Broken Juliet(62)

My heart rate escalates, and I lie back on the bed. Within seconds, he’s there, warm and comforting. He kisses my face. Pulls my hand away from my eyes.

“It’s late,” he says. “You’re tired. Tell me if you want me to go.”

I don’t want him to go.

“It’s not that late,” I say.

“Is it too late?”

I open my eyes. He’s looking down at me, vulnerable and intense, and he’s not asking about numbers on a clock.

My mind races as I try to figure out what to say.

I don’t want to be this confused, but our relationship is like a Chinese rope puzzle, and every strand that pulls us closer together also pulls us apart. Will there ever be a time when we have the forward without the back?

He kisses me, and only his sharp inhale tells me he’s anything but completely calm.

“Tell me it’s not too late,” he whispers into my lips, as if he can will me to say the words. “I need it to not be too late for us.”

He kisses my neck, and I close my eyes as I try to think.

This is the moment. The one where I get to choose. From here, my future branches into two distinct timelines. In one, I pull him on top of me and let him show me the difference between f*cking and making love. In the other, I push him away and resign myself to forever wondering, “what if?”

I’m not the gambling type. I’ve never understood how some people can get addicted to games in which the probability of losing is so high. They’re not stupid people. They know the odds aren’t in their favor, yet they risk more than they can possibly afford to lose.

Right now, I think I finally get it.

Losing isn’t what drives them. It’s the glimmer of that one spectacular win. The jackpot that’s painted with bright lights and a giant check from The Bank of Happily Ever After. That’s the rush that keeps them putting their hands in their pockets. The thrilling, heart-pounding moment the second before the ball drops, or the card turns, or the tumbler falls into place.

“Cassie?”

A thousand to one. Two thousand. Seventy thousand.

The first number is almost irrelevant. It’s the one that makes people take the risk. That elusive, magical one.

“Please, look at me.”

I do. I look and I see. The well-meaning heart of him. The damaged and skittish ego.

I kiss him, hard. He grunts in surprise before kissing me back.

I kiss and tug at him. Pull him on top of me. Try to step back over the “just f*cking” line and see if I feel safer there. I grab at his hips and attempt to pull him to where I want him. He tries to resist, but I’m insistent, and I lift my hips and slide against him until he’s breathing so hard, he sounds stricken.

“Fuck, Cassie, wait…”

He drops his head as I stroke him and wind his body so tight, he has no choice but to ease into me to relieve the burn.

The second he enters me, I realize I’m not remotely prepared for how good he feels. How my body sings as it swells around him.

Somewhere between the last time we f*cked and our endless text conversations, I lost the ability to compartmentalize my feelings, and now ‘just f*cking’ isn’t even an option anymore. He lets out a long moan as his hips finally rest against mine. Then he stops and breathes shallowly for a few seconds.

Is it just as scary for him? Or does he feel that small thrill of possibility?

I try to move against him, but he holds me down.

“Stop. Wait.”

He takes a deep breath and pulls back, then presses in again. Slow and determined. He’s not f*cking me. He wants me to feel it. The way his whole body is trying to tell me his intentions.

“Cassie, open your eyes.”

I do. His face is more naked than his body’s ever been. Every tender thrust shows in the way his mouth moves without making noise. He’s not even trying to hide how he’s feeling.

“I want to be with you. Please. Don’t make me beg, because I’m desperate enough to do it, and I swear to God, it won’t be pretty.”

He moves faster. Lifts my leg to his hip. Slides deeper and watches my reaction. Holds my gaze. Silently begs me not to look away.

“Please say something.”

His voice is tight. Low and rumbling. Punctuated by his movements. What he’s doing. Physically. Emotionally. It’s too much.

“Just say yes,” he says, breathy and panting. “I’m so f*cking tired of trying to live without you. Aren’t you tired? Of pretending you don’t want it all? I really think I can do it this time. Us. Please, I want to try.”

His movements are becoming erratic, but he still doesn’t look away. I dig my fingernails into his back, tug on his hair, grab his hip as I arch and crest.

“Cassie, please.” He’s barely hanging on. I’m the same. I can’t say no to him. He might be the worst gamble I’ve ever made, but he also might be my one. The one. How can I not take a chance on that?

“Yes.”

I hold on long enough to see the exquisite relief in his smile, then I can’t keep my eyes open anymore, and I’m flying so high and fast, I babble against his shoulder. Repeat the word “yes,” over and over again. Hold my breath as my whole world spasms in perfect unison with my orgasm.

I’ve never felt anything like it.