Never Tear Us Apart (Never Tear Us Apart #1)

by Monica Murphy

  Me. The girl who’s felt so powerless for so long.

  “You know exactly what you do to me, don’t you.” He says it as a statement, not a question, and my entire body goes warm at the tone of his voice, the look in his eyes. I don’t remove my hand from his face, letting my thumb streak across his bottom lip, and as he parts his lips I feel a gust of warm breath against my skin. A shiver moves through me.

  “What am I doing to you?” I want to hear him describe my effect on him. It’s a heady feeling, realizing my feminine power for the first time in my life. I want to revel in this moment.

  “Driving me insane.” He grabs hold of my wrist, circling his fingers around it as he brings my fingers more fully to his mouth. He drops kisses on my knuckles, his lips light as a feather, damp and hot and leaving me an aching, confused mess. “I don’t want to push you.”

  “You’re not,” I say quickly, my voice shaky. His lips on my skin send shock waves pulsing through my veins. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before and I’m unusually greedy. I want more.

  His smile is gentle though his gaze is somber. “You’ve mentioned more than once that you’ve dealt with something terrible in your past.” He kisses the top of my hand, his gaze never leaving mine, intense and searching. The achy, fuzzy feeling inside me slowly dissipates, replaced with a slow trickle of dread. “I’d like it if you told me about it. You don’t have to tell me everything—I’m sure you’re probably not comfortable sharing the details—but I want to know. So I can understand.” I go completely stiff. How? How can I tell him? Not now. Not like this. There’s just . . . no way. Not yet. I don’t know him that well. What if I scare him away? “I . . .”

  His expression is immediately contrite. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I get it.” He squeezes my hand. “We can wait.” Frustration rolls through me and I disentangle my hand from his. I definitely don’t want to talk about what happened to me but I also don’t want to wait. I want more of what he has to offer. Being with Ethan is . . . a revelation. He doesn’t treat me like I’m made of glass, like I might shatter and fall apart at any given moment. That’s one of the reasons I enjoy spending time with him. He doesn’t know who I really am, what happened to me, and I like it.

  I can act normal, act like a regular woman who’s becoming involved with a gorgeous, thoughtful man. I might have blurted out a thing or two when I panicked the last time we were together but for the most part, he only knows who I am now, not the broken girl I was, and I love that.

  I want it to stay that way. I just don’t know how to put it all into words, how to ask for what I want.

  So I don’t ask. I do what Ethan’s done all evening.

  I just take.

  One minute she’s looking sort of pissed and conflicted as she watches me and the next, she’s in my arms, her slender body pressed close to me, her arms around my neck and her lush mouth finding mine. She gave me no warning, never said a word, just jumped into my arms and is now straddling me, her bent legs on either side of my hips, her chest pressed against mine as we kiss.

  I slowly wrap my arms around her, anchoring her to me. She’s warm and soft, her mouth insistent, frustration seeming to vibrate from her directly into me. I feel like I can absorb her tumultuous emotions and all I want to do is calm her.

  Claim her.

  Reaching for the back of her head, I cup her there, my fingers in her hair, tugging a little so I can separate our mouths.

  “Slow down a little,” I whisper, my lips moving against hers as I talk. Christ, it feels good, having her like this. Eager and willing and unabashedly greedy. A man could get used to this. I want to get used to this, but I refuse to push. I tried my damnedest to get her to confess, but she wasn’t having it.

  Guess I can’t blame her.

  “I don’t want to slow down,” she murmurs, a little sound of frustration escaping her lips. This girl is wound up tight, her body tense, her heart rapidly beating. I can see the gentle throb in her neck and I dip my head, run my lips over the spot where her pulse pounds. She’s so soft and I kiss the same spot again, letting my lips linger. A wondrous “oh” falls from her lips when I nibble her there. Lick her fragrant skin.

  Her body melts. I feel the transformation, her utter surrender, and I doubt she realizes she’s even given it. Her arms loosen around my neck and I release my grip on the back of her head, my hand falling to her lower back so I can press her closer.

  “Ethan.” My name falling from her lips twists my insides, makes my cock twitch. For a brief, absolutely ridiculous moment, I wish she were saying my old name. My real name.

  But I’m not Will anymore. And I will never be him again. Ever.

  William Aaron Monroe is dead and gone.

  Lifting my head, I stare at her and she blinks up at me, her eyes falling closed right at the moment our mouths connect. Yet this kiss is like no other we’ve shared. I slide my tongue into her mouth, tangle it with hers, and she responds tentatively at first. Within seconds she becomes bolder, the kiss turns carnal, and then she’s gripping my hair, her hips shifting against mine as if she’s trying to burrow herself inside me. Her legs squeeze my hips and these sexy little soft sounds come from deep in her throat.

  Hottest thing I’ve ever heard. She’s so responsive. As if she were made for me. I pull her in as close as I can get, tempted to just grind up on her so she can feel exactly what she’s doing to me, but I know I can’t. Not yet.

  I don’t want to end this before we’ve even really started.

  Hungry kisses gradually turn into slow, deep kisses. I cup her cheek and guide her. She’s an eager student, following my lead, her hands sliding to my shoulders, down my arms, her fingers seeming to memorize everything as she touches me. I return the favor and run my hands over her. Down her arms, along her waist, resting them on her hips for a moment before I slide them in, touching her stomach. Going higher. Higher still. Until my thumbs are brushing the underside of her breasts and I can feel the satiny-smooth texture of her bra just beneath her sweater.

  Back and forth I barely touch her, keeping it light, waiting for her to pull out of my embrace, or say something. Tell me to stop.

  Katie should definitely tell me to stop.

  But she doesn’t do any of that. She moans softly against my lips. The sound emboldens me and I lift one thumb, drift it across the generous curve of her breast for one lingering moment before I let it drop.

  She breaks the kiss this time, her breaths fast, her lips swollen and wet as she looks down at me. My hands go to her sides and I hold her there, spreading my fingers over her rib cage as we continue to watch each other and catch our breath.

  “I should go,” I tell her, because I should. Damn it, I should leave her and never look back. I take it too far every single time I see her and that’s half my problem. More than half my problem.

  Because I’m possessed with the need to push it even farther. With the need to see her again, touch her again, kiss her, see how far I can take it when we’re together . . .

  I’m playing with fucking fire. And we’re both going to end up burned.

  “Okay,” she whispers with a little nod, surprising me. I figured she wouldn’t let me leave, but this is good. This is what I want.

  Or so I tell myself.

  I lift her off my lap and she tumbles onto the couch beside me, her breathing still accelerated, her hair a mess about her head. I must have run my hands through it at one point, though I hardly remember anything beyond her mouth on mine, her tongue circling, her hands gripping my shoulders . . .

  “I’m glad you came over,” she says, not looking at me, staring straight ahead. She almost seems embarrassed and I don’t want her feeling that way. “I hope . . . we can do it again sometime.”

  Leaning over her, I cup her cheek and tilt her head so she’s looking at me. “We will,” I promise solemnly. “I can guarantee it.”

  She smiles, a little laugh escaping her as she murmurs, “So serious,” and I cap
ture her laughter with my lips, silencing her. The kiss turns deep in an instant, our tongues tangling, heat growing between us, and I break away as fast as I kissed her, rising from the couch, running my hand through my hair as I try to tell my hard dick to settle down.

  It’s damn tough, though, when I see Katie sitting on the couch, warm and pliant, with swollen lips and flushed cheeks. I want to swoop in and gather her in my arms. Carry her back to her room and sprawl her across the bed. Strip her naked, stretch her arms above her head, spread her legs and have my way with her. Feast on her, lick and nibble and kiss every inch of her skin, touch her, fuck her with my fingers, my tongue, my mouth, my cock . . .

  You’re taking this too far. She’s still petrified of you, of what you represent, even though she wants it. Wants you. But if she found out who you really are? She’d flip the fuck out. You’ll never have a taste of her again.

  Reluctantly I head to the front door and Katie springs up from the couch to follow behind me. She zips in front of me at the last minute, her hand on the door handle as she reaches up and undoes the deadbolt.

  “Thanks for dinner,” I murmur, stopping just in front of her.

  She leans against the door, her hands tucked behind her perfect ass. Which I should have touched only a few minutes ago, but I blew my chance. “Thank you for coming over. Sorry we didn’t get to watch a movie.”

  “I had a much better time doing what we just did.” I kiss her. Drop the lightest, most chaste kiss possible on her lips because I can’t fall into that trap again. It’s one I never want to escape.

  “Me too,” she whispers when I break away from her.

  I touch the tip of her nose, drift my finger across her cheek. “I’ll call you? Text you?”

  She nods, no hesitancy, no coy games from my girl. She’s painfully straightforward—with the exception of talking about her past. “Please. I’d like that.”

  “Good night, Katie.” She steps out of the way and I reach for the handle, opening the door. I’m about to leave when she’s tugging on my sleeve and I turn toward her, bracing myself when she plasters her body against mine and gives me one last, soul-searing kiss before sending me off into the night.

  “Good night, Ethan,” she murmurs as I jog down the steps of her front porch.

  Her sweet voice echoes in my head the entire drive home.

  It was her voice that came to me in my dreams, even a year later, after everything that happened. Not so much her face anymore, and I missed that, though I didn’t like reliving the way she looked the last time I saw her. Bruised throat, bruised and scraped face. Knowing what caused those wounds—and who.

  He came to me in my nightmares far too often. Katie though? Not often enough.

  She haunted me in the darkest part of the night with that sweet, melodic voice as she called my name, like she was lost and in search of only me. As if I were the only one who could save her, and the pressure was enormous. I felt it pressing down on me, like a weight sitting on my chest that I couldn’t push past no matter how hard I tried.

  I heard her say my name again and again, her voice rising, the sound panicked as the distance grew between us. It was always dark in my dreams, so dark I could barely see anything as I went in search of her, scared because I couldn’t find her. I never could.

  More than anything I was afraid my dad would kill me because he told me to watch over the bitches, that they were sneaky and would do whatever it took to slip away from him. Words he’d never spoken to me in real life, yet I dreamed them anyway. I was even guiltier by association in my dreams.

  I always woke up sweaty, gasping for air as my heart pounded an incessant beat against my ribs. Those dreams twisted and writhed in my brain, fucked me all up because just when I thought I had things under control, that my life had stabilized and felt relatively normal, he’d come back to haunt me.

  And so would she.

  I never blamed her for what happened. Getting tossed in the foster care system was some straight-up bullshit and really, if I were being honest? It was her fault. If she’d let me walk like I wanted when I took her to the police station, I wouldn’t be where I was right now. I was fucking miserable in this group home. The other guys living here were a bunch of fucked-up mental cases who preferred to start fires, steal shit, and fuck every girl they could get to drop her panties over anything else.

  Me? I stayed focused. I tried to keep up with my homework so I could stay in sports. Which was the only thing that cleared my head and made me feel like someone else. Not like myself.

  I really fucking hated myself.

  Though I guess it could have been worse. I could’ve been with my father, living the same dreary, hellish routine that we’d had together for years. Pretending everything was fine when I knew it wasn’t.

  No matter which way I looked at it, my life was total shit. Sometimes . . . sometimes I wasn’t so sure it was even worth living. What sort of existence was this anyway?

  But then I thought of Katie and what happened to her. What my father did to her. How fucked up her life must be as she tried to recover. Would she ever find peace? Would she ever be all right? Ever feel whole and alive and normal?

  When I compared myself to her, I had no reason to complain. None.

  The trial was starting soon. After all the stays and the rescheduled hearings and the protests against biased jury selection—hell, his lawyer had tried to change venues, wanted the trial held in a different county, but that request was denied—it was happening. I had to testify. Katie was planning on testifying as well, from what I understood.

  Turned out, she was my father’s only surviving victim, at least that they knew of. No one else had stepped forward and the investigation had revealed only three other victims. He’d killed three girls, all under the age of twelve.

  Fuck me.

  Hanging my head, I tugged the last cigarette out of the pack that was resting on the grass near my feet and settled it between my lips. I brought the lighter to the end of the cig and lit it, taking that first satisfying drag before I blew out smoke. Everything turned peaceful the second I felt the nicotine hit my system.

  Fucking nasty habit, but my stress level was through the roof most of the damn time and besides, I never smoked when I was playing a sport. But I snuck a few cigarettes on the weekends or at a party. I couldn’t completely let the habit go, despite my knowing full well it was gonna kill me.

  I sort of didn’t care. About anything.

  Least of all me.

  The moment he left, I went through my normal routine. Locked the front and back doors, cleaned up what was left over in the kitchen, which wasn’t much, turned off the lights, went to my bedroom, and brushed my teeth in the adjoining bathroom, but I changed up my final task for the night.

  I strip, methodically taking off all my clothes and leaving them in a pile on the floor until I’m left in only my cotton panties. The bedroom light is already off and I crawl onto the bed and lie down in the center of it on top of the comforter, my entire body still vibrating from our kisses, the way he touched me, the look in his eyes, the way his tongue curled around mine.

  Adrenaline still flowing through me, I close my eyes and remember the feel of his mouth, his hands, the way he whispered my name, the quiet moan that escaped him when our mouths connected. I wish we could have kissed for longer but it also scared me, the intensity between us every time our lips met. It would lead to more. He touched me in a way that no one ever has and I know what he wanted.

  Me. Kissing me, touching me. Sex. With me. And I wanted that, too, I did, but it also scared me.

  Scared me so much I was almost relieved when he said he should leave. I’d agreed but then immediately regretted it. I wanted him to stay.

  I wanted him to go. The way I feel about him is so confusing . . .

  Breathing deep, I rest my hands on my stomach, feeling my skin tremble beneath my fingers. The fire that raged hot earlier when Ethan had his hands on me has calmed but it’s still there,
lurking just beneath the surface. I smooth my hands up, over my stomach and ribs, stopping just beneath my breasts. I recall the way his thumbs traced the underside of them, so lightly, like a tease, like a promise for more. I slowly cup them, their weight heavy against my palms, my nipples growing hard. A shuddery breath escapes me when I touch them, circling the hard points, feeling the bolt of sensation that shoots from my breasts and lands between my legs.

  Never have I touched myself like this. My body is sexually numb. Completely inexperienced. I want to feel more, know more, learn more, and I want Ethan to show me. Touch me.

  Teach me.

  A sigh escapes as I slip my hands over my belly once more, skimming sensitive, rarely touched skin with my fingertips, trailing them down until they’re teasing the thin elastic waistband of my panties. Pausing, my heart races, and slowly I spread my legs, the soft comforter abrading my skin. I tilt my head back at the same exact moment I slip the tips of my fingers beneath my panties.

  If I can’t be bold with Ethan, I can at least be bold by myself.

  I bend my knees and plant my feet on the bed, keeping my shaky legs still spread. Hesitatingly, I push my fingers down, until I’m touching my pubic hair. I go farther, tracing my slit before I slip my fingers in between and encounter creamy, hot wetness. A hiss escapes me and I close my eyes tight, lifting my hips as my fingers go deeper.

  It feels . . . good. I can only imagine how much better it would feel if it were Ethan’s fingers touching me between my legs. Just thinking of him sets off a pulse inside my core and I know without a doubt that I’m completely and totally aroused.

  And it’s all because of him.

  I allow my fingers to search further, learning myself, sucking in a breath when I touch a certain spot. I brush over it again, the tingly sensation so good a little murmur falls from my lips, and I wonder what it would feel like to have Ethan’s fingers touch me here. This particular spot that feels so incredibly wonderful.