Broken Juliet(46)

I close my eyes and breathe. It doesn’t help.

The room smells like him. And me. And sex.

Lots and lots of sex.

Images of last night come back to me.

Darkness and light. Long blinks and gentle touches. Fingers. Palms. Barely there. Tentative and surreal.

Hair between my fingers. Hot breath on my neck. Then his mouth.

Oh, Mary. His sweet, talented mouth. Silk lips So soft at first, then ravenous. Cleansing all the bitter words from my tongue. Exorcising every sliver of restraint until all that’s left of either of us is primal, and desperate, and writhing.

His thigh presses between my legs and I grind … and grind … and grind. All of him, hard and swollen.

Floating. High on alcohol and sensation. More skin revealed. Clothes pulled. Half-naked stumbling.

Panting breaths against my ear, begging me to tell him to stop. Pleading for strength. Praying to be inside me.

The weight of him, heavy and electric. Stirring all my synapses. Transforming everything he touches into insatiable flesh. Mouth and fingers, all over me. Making me dizzy. Crazy. A frenzy of wrongness and “God, yes” and please, please, please.

And then he’s inside me.

I can barely comprehend the pleasure.

I speak to God. Say his name over and over again. Sigh and pant and very nearly cry.

He’s gentle. Holding still and swearing. Also speaking to God. Telling Him how good I feel.

He prays through my skin. Bites my shoulder. Kisses it better. Groans like he’s riding an angel all the way into the pits of hell.

I can’t get enough.

God, please, Ethan, move.

Thrust.

Let me feel the perfect deepness of you. Sliding home and rolling through me.

There are strong arms and low moans, and how can he feel this amazing after all of this time? He fits perfectly to my body. Plays its rhythms. Hits every beat until everything is wire-tight and singing.

The couch, the floor, the hallway, the wall, the bed. Time and again he fills and refills me. Guides me through every type of ecstasy there is. Shows me all of its gasping forms. Just when I think we’re done, he touches me again and the fire roars back to life.

In the end, we collapse, exhausted. I fall asleep, smiling. Refusing to think about what morning will bring.

I open my eyes and stare down at Ethan.

Already, my chest is tightening.

What we did … what we shared last night doesn’t fix anything. Not one of his issues.

If anything, it complicates things even more.

We tried to suppress our passion, but in the end, she ended up making us her bitch. She waited until we were vulnerable. Stalked us on ninja feet. Pried us open with longing and loneliness. Stripped away our anger and common sense and doused us in lust.

Then she lit a match and danced as we burned.

Even now, everywhere he touches me blazes to life. I should climb out of bed and wash every trace of him away. Try to forget how incredible he felt.

But I can’t move. Can’t bear to drag myself away.

Then he opens his eyes and looks at me. Panic fires in his expression. He looks down at himself, naked and hard, then takes in the catastrophe of clothing littering the floor and bed, and frowns when he sees the slew of condom wrappers strewn across the nightstand. He stares for a long time before comprehension and disbelief dawn behind his bloodshot eyes.

“Fuck, Cassie.”

“Yeah, well, seems like you’ve been there, done that. Now what?”





FIFTEEN


JUST SEX



Sex.

It’s a primal, ancient instinct stamped into every corner of our DNA. We must screw to survive.

But sex is greedy. Addictive.

It’s an infinite, aching appetite that reduces us to base impulses capable of clouding all reason and logic.

It’s instinctual.

Simple.

Except when it’s not.

After the initial shock of waking up in bed together wears off, Ethan and I talk. Agree that it was a mistake. That we couldn’t and shouldn’t do it again.

Ever.

Then we screw two more times and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Yep.

Simple, this is not.




“So…”

“Yeah. So…”

We’ve made it as far as the front door. After several failed attempts, he’s wearing clothes, and I’m wearing a robe. His hair is ridiculous. Mine is even more so. I look like Hagrid if he’d been electrocuted in a wind tunnel. Ethan’s looking at me as if he’d like to do very bad things to Hagrid.

The urge to touch him again is swelling like the tide under a full moon. It’s vaguely ridiculous.

“I’d better go.”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t move. Neither do I. We know we have to. We can’t do it again. I hurt everywhere. He’s given me scruff rash on every inch of exposed skin, as well as some that isn’t so exposed.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Fifteen minutes ago we were fitting together in the very definition of rightness, gripping each other through countless layers of pleasure. But now? Here comes the awkward. The separation.

Walls and masks and tectonic plates of emotion slide back into safe formations. Stand us on our feet. Tilt us away from each other once more.