Broken Juliet (17 page)

His words floor me. So honest and unexpected. So similar to things I stop myself from thinking.

I can’t respond. For once, he’s braver than I am.

He drinks again and looks as if he’s waiting for a response. He’s going to be sorely disappointed.

At last he gives up. “So, care to tell me why you walked out of acting class today?”

The question takes me by surprise. “Not really.”

“I thought we were pretty good by the end.”

“You were. You were amazing.”

“So, why did you walk out? You looked pissed.”

I stop and think about it. The answer isn’t easy to put my finger on, but when I do, it’s so obvious.

“For so long, I’ve tried convincing myself that we broke up because you were incapable of being truly intimate. Of letting your guard down. Then today … in that scene with Connor, you did it. You were everything I knew you could be and more. Passionate. Brave. Loving. Patient. So open and strong. And I was so … jealous. And angry. I couldn’t cope. It made me even angrier that you could be like that with a
guy
you
hate
, and yet you couldn’t do it with me.”

“Cassie, I was acting.”

“No. You were living it. You think I can’t tell? I’ve watched you hold yourself back in every acting class since our breakup. Today was different. You made a breakthrough. A huge one.”

He downs the rest of his drink, pulls his legs up, and crosses them in front of him. Then he levels me with the most honest look he’s every given me.

“You want to know why that scene worked so well today? I was…” He shakes his head. “Jesus, if I wasn’t drunk, there’d be no way I’d be telling you this.” He takes a breath. “It worked because I imagined I was you, talking to me.”

It takes me a moment to comprehend what he’s said, and even then, I think I have it wrong. “What?”

He tugs on his hair. “I thought about all of those times you talked me through stuff. Tried to help me be strong. It seemed appropriate considering the text I had. If you think I was amazing today, it’s because I was pretending I was you.”

He shakes his head and fingers the hem of his jeans. “The funny thing is, I never thought I’d have the balls to be like that. Open to being hurt and not giving a shit. But when I did it today…” He slowly lifts his head and looks me in the eyes. “I could see how different things would be for me if I was. How much better they’d be.”

He doesn’t say, “with you,” but I swear to God, I hear it in my mind.

“I want to be like that,” he says softly. “The strong one. I’m fucking ashamed of how weak I am. About so many things.”

I’m stunned into silence. My heart pounds, and my breath comes too fast. He’s staring at me. Waiting for a reaction. He’s so close, but I want him closer.

Seconds pass. Time stretches around us.

He leans forward. Our legs are touching. Two layers of denim do nothing to insulate me from the effect of his body next to mine. Faces are close. It would be so easy to move forward. Brush against his lips. See if he still tastes as sweet as I remember.

“Cassie…” The dark edge in his voice isn’t helping my restraint. It’s like he’s drowning and begging me to save him.

I take a deep breath and dig for strength. “I’m thinking that one of us should probably leave this room before we do something stupid.”

He leans forward a fraction more and inhales. Then he closes his eyes for a second and says, “Yeah. I think you’re probably right.”

With a grunt of frustration, he pulls back, stands, and walks unsteadily to the table. Then he puts his glass next to the bottle of tequila. When I stand and follow suit, I have to lean on the back of a chair to keep my balance. Gripping it also helps stop me from launching myself at the gorgeous man beside me.

Ethan stares for a moment before sighing and running his hand through his hair. “I can’t drive. Is it cool for me to sleep on the couch?”

No. Get out before I mount you.

“Sure.”

I go to the linen closet and grab extra blankets and pillows before I dump them on the couch. He thanks me.

“No problem.”

We stand there for a moment, at a loss as to what to do. We both know this is a bad idea. What we’re feeling? The nearly irresistible pull toward each other? That’s the reason we’ve been avoiding each other since the breakup. Sure, we’re now experts in ignoring our desire, but constantly living like that is exhausting.

Soul destroying.

Although tonight has danced on a tightrope between spine-tingling excitement and disaster, the potential for it to go to hell is still very much there. It’s in every lingering glance, every touch, every ache and tug of body and heart.

My fear is telling me to run before it’s too late, but part of me is getting off on it. The adrenaline he brings out in me makes me feel more alive than I’ve felt in months. The danger of him is part of it. This is why people jump out of planes and swim with sharks. To feel this muscle-trembling rush.

Judging by how he’s staring at me, he feels the same way.

“I should go to bed,” I say in barely a whisper.

He nods but doesn’t look away. “Yeah. It’s late.”

“Yeah. So … sleep well.”

“You too.”

I only take three steps before warm fingers close around my hand.

“Cassie…”

He tugs on it. There’s hardly any pressure, but I move like he’s pulling me with a steel cable. I step into him, and when he wraps his arms around me, I press my cheek against his chest.

His breath comes out ragged and shuddery as he buries his head in my neck and sinks into me like honey on warm toast.

So warm, he melts me.

Our hearts thunder against each other, and right now, there’s only one thought inhabiting my head.

Ethan
.

Bastard Ethan. Beautiful Ethan.

My
Ethan.

Forever mine, regardless of whether we’re together.

“Do you think we’re ready to be friends yet?” he whispers.

“No.” What I’m feeling for him is in a different universe from friendship.

“Me neither.”

“One day?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Really?”

He laughs. “No. It’s highly fucking unlikely.”

“We could pretend,” I say, not wanting to let go.

He brushes his nose against my ear. “What do you think we’ve been doing all this time?”

I nod.

He strokes my back. Breathes against my neck. “I’ve thought about holding you a lot recently. I thought it would somehow feel different than it used to, but it doesn’t. You feel exactly the same.”

“I’m not.”

I can feel the weight of his guilt when he says, “I know.”

I bring my hands down onto his chest. “You feel different. Hard.”

“Yeah, ignore it. I’ve been like that since you and Miranda made out in acting class on Monday.”

I laugh. “I was referring to your new boxing muscles.”

He pauses. “Oh. Of course you were. Forget I mentioned the arousing lesbianism.”

“You liked that?”

“No, I
like
pie.
That
was like a religious experience. It was one instance in which I was in complete agreement with Avery. You two should totally make out more often.”

He lets me go, and when I step back, I immediately want to hug him again.

“Don’t go to bed,” he says and takes my hand. “Stay for one more drink. Please. I’m too buzzed to sleep. I promise to keep my hands to myself and sit on the other end of the couch.”

I grab the bottle and our glasses from the table. “I guess one more would be okay. We’re already drunk. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Even before I open my eyes, I can feel them aching. They throb slowly behind my lids. My stomach rolls and I press it against the warmth I’m holding, searching for relief.

The warmth moans.

I stop breathing.

Warm.

Large.

Acres of man-skin.

Most definitely naked.

I open my eyes to see Ethan, unconscious and unguarded, both arms wrapped around me, legs tangled between mine, parts of his body already awake and attentive even as he slumbers.

No.

God, no.

We didn’t.

We’re not that stupid.

It was tequila, not a full-frontal lobotomy.

I would never …

And he
definitely
would never …

Ethan moans again and rubs his erection against me.

“Hmmmm. Cassie.”

No, no, no, no.

I try not to launch into a full-blown panic attack.

I must still be dreaming.

I close my eyes and breathe. It doesn’t help.

The room smells like him. And me. And sex.

Lots and lots of sex.

Images of last night come back to me.

Darkness and light. Long blinks and gentle touches. Fingers. Palms. Barely there. Tentative and surreal.

Hair between my fingers. Hot breath on my neck. Then his mouth.

Oh, Mary. His sweet, talented mouth. Silk lips So soft at first, then ravenous. Cleansing all the bitter words from my tongue. Exorcising every sliver of restraint until all that’s left of either of us is primal, and desperate, and writhing.

His thigh presses between my legs and I grind … and grind … and grind. All of him, hard and swollen.

Floating. High on alcohol and sensation. More skin revealed. Clothes pulled. Half-naked stumbling.

Panting breaths against my ear, begging me to tell him to stop. Pleading for strength. Praying to be inside me.

The weight of him, heavy and electric. Stirring all my synapses. Transforming everything he touches into insatiable flesh. Mouth and fingers, all over me. Making me dizzy. Crazy. A frenzy of wrongness and “God, yes” and please, please, please.

And then he’s inside me.

I can barely comprehend the pleasure.

I speak to God. Say his name over and over again. Sigh and pant and very nearly cry.

He’s gentle. Holding still and swearing. Also speaking to God. Telling Him how good I feel.

He prays through my skin. Bites my shoulder. Kisses it better. Groans like he’s riding an angel all the way into the pits of hell.

I can’t get enough.

God, please, Ethan, move.

Thrust.

Let me feel the perfect deepness of you. Sliding home and rolling through me.

There are strong arms and low moans, and how can he feel this amazing after all of this time? He fits perfectly to my body. Plays its rhythms. Hits every beat until everything is wire-tight and singing.

The couch, the floor, the hallway, the wall, the bed. Time and again he fills and refills me. Guides me through every type of ecstasy there is. Shows me all of its gasping forms. Just when I think we’re done, he touches me again and the fire roars back to life.

In the end, we collapse, exhausted. I fall asleep, smiling. Refusing to think about what morning will bring.

I open my eyes and stare down at Ethan.

Already, my chest is tightening.

What we did … what we shared last night doesn’t fix anything. Not one of his issues.

If anything, it complicates things even more.

We tried to suppress our passion, but in the end, she ended up making us her bitch. She waited until we were vulnerable. Stalked us on ninja feet. Pried us open with longing and loneliness. Stripped away our anger and common sense and doused us in lust.

Then she lit a match and danced as we burned.

Even now, everywhere he touches me blazes to life. I should climb out of bed and wash every trace of him away. Try to forget how incredible he felt.

But I can’t move. Can’t bear to drag myself away.

Then he opens his eyes and looks at me. Panic fires in his expression. He looks down at himself, naked and hard, then takes in the catastrophe of clothing littering the floor and bed, and frowns when he sees the slew of condom wrappers strewn across the nightstand. He stares for a long time before comprehension and disbelief dawn behind his bloodshot eyes.

“Fuck, Cassie.”

“Yeah, well, seems like you’ve been there, done that. Now what?”

FIFTEEN

JUST SEX

Sex.

It’s a primal, ancient instinct stamped into every corner of our DNA. We must screw to survive.

But sex is greedy. Addictive.

It’s an infinite, aching appetite that reduces us to base impulses capable of clouding all reason and logic.

It’s instinctual.

Simple.

Except when it’s not.

After the initial shock of waking up in bed together wears off, Ethan and I talk. Agree that it was a mistake. That we couldn’t and shouldn’t do it again.

Ever.

Then we screw two more times and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Yep.

Simple, this is not.

“So…”

“Yeah. So…”

We’ve made it as far as the front door. After several failed attempts, he’s wearing clothes, and I’m wearing a robe. His hair is ridiculous. Mine is even more so. I look like Hagrid if he’d been electrocuted in a wind tunnel. Ethan’s looking at me as if he’d like to do very bad things to Hagrid.

The urge to touch him again is swelling like the tide under a full moon. It’s vaguely ridiculous.

“I’d better go.”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t move. Neither do I. We know we have to. We can’t do it again. I hurt everywhere. He’s given me scruff rash on every inch of exposed skin, as well as some that isn’t so exposed.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Fifteen minutes ago we were fitting together in the very definition of rightness, gripping each other through countless layers of pleasure. But now? Here comes the awkward. The separation.

Walls and masks and tectonic plates of emotion slide back into safe formations. Stand us on our feet. Tilt us away from each other once more.

Whisper to us that it was just sex.