Broken Juliet(45)

With a grunt of frustration, he pulls back, stands, and walks unsteadily to the table. Then he puts his glass next to the bottle of tequila. When I stand and follow suit, I have to lean on the back of a chair to keep my balance. Gripping it also helps stop me from launching myself at the gorgeous man beside me.

Ethan stares for a moment before sighing and running his hand through his hair. “I can’t drive. Is it cool for me to sleep on the couch?”

No. Get out before I mount you.

“Sure.”

I go to the linen closet and grab extra blankets and pillows before I dump them on the couch. He thanks me.

“No problem.”

We stand there for a moment, at a loss as to what to do. We both know this is a bad idea. What we’re feeling? The nearly irresistible pull toward each other? That’s the reason we’ve been avoiding each other since the breakup. Sure, we’re now experts in ignoring our desire, but constantly living like that is exhausting.

Soul destroying.

Although tonight has danced on a tightrope between spine-tingling excitement and disaster, the potential for it to go to hell is still very much there. It’s in every lingering glance, every touch, every ache and tug of body and heart.

My fear is telling me to run before it’s too late, but part of me is getting off on it. The adrenaline he brings out in me makes me feel more alive than I’ve felt in months. The danger of him is part of it. This is why people jump out of planes and swim with sharks. To feel this muscle-trembling rush.

Judging by how he’s staring at me, he feels the same way.

“I should go to bed,” I say in barely a whisper.

He nods but doesn’t look away. “Yeah. It’s late.”

“Yeah. So … sleep well.”

“You too.”

I only take three steps before warm fingers close around my hand.

“Cassie…”

He tugs on it. There’s hardly any pressure, but I move like he’s pulling me with a steel cable. I step into him, and when he wraps his arms around me, I press my cheek against his chest.

His breath comes out ragged and shuddery as he buries his head in my neck and sinks into me like honey on warm toast.

So warm, he melts me.

Our hearts thunder against each other, and right now, there’s only one thought inhabiting my head.

Ethan.

Bastard Ethan. Beautiful Ethan.

My Ethan.

Forever mine, regardless of whether we’re together.

“Do you think we’re ready to be friends yet?” he whispers.

“No.” What I’m feeling for him is in a different universe from friendship.

“Me neither.”

“One day?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Really?”

He laughs. “No. It’s highly f*cking unlikely.”

“We could pretend,” I say, not wanting to let go.

He brushes his nose against my ear. “What do you think we’ve been doing all this time?”

I nod.

He strokes my back. Breathes against my neck. “I’ve thought about holding you a lot recently. I thought it would somehow feel different than it used to, but it doesn’t. You feel exactly the same.”

“I’m not.”

I can feel the weight of his guilt when he says, “I know.”

I bring my hands down onto his chest. “You feel different. Hard.”

“Yeah, ignore it. I’ve been like that since you and Miranda made out in acting class on Monday.”

I laugh. “I was referring to your new boxing muscles.”

He pauses. “Oh. Of course you were. Forget I mentioned the arousing lesbianism.”

“You liked that?”

“No, I like pie. That was like a religious experience. It was one instance in which I was in complete agreement with Avery. You two should totally make out more often.”

He lets me go, and when I step back, I immediately want to hug him again.

“Don’t go to bed,” he says and takes my hand. “Stay for one more drink. Please. I’m too buzzed to sleep. I promise to keep my hands to myself and sit on the other end of the couch.”

I grab the bottle and our glasses from the table. “I guess one more would be okay. We’re already drunk. What’s the worst that could happen?”




Even before I open my eyes, I can feel them aching. They throb slowly behind my lids. My stomach rolls and I press it against the warmth I’m holding, searching for relief.

The warmth moans.

I stop breathing.

Warm.

Large.

Acres of man-skin.

Most definitely naked.

I open my eyes to see Ethan, unconscious and unguarded, both arms wrapped around me, legs tangled between mine, parts of his body already awake and attentive even as he slumbers.

No.

God, no.

We didn’t.

We’re not that stupid.

It was tequila, not a full-frontal lobotomy.

I would never …

And he definitely would never …

Ethan moans again and rubs his erection against me.

“Hmmmm. Cassie.”

No, no, no, no.

I try not to launch into a full-blown panic attack.

I must still be dreaming.