Broken Juliet(52)

Then I push through the crowd and head toward the bathroom. I brush past Ethan on the way and run my hand across the front of his pants. Squeeze. Keep going. Don’t look back.

I get inside the bathroom seconds before he’s there, pushing me backward and slamming the door behind us. He grabs me, equal parts angry and horny.

Before he has a chance to speak I push him against the wall and kiss him. At last I get to show him the full extent of my need. It only takes a second for him to kiss me back, then all bets are off. We’re rough and demanding, and even as he mutters that we shouldn’t, he knows very well we’re going to. Within three seconds, I have his jeans unbuttoned, and he’s in my hand. So hard and perfect.

I squeeze, then pump him gently. His head hits the wall. I kneel in front of him and look up. A single pleading moan signals his utter surrender.

“Fuck. Please, Cassie.” My ego explodes. This is the man who said we couldn’t be friends. Who swore we shouldn’t be lovers. Who broke my heart by listening to his ridiculous paranoia. Now, he’s begging me to put my mouth on him. Pleading with his eyes and soft fingers on my face. His noble intentions are forgotten in the face of the things he knows I can make him feel.

I smile up at him. Sex is power. Sex lets me have this part of him and believe it’s enough.

He begs me again, and I give in. His legs almost give out. I smile even as I take him in farther. I’ll never not marvel over the texture of him. The delicious weight. The tight noise he makes in the back of his throat every time I sweep my tongue over him.

Within a minute, I have him on the edge. I leave him there. Stand. Step back. He takes a moment to realize before he opens his eyes and delves into his jeans pocket. Then he rips the condom packet open with his teeth and rolls it on in record time.

Within seconds, he has my panties down and off. No foreplay. None is needed. That’s what we’ve been doing for weeks now. He pushes me against the wall and pulls my leg up to his hip, then kisses me hard. He’s rough, and I welcome it. I know he hates how much control I have when we’re like this. He wants to punish me. All he achieves is getting me more aroused.

Then he’s there, and pushing, and inside, and oh … oh … God, I needed this. Him. We both freeze, mid-kiss. I open my eyes and pull back. He’s looking at me, frowning and trying to stay detached. But how can he when we’re joined so completely?

He moves, slowly, sinuously. Takes his time and revels in my response. Nothing seems quite so black and white anymore. I cling to him as he enfolds me. We kiss and moan while we pant in time with the rhythm of our bodies. It all feels good. So right. Like we were born to be part of each other this way.

I shake my head to clear it of thoughts beyond this moment. Try to ignore the yawning hole that’s spewing unwanted feelings into my chest.

I shut down and concentrate on the feeling of him thrusting. Where we’re joined, the physical pleasure screams almost loud enough to drown out everything else.

Almost.

Our pace becomes frantic. The rougher he is, the harder it is for me to stay quiet.

After being so strung out for so long, neither of us lasts very long. Certainly not long enough to fully purge all of our tension. My orgasm is blinding. His seems to go on forever. I kiss him as he groans through it and let some of his essence bleed through a tiny chink in my armor. I hide it away and pretend it’s not the most precious thing I own.

When we’ve both recovered, he tries to stay inside of me, but I have to get out. I’ve had my fix, and that’s all I need.

Just sex.

I don’t need him.

I clean myself up and leave without saying a word.

Just take my waning power and go.





EIGHTEEN


POWERPLAY


Present Day

New York City, New York

Graumann Theater


It’s our first day rehearsing on the main stage in the theater. As I step through the door, a thrill runs through me. Being in a theater is always a magical experience. There’s just something about the energy of it. The peeling walls and thick wool curtains. Memorabilia from decades of productions. Scrawled messages on the bricks backstage, cataloging the history and traditions of combining art and imagination.

Our production intern, Cody, meets me and hands me a cup of coffee before he shows me to my dressing room. Like most dressing rooms, it’s not glamorous, but it resonates with the vibrations of all the performers who’ve been there before. I take a minute to just sit in front of the mirrors and close my eyes to drink in the ambiance.

I haven’t spoken to Ethan since Sunday night, although I’ve thought of little else. I spent all of Monday and Tuesday reading his journals and alternating between wanting to smash him in the face and wanting to f*ck him thoroughly.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at his journals from our senior year. Right now, I think it would do more harm than good.

I hear someone behind me. When I turn, I find him there, leaning against the doorframe and staring with an intensity that makes me look away.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

The weight of a million questions hangs in the air, but he doesn’t say anything. He wants to know what I think about what I’ve read. I’d tell him, but I have no clue. He wants to know if it’s making things better between us, if understanding equals absolution. It doesn’t, but it’s not by choice. If I were able to banish every ounce of mistrust in the blink of an eye, this whole situation would be resolved by now. I’d be healed, he’d be grateful, and we’d spend countless nights gasping our happiness into each other’s skin.