjusted the fabric with his fingers around the snug spots. The white trousers paired well with the black tee. He then picked up his favorite Black Leather Chronograph—Breguet Type XX. It fit perfectly against his veiny wrist. For the final touch, he chose Creed Green Irish Tweed. His mother had bought it for him not long ago, so he decided to wear it tonight.
With everything in place, he left his room.