Broken Juliet(90)

He pants and alternates between watching my slow trek down his torso and pushing his head back into the bed and cursing.

When I reach his belly button, he stops breathing.

“You okay?”

“Yep,” he says, his voice tight. “More than okay. Just … trying not to embarrass myself.”

“Not possible.”

I pull down his underwear, and he lifts his hips to help me get them off.

And then, there he is.

He watches me stare. He’s so familiar, but it’s like I remember him from a dream. I trace the shape of him. Wrap my fingers around the perfect thickness.

He always was perfect. In the past, I thought my inexperience had informed my opinion, but now I’ve had other men, and none of them compare.

I was naive to think they would.

I lean down and brush my lips over the silky skin. He groans, and I know he won’t be able to endure much of this. Already, his abdominals are trembling.

I use my tongue, and he’s practically vibrating with restraint. When I take him in my mouth, I hardly have time to savor the sensation before he’s grunting and pulling me off.

“God … no. No, no, no, no.” He clenches his jaw and moans as he comes all over his stomach and chest. I watch in fascination. Was there always this much? Or is this what extreme sexual frustration looks like?

Good God.

When he finishes, he draws in sharp, shallow breaths and covers his face. “Fuck, Cassie. I’m so sorry.”

I pull his hands away and kiss him. “Don’t be. That was … impressive. Like a special effect. Can we do it again?”

He chuckles as I grab tissues from his nightstand. “You’re asking permission to make me come like that again? Hmmm, let me think.”

Even as I wipe him down, he reacts and swells proudly before my eyes. “Well, I was just being polite. Lord knows you get annoyed when I orgasm you against your will.”

“One time. And only then because I was embarrassed. The orgasm itself was still mind-blowing.”

“As mind-blowing as the one you just had?”

“No. I don’t think anything’s going to top that. Ever.”

I crawl up his body and kiss him. “I take that as a challenge.”

Now I see a little fear. “God, help me.”

We kiss and touch each other with more confidence, and even though we’ve already taken the edge off our lust, it flares again. It speeds our hands and roughens our touches. Our mouths are gentle, but everything else is heavy with need. Urging us to take the last step in cementing our reconnection.

This is the part that makes me nervous. I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anyone, but if I’m going to freak-out, it will be when he’s inside me.

The pain of him making love to me before he leaves is singed into the parts of my memory that still ache to recall it.

Of course, he’s going to leave this time as well, but he intends to come back. Promises me he will. Caresses me in such a way that I believe if he doesn’t, he’ll suffocate. That I’m his oxygen.

I will away my anxiety and concentrate on him. It’s easy enough. He’s extremely talented at distracting me.

When he rolls on top of me and works magic with his fingers, my patience is at an all-time low. There’s a sharp ache that won’t be satisfied with fingers or empty climaxes. It demands him. All of him. I tell him as much, and he fumbles in his nightstand drawer for a condom. When he presses back onto his knees so he can roll it on, I kiss his chest. Stroke his shoulders. I can’t seem to stop touching him.

He groans his approval and pushes me onto my back, and when he lays his full weight down and kisses me, I reach between us and urge him inside.

He freezes when he realizes he’s there, and pleasure, wonder, and what looks a lot like gratitude light up his face.

He frames my face with his hands. “Are you sure about this? It’s not too late to stop.”

“Yes, it is,” I say as I stroke his back. “I need you.”

“Are you just saying that because I’m leaving?”

“No. I’m saying it because I’m tired of denying it.”

He kisses me gently and pushes in a little more. We both inhale.

“Cassie…”

“Oh, God…”

He drops his head to my shoulder, and we just breathe.

“I’d forgotten,” he whispers. “How could I forget this? Jesus.”

He rocks back and forth; tiny movements that bring him farther and farther inside. I close my eyes and grip his shoulders. He’s not the only one who’s forgotten. How did I used to fit all these emotions inside me? I feel like I’m about to explode.

His hips continue to withdraw and retreat, and each movement fills me a little more. I watch, fascinated, as his face morphs from disbelief, to awe, to determination, and finally to love. More than there’s ever been. How did I live for so long without him looking at me like that?

When his hips finally rest against mine, I wrap my legs around him and just hold him still. I can feel my panic simmering and growing, but I don’t want this to end, because then he’ll leave. He’ll leave, and I’ll be empty, and I can’t live like that anymore.

“Hey,” he says as he strokes my face. “It’s okay.”