Broken Juliet(48)

Sexual catharsis? Is there such a thing?

If so, that’s what Ethan and I shared.

I just wonder how long it will be until we both need to be purged again.




Monday morning. I walk to class feeling a thousand feet tall. I still hurt, but it only serves to remind me of my power. I’m Aphrodite. A force of nature, ready to be worshipped.

I should be nervous about seeing Ethan, but I’m not. Whatever happens, I can deal with it. I’ll smile if he shuts me down, because I’ll know he won’t be able to resist me for long. I own him. And he knows it.

I walk into class and immediately feel him staring at me. He looks angry.

Wait, not angry.

Hungry.

He glances away, but it’s only a few seconds before he’s back. Surprised. Awed.

The tick-tock inside me speeds up. Gives me a powerful thrill. I’d kind of expected him to retreat back into his emotionally distant shell, but for once, he’s not being totally predictable.

I like it.

With only a trace of his trademark fear, he gives me a lusty half smile. I give one back. I feel like we’re collaborators in a private joke. No one else has any idea what happened between us, but if he keeps looking at me like that, they’re going to realize pretty damn quickly.

I walk past him and whisper, “Stop undressing me with your eyes.”

He whispers back, “Would you rather I do it with my hands? Or teeth?”

Oh, this is interesting. He wants to play? Fine. For once, I’m confident I’ll win.

“How’s your penis?”

“You don’t know by now? It’s magnificent.”

“So conceited. I meant, are you sore?”

“Oh. Yeah. There’s definite … chafing. He’s exhausted, to be honest. I doubt I’ll ever be hard again.”

I give him a slow smile. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“It’s really not.”

I accidentally/on purpose drop my book and bend over in front of him to pick it up.

Then I glance behind me to see him wincing and adjusting himself.

My work here is done.

The rest of the class chatters and moves around us, oblivious. We barely register on their radar anymore. We’re old news.

If only they knew.

I sit down, and when I turn back to Ethan, he’s crossed his legs and is staring at his shoes, his face still painted with discomfort. And arousal.

It looks good on him.

“I thought we agreed it was a mistake,” he says, not looking at me.

“We did.”

“Then why do I get the impression you’d like to do it again? Right now.”

I whisper, “Even if I do, it doesn’t mean I’m going to. I’m not that stupid.”

“Oh.”

“You look disappointed.”

“Nope. Just … you know … relieved.”

I lean closer so my mouth is right next to his ear. I know what I’m doing. If this were chess, I’d be demolishing his queen right about now. “Relieved I won’t be taking you in my mouth again? Riding you? Scraping my nails down your back as I come?”

In the past, I never really understood why girls play games and use their gender and sex appeal to get what they want.

I understand it now.

Sometimes sex is the only thing that will bring a man to his knees. And sometimes, it does a girl good to know that after losing so much, she can occasionally win.

After seeing how affected Holt is by my words, I sit back, triumphant.

He closes his eyes. Then he adjusts himself again. “Yep. Definitely relieved none of that is going to happen again. So very … happy … about that.”

“Good.”

Checkmate.

It doesn’t escape my attention that he’s hard for nearly the entire lecture.





SIXTEEN


LITTLE ACHE


Present Day

New York City, New York

The Apartment of Cassandra Taylor


I sit up and clutch my chest as sweat and the too-real remnants of his dream-hands prickle my skin. My heart is pounding. It makes all the wrong places ache for him.

It’s the memory of him that really sets my nerve endings into overdrive. The phantom brush of his fingers. The ghostly weight of his hips pressing against my thighs. The soft noises as he rocked and filled and exploded me.

Is it any wonder I have trouble taking things slow with him when he affects me like this?

After a quick shower to cool myself down, I pull out another of his journals. I’m tired and my eyes are gritty, but I can’t seem to stop reading. Getting inside his head is like a drug.

I spoke to him on the phone last night. It’s easier to deal with him when we’re not face to face. When we’re together, he has this way of staring at me that almost has me convinced he can melt my clothing with the power of his mind. It drives me crazy. At least on the phone, I have some insulation. Plus, if his voice gets too much, I can always hump my pillow, and he’s none the wiser.

Not that I’d do that.

Much.

We didn’t talk for long. He wanted to check how I was and apologized for molesting me at dinner on Saturday night. I told him it wasn’t entirely his fault. He promised to try to keep his hands to himself. Certain parts of me booed.