Broken Juliet(99)

“What the f*ck is ‘plove’?” Ethan asks. “It sounds like a disease.”

“It’s a mixture of passion and love.”

“Isn’t all love passionate?”

“Not necessarily.” Erika leans back in her chair. You can love something without being passionate about it. Conversely, you can be passionate about things you don’t love. It’s when the two converge that real magic happens.”

She looks down at the table like she’s talking to herself. “It’s the subtle shudder when you hear the other person’s name. The times when you think about their smile and find it impossible to keep a straight face. It’s those small, precious moments you wish they were with you, because nothing means anything until you share it with them. More than passion and love alone, it’s that internal alchemy that makes them a part of you.”

She takes a deep breath and sighs. “You two were lucky. You ended up together. It doesn’t always happen that way. Sometimes you meet the person who alters you forever, and for one reason or another, they don’t become a part of your life. The problem is you never forget them.”

She lifts her glass to us. “You’ve both fought for your happiness. Enjoy it. You deserve it.”

Under the table, Ethan squeezes my hand. I squeeze back. I guess we’d never considered Erika’s private life before. She’d always seemed so untouchable. Maybe that’s because someone once touched her, and she never recovered.

I can totally relate.

Before we leaves, we talk with Erika about possible dates for the master classes. Then we hug her and Marco and say good-night.

Our taxi ride back to Ethan’s place is quiet. We hold hands. I lean on his shoulder. He strokes my fingers and stares out the window.

I guess we are lucky. Our ending could have been very different. If Ethan hadn’t had his epiphany in a hospital bed in France, we might have never seen each other again. It took him making the first move to put us on the path of healing and redemption. So I guess even though he had a major hand in breaking us, he was also the architect behind putting us back together.

It makes me sad to think Erika didn’t get that chance. I guess a lot of people don’t.

When we get back to Ethan’s apartment, he silently leads me into the bedroom and just looks at me for a long time before kissing me gently. It still amazes me how he can leave me breathless by simply brushing his lips against mine. His hands are warm on my face as he tilts my head, and steals even more of my breath with soft sweep of his tongue.

We take our time removing each other’s clothes. The concept of f*cking has been forgotten. This isn’t about fitting body parts together. It’s about the two of us needing to be joined. Sharing that incredible sense of rightness we only get with each other.

No one else has ever controlled my pleasure with such instinctual ease as Ethan, and no one ever will.

Erika called it “internal alchemy,” and I guess she’s right. It’s not like Ethan does anything different than the other men I’ve had. It’s just that his skin speaks to mine on a different frequency. The pulse of his blood powers the tempo of mine.

We kiss for a long time before he lays me down and presses himself against me. So warm. Hot in places. Soft lips. Flexing muscles under heated skin. He murmurs things as he moves his mouth over me. Tells me how beautiful I am. How much he loves me. How grateful he is to have me.

It’s all foreplay. Every groan-tinged word. He doesn’t even know how sexy he is. Not just his body but his stained-glass heart. All the pieces of his past and present welded into place. Cracked and imperfect, but beautiful nonetheless.

My heart must look the same to him.

“I need you,” he says as his lips graze my breast. “Always.”

I pull him closer, but it’s not enough. I run my hands down his back. Feel the muscles as he shifts and grinds.

Finally, he pushes inside and oh … there’s nothing else.

Nothing.

No one.

Just this. The perfect slide of him.

“Cassie … God Oh, God…”

I can’t talk. Words are pointless, anyway. As if this could be described. I could speak every language in the world and still not have enough words to express how I feel about this man.

I settle for kissing him. I make noises around his tongue. He does the same around mine. We both know exactly what we’re saying: This is precious. This is love. This is something I’ll never take for granted, because I know how it feels to be without it.

We’re not quiet as we wind each other tighter. We sigh and grunt with the intensity of it. Quiet really isn’t an option with feelings this big.

As I crest, I tell him I love him and moan his name. Repeat it, over and over again. Get louder as he increases his pace and stop breathing when I’m as high as I can go. I almost scream it when I snap and fly. He carries me though all the layers of pleasure. I float for so long, I feel dizzy. Then he’s crying out my name, and his movements are erratic. Hips move back and forth to the rhythm of his orgasm. Staccato and unsteady. He’s tense and still for what seems like minutes, then heavy relief hits, and he sinks down and wraps me in all of him.

We hold each other and breathe. Dazed. Ecstatic. More in love with each other than we ever thought possible.

As the fog lifts, our hearts slow. Fingers stroke subconsciously. He rolls off and pulls me to his side until my head is on his shoulder, my hand over his heart.