Broken Juliet(61)

The rest of the world melts away as he holds me and strokes my hair, and when he whispers, “I’ve missed you,” and I whisper it back, the glass-jawed delusion that we’re just f*ck-buddies goes down for the count.




By the time we get back to my apartment, it’s late and I’m exhausted. Ethan opens the door and carries my suitcase to my bedroom. Then he turns around and hugs me. He’s so warm and feels so good, I sag against him, almost drifting off. Only the thick layer of travel grime that covers me from head to toe prevents me from fully relaxing.

“I need to shower.”

“Okay. You want me to make you something to eat?”

“We have no food.”

“I could go out and get something.”

He needs to stop with the sweetness. I’m in enough trouble here as it is.

“No, thanks.” I push him to sit on my bed. “Just … stay. I won’t be long.”

I grab my robe and head into the bathroom. When the warm water hits my skin, it feels so good I moan. I lather everything twice, then get out and brush my teeth.

When I get back to the bedroom, he’s exactly where I left him. He watches as I approach, and the way he stares tells me how much he wants me. The familiar rush of power is back, but it’s accompanied by something else. A deeper need. Something I haven’t let myself feel for a long time. It makes my skin prickle and my heart flutter, because I know this is one of those moments that is going to define something.

Me.

Us.

The thought makes me freeze in my tracks. We’ve been here before, and in the past, I was always the one who put myself out there. Pushed us to be more.

Not this time.

If he wants it, he’s going to have to ask for it. If he doesn’t, I have to walk away before my heart gets even more scarred.

I wait. He barely hesitates before standing and walking to me. He takes my hands and pulls me to him. Cups my face. Kisses me. Gently. So gently. Warm lips and soft tongue. Within seconds, an aching heat is twisting in my veins, but I don’t let it take over. He needs to steer us this time. If I hang back, I can decide if I’m willing to go where he leads.

His kisses become hungrier, but still deliberate. It’s like he knows any misstep will make me run, and he’s determined not to let that happen. He leaves one hand on my face as he tugs at the belt on my robe and slowly unthreads it. Fingertips brush across my chest as he pushes it open. I feel too naked, but I stand there and fight the fear as he claims every inch of terrified, goose-pimpled skin in a way that’s so much more than sexual.

He pushes the robe off my shoulders, and it slumps to floor. More of me exposed.

He takes his time. Mouth follows fingers. Lighting fires, then dousing them in kerosene. Branding himself all over me. I’m so dizzy with it, I have to grip his shoulders to stay upright. He takes the hint and picks me up before he lays me on the bed and continues what he’s doing without missing a beat. He kisses across my chest, then down my stomach as his hands keep my breasts warm.

Hot breath sparks across everything it touches, and he moves lower. Pushes at my knees. Opens me up to him and moans as he puts his mouth on me. Muffled whispers tell me how much he’s been fantasizing about this. I arch into him as he shows me what he’s been dreaming about. All the ways he knows he can speak to my body.

Before long, I’m panting, trying to keep myself together even as he’s determined to make me fall apart. I squeeze my eyes shut and gasp. I’ve been dreaming about this, too, but the reality is so much more powerful. I grip his hair. Clench and release. Faster and harder, in time with his rhythm.

This is different than how we usually are. I want to keep my eyes closed and pretend nothing has to change, but he doesn’t let me. I’m arching so hard I’m nearly levitating, when he stops.

I try to grab him. To make him finish.

The bed dips as he stands.

I open my eyes as panic tightens my chest.

But he’s just removing his shoes. He drops them heavily before tugging off his socks.

He clears his throat. I think it’s nerves, but no. He wants my attention on his face, not on his feet. When I’m looking at him, he undresses slowly, first by pulling off his shirt. When it hits the floor, he pauses. Now he’s nervous. He’s never done this before. Become voluntarily bare.

I watch in awe.

He keeps looking at me, as if he’s trying to prove himself.

He unbuttons his jeans and pushes them down, then shakes his head like he can’t believe he’s stripping for me. He’s down to just his boxer-briefs. They hug every long inch.

I realize just how little I’ve looked at him during our sexual encounters. Watching him like this seems almost wrong. Like I shouldn’t because he’s not mine. Every feature is so familiar, but it’s like a work of art I’ve admired from afar, knowing it will never hang on my wall.

And yet, this little display is telling me he wants me to own him.

He pushes down his underwear, and then, it’s just him. Gloriously naked him. He’s self-conscious, but he lets me stare. Does he see the way all my arteries dilate, sending crawling heat all over my body?

How totally ill-equipped I am to deal with how much I want him?

Every part of him.

The silence stretches around us. He’s standing there naked, silently asking permission to be more, and I don’t have the courage to answer him.