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

by Monica Murphy

  She takes a deep breath and her eyes fall shut, her entire body tense, as if she’s afraid I’m going to do something awful to her. I reach out and gently touch her face, my fingers skimming her cheeks, her eyebrows, the length of her nose, her plump lips. I touch the line of her jaw, the point of her chin, the skin just beneath, her throat, the side of her neck, her ear. Her other ear. Trace the shell with my fingertip, then pull on her lobe, my hand falling to her shoulder.

  “Do you like it when I touch you?” I ask.

  She nods, her lips curving into the faintest smile. I wonder if she’s even aware that she’s smiling. “It feels good.”

  “Made even better because you know it’s me touching you, right?” When she nods again I drop my head close to her ear and lower my voice. “I feel the same exact way. When your hands are on me, when we kiss . . . it feels fucking incredible. And that’s because it’s you.”

  I skim her shoulders, her chest. Drift the back of my fingers across her nipples and make her suck in a harsh breath. She’s on fire for me, whether she can admit to it or not. I know she is. She wants me. I want her. I need to get her over this fear. Again, I feel like it’s my duty to rescue her, to help her overcome this. The man who gave me life ruined this for her.

  It’s my job to save her.

  “Ethan.” My name is a breathless whisper and unable to stop myself, I dip my head and kiss the very top of her right breast. “Why are you so patient with me?”

  “Because you’re worth it,” I say, keeping my mouth on her skin. She shivers beneath my lips and when I envelop a perfect pink nipple with my mouth, the blissful sigh that passes her lips tells me how much she likes it.

  I will break her of her fears. I know it.

  Her hand is on the back of my head, holding me to her, and I let my hand drift down the gentle slope of her belly, resting between her legs. She’s hot there, and wet. So incredibly wet. I touch her with just the tips of my fingers, delving deeper with every stroke, until she’s moving against my hand, her legs spreading, her hips lifting subtly. I keep talking, telling her how beautiful she is, how I want to make her feel good, how much I need her to come.

  Her eyes flash open as her body tenses and I wonder if she’s close. Or if she’s drifting away, letting her fears overcome her again. Her gaze meets mine, wild and confused, and I increase my pace, my thumb brushing over her clit again and again, and I know in an instant I haven’t lost her.

  I’ve finally fucking found her.

  Leaning over her, I crush my mouth to hers, my hand busy between her legs, her body straining beneath mine. She breaks away from my kiss, a pained oh leaving her, my name soon following. My hand moves fiercely over her, circling her clit with my thumb, and she arches beneath me.

  She’s coming.

  Her body is racked with shudders. Her skin is covered with sweat. My name falls from her lips like a chant, over and over, and then she’s kissing me, right before she collapses as if her bones just melted. She’s the one consuming me and I remove my hand from between her legs to clutch her close, roll her over so she’s on top of me.

  “I made you come,” I whisper against her lips, the arrogant tone in my voice unmistakable.

  Katie sighs, the sound of a deeply satisfied woman. “You did.”

  “I want to make you come again.” I kiss her. “I want you to come on my cock.”

  “Ethan,” she chastises, but I see the way her eyes flash.

  She likes my saying that.

  “Let me inside, baby.” I tangle my fingers in her hair, pulling it out of the sloppy topknot. I remove the elastic band holding it in place and her golden hair spills over her shoulders, the ends tickling my face, and her familiar scent washes over me.

  If my dick gets any harder, I might be in serious trouble.

  “Like this?” She rotates her hips against me and I swear my eyes cross. “With me on top?”

  “Whatever you’re comfortable with.” I brush her hair back and flip it over her shoulder. She’s so beautiful like this. Her skin glows, her eyes sparkle. I put that glow on her face, that sparkle in her gaze. I’m the one responsible for making her feel sexual pleasure for the first time in her life.

  I want to be her first and her last.

  “I think I’d rather you . . .” Her voice drifts and her cheeks turn red with embarrassment. “I want you on top. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  Without warning, I roll her over so she’s pinned beneath me and I kiss her, savoring her taste, the way she writhes underneath me. “I’ll go slow,” I vow. “And it’ll be easier now that you’ve had an orgasm. You’ll be more . . . open. More relaxed.”

  “I’m still tingling from it,” she whispers, and I smile.

  “Let’s make it happen again.”

  He reaches for his bedside table and withdraws a condom from the drawer, tearing the wrapper and rolling away from me so he can kick off his sweatpants and put the condom on. I watch in fascination, fully taking in the length and width of his erection for the first time, and my throat goes dry. I know what he said, that it should be easier considering I just had an orgasm, but still.

  Ethan seems big. Not that I’ve seen a lot of penises, but . . . yeah.

  I don’t get to stare and worry for long, though. He pulls me beneath him once more, his mouth fusing with mine, his tongue doing all of these delicious circles around mine. I love it when he kisses me. I love the feel of his hot body pressing me deeper into the mattress. The subtly insistent way he thrusts his hips against mine, the movement causing my thighs to spread and accommodate him. He’s positioned perfectly to take me, his elbows braced on either side of my head, his mouth still on mine, his erection probing at my entry.

  I refuse to let my fears take hold. Instead, I focus on the here and now. The way he smells, warm and masculine, clean and fresh. The tickle of his stubble against my cheeks, the taste of his lips, his assured touch.

  Slowly, with infinite patience, he enters me. I tense up, my breath stalled in my lungs, my muscles seizing, but he keeps kissing me, coaxing me with his lips and tongue, easing the tension as he eases fully inside my body. He breathes my name against my lips and lifts up, his hands braced on the pillow as he pushes forward with his hips, embedding himself, going deeper.

  I close my eyes and try to remember to breathe. His length stretches and pulls, causing a stinging sensation deep within, and I wince, a gush of breath leaving me when he withdraws almost all the way and then pushes back inside.

  Oh. That wasn’t so bad.

  “If I move any more, any faster, I’ll blow,” he says, and I open my eyes to see the strain on his face, his lips pressed tightly together. “You feel so damn good,” he mutters.

  Shifting beneath him somehow sends him farther and we both moan at the sensation. I bend my legs, my thighs on either side of his hips, and he thrusts again. Withdraw and return. Withdraw and return. Slowly, so slowly, my body accommodating his, his mouth on mine once more, his hand on my breast, squeezing before he lets go.

  “Lift your hands up,” he demands, and I obey, raising my hands above my head, resting them on the pillow. He reaches for them, entwines our fingers and holds me there. Holds us there, bound together. Making the moment somehow even more intimate.

  “Move with me, baby,” he whispers and I do, my hips rising, my legs clamped at his sides. With his whispered encouragement I wrap my legs around his waist, anchoring my body to his and sending him as deep as he can possibly get.

  It feels . . . amazing. So full. I’m completely connected to him, engaged and in the moment, lost to the sensation of his body moving above mine, within mine. Our hands tightly clasped, our fingers clenched around each other’s, he bends down and kisses me, his voice cracking as he admits, “I’m going to come. Are you close?”

  No, but that doesn’t matter. I squeeze his hands, lift my head as much as I can to touch my mouth to his, and he increases his pace. His hips slap against mine, our damp-with-sweat skin loud in the o
therwise quiet of the house, and then he stiffens above me, his fingers clamped so tight around mine it hurts a little. A hoarse cry sounds from deep within his chest and then he thrusts hard, just once, my name filling the air as his body is consumed with shudders.

  I lie beneath him, reveling in his surrender, fascinated that we just did this. That we just had sex and I let him lie on top of me, let him inside my body. That he made me come with the touch of his fingers and I loved it. Only one hitch in the otherwise perfect evening and I somehow overcame it.

  He collapses on top of me, his hands still wrapped in mine, his body heavy, his breathing labored. I disentangle one hand from his and stroke his damp hair, his back, feeling him shiver beneath my fingertips. I kiss his neck, his jaw, his chin, wherever I can reach, and he shifts away so he can look at me, his heavy-lidded gaze filled with satisfaction.

  “Stay the night with me?” he asks and I nod, trying to bite back the smile that threatens to overtake me.

  “Hungry?” When I nod again he rolls to his side, taking me with him and gathering me close. “Let me get rid of this condom and we’ll take a nap. Then we’ll fix something for dinner. Or order takeout. Whatever you want.” He kisses my forehead and then exits the bed, padding into the connecting bathroom with a nonchalance I can only envy.

  Maybe someday I’ll feel confident enough to walk around naked in front of him. Maybe someday I’ll be rid of my hang-ups once and for all . . .

  I’m already halfway asleep by the time he returns to the bed and pulls me into his arms. I end up sleeping like the dead, like I haven’t slept in years, which I really haven’t.

  And for once, I don’t dream.

  I’ve learned a lot in my short life. Had a lot of terrible things happen to me. I’ve known tragedy, pain, loss, unspeakable violence.

  Now I’ve known tenderness. Passion. Desire. Romance. I’ve known what it feels like to be held and kissed by someone you care about.

  I also know what it feels like to be betrayed. I’ve experienced that particular feeling again and again.

  Betrayed by my best friend Sarah, who didn’t know how to continue our friendship after what happened to me. Betrayed by the media when a small fraction of them vilified me during the trial, made me out to be a slut who asked to be kidnapped.

  My father betrayed me, and that hurt the most of all. How he couldn’t deal with the guilt and the shame over what happened to me. His treatment of me filled me with so much of my own guilt and shame I didn’t know how to cope. He hurt me beyond anyone else on this planet, maybe even more than Aaron William Monroe, and that will forever make me sad and filled with regret.

  But this morning, when I wake up in Ethan’s bed, my body naked and sore from his gentle abuse all last night, I feel on top of the world.

  He’s in the shower. I can hear the water running and I rub my hands over my face, trying to wake up. We stayed up late, talking and making love. Eating and laughing and touching and kissing each other until we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other. I’m tender between my legs, my muscles ache, and my lips and cheeks are suffering from a serious case of stubble burn.

  The shower shuts off and I hear the curtain being torn back. I imagine Ethan naked and wet, and my entire body aches with wanting him. He should’ve invited me to take a shower with him.

  Oh well, there’s always next time.

  “Did you just get up?” I ask him, raising my voice.

  He peeks his head around the cracked bathroom door. “Hey.” His smile is wide, his handsome face and broad chest covered in drops of water, and I want to go to him but I keep myself rooted to the bed. I can see there’s a towel wrapped loosely around his hips, fueling my newfound imagination. “You’re awake.”

  “What time did you wake up?” I ask.

  “About twenty minutes ago.” He shrugs. “You were sleeping and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “Maybe I wanted to take a shower with you,” I say with a little pout, marveling at myself. Since when do I pout?

  His smile grows. “Next time. I promise.”

  I like it when he promises.

  He withdraws from the cracked-open door and I imagine he’s toweling himself off. I hear a drawer open. The clank of something as it settles on the tile countertop, water running in the sink. I lie back and close my eyes, listening to Ethan’s morning ritual and enjoying it. I feel so normal, so regular, so free.

  I feel free. Like I’ve finally come over the other side of the mountain and survived. This is what life can be like with Ethan. The two of us together. Happy.

  Complete.

  His phone buzzes from where it sits on the bedside table, startling me, and I open my eyes, inhaling deeply to calm my racing heart.

  “Hey, will you check that for me?” he calls from within the bathroom. “I’m waiting on a client to text me back and I think that might be him.”

  “Are you meeting with him today or something?” I ask as I sit up, smoothing my hair back from my face. I hold the sheet tight against my naked breasts, my modesty returning in full force with the morning light, and I hope like crazy my clothes sitting in his dryer are actually dry.

  Though really I wouldn’t mind if we didn’t have to get dressed at all, just for a little while longer. I want him to come back to bed with me.

  “We’re supposed to meet next week, but he mentioned he’s going out of town so we might move our appointment up. To this morning possibly.” He pauses; the water turns on and then shuts off. “Can you check my phone please?”

  Disappointment creeps in but I push it away. He has to work. I can’t expect him to entertain me constantly. But maybe we can sneak in some time in bed before he has to get to work.

  “You sure you want me to check your phone? No secrets to hide?” I tease.

  He pauses. “Go for it.”

  I lean over to grab the phone from his nightstand, startled yet again when it buzzes once more. The message flashes across the screen, a phone number with an area code I faintly recognize, but no name attached to it.

  Weird.

  “Is it him?” he asks, but I don’t answer him. I’m too busy reading the text that slowly makes my blood run cold.

  I believe this phone number belongs to a former William Aaron Monroe? If so, please contact me right away. This is Lisa Swanson.

  I frown, staring at the message, the letters blurring the longer I look at it. “This can’t be right,” I whisper, reading the message again, the name William Aaron Monroe flashing in my mind again and again.

  William Aaron Monroe.

  William Monroe.

  Will.

  No. It can’t be.

  The phone falls from my hands, landing on the floor with a dull thud. I can’t breathe, I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate, and I swallow hard, close my eyes, fight off the dizziness.

  I need to get out of here.

  I crawl out of bed, ignoring Ethan as he calls me from the bathroom, grabbing the phone because I don’t want him to know about that message. Not yet. I dash toward his laundry room, the cold air that hits my naked skin making me shiver, but I push on. The moment I enter his tiny laundry room I crouch down and open the dryer, pulling out my clothes—thankful to find they’re dry—and yanking them on, not bothering with the panties or bra.

  My mind and body are numb. I have to go. What did that message mean? How could his phone belong to a former William Aaron Monroe? The William Monroe?

  My William Monroe.

  “Hey.”

  I turn on a gasp to find Ethan standing in the narrow doorway of his laundry room, his broad frame seeming to fill the entire space. I stare at him, really look at him, but I don’t see it. Don’t see my sullen, dark and emo teenage Will. Will’s hair was so black, his face sharp and angular, though they have the same dark eyes now that I’m truly looking for it. Will’s lip and eyebrow had been pierced, his tall frame lanky. The man standing before me doesn’t resemble Will, not like this.

  He ju
st looks like . . . my Ethan.

  “Already getting dressed?” His smile is easy and I hate thinking this, but he looks so incredibly good. So handsome, so comfortable in his own skin, so at ease with . . . everything. “I wanted to make you breakfast. Was that message from my client or what? I didn’t see my phone.”

  “It wasn’t from your client,” I say, my voice a monotone. He frowns at me, his gaze so piercing, so intense, and I’m glad I already have my clothes on. They feel like a shield, like they can protect me.

  But nothing and no one can protect me. Not anymore. The truth is dawning, thawing through my numb-as-ice brain, and I realize I’ve been lied to.

  Tricked.

  Betrayed.

  Repeatedly.

  “Are you okay?” he asks softly in that concerned, thoughtful tone of his and I want to punch him. Just smack his beautiful face, hurt him, make him bleed. Tear him apart, like he’s doing to me at this very moment.

  I say nothing, just hold out his phone toward him. He takes it from me, glancing at the screen, his face blanching as he sees the text I just read.

  The text that has ruined my entire world.

  He glances up at me, his gaze haunted, his expression a mixture of determination and alarm as he starts, “Katie . . .”

  “Just tell me why,” I cut him off, not wanting to hear any excuses. I can’t breathe. I’m hurt and humiliated and full of so much anger, so much rage over what he’s done. How could he do this? And for what purpose? “Why did you lie to me?”

  He shakes his head, confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “Just—stop,” I say, my voice low, my head starting to pound. “Are you trying to tell me that text wasn’t meant for you?” Oh God, I can’t believe this. I cannot even begin to wrap my head around what I just discovered.

  “Katie, please. Calm down.”

  “Tell me the truth!” I shriek, surprising him. Surprising myself. My heart feels like it’s been sliced in two. It hurts. What he’s done, it hurts so bad. “Are you Will? My Will?”

  Ethan doesn’t say a word for seconds. Minutes. The longer he doesn’t speak, the guiltier he sounds. “Look,” he finally says. “I can explain . . .”