Broken Juliet by Leisa Rayven

to—”
    I laugh, but it’s forced. “It’s fine.”
    A few years ago, I couldn’t convince him to call me his girlfriend without coercion and testicular clamps, and now he’s throwing around the term like he’s Mr. Commitment?
    “It slipped out, okay? I mean, what I feel for you is a few hundred light-years away from just being my girlfriend, but I’m trying really hard not to freak you out here so I’ve been keeping my epic feelings on the down-low.”
    “Well, except for that whole thing where you typed ‘I LOVE YOU’ over a thousand times, right?”
    “Yeah. Except for that.”
    “Ethan—”
    He runs his fingers through his hair as his frustration peeks through. “I know it’s too soon, but I’m not going to lie to you and say I don’t want it, because I do. I want to be your boyfriend. No, wait … boyfriend sounds so fucking lame. I’m nearly twenty-seven years old. I’m not a boy anymore. I want to be your man. Your lover. Your … damn it, I don’t know. Your Ethan. Whatever the fuck you want to call me, that’s what I want to be. My end game is to simply know that I’m yours and you’re mine, and that neither one of us is scared or ashamed of that. I want to take you out and put my arm around you and know that every other man in the room is jealous as hell that I’m the one who gets to take you home and paint your skin with my mouth.”
    I don’t know what to say. Getting used to this new version of him is going to take time. He’s so sure of himself.
    He leans forward and brushes a stray piece of hair away from my face. “Now, do you have any other questions about how I feel? Or would you like me to describe exactly which parts of your body I’m going to paint with my mouth?”
    A crawling heat spreads across my shoulders and creeps up my neck. He’s not allowed to be this sexy when I’m trying to take things slow. He’s really, truly not.
    “Ah … no,” I say as I fixate on his mouth. “That was an excellent explanation. I’m good.”
    He nods. “Good. Because really, that second part was kind of a trick question. When I get my mouth on you, there won’t be any parts untasted. I want all of you.” He takes a long, slow appraisal of my body. “Every … delicious … inch.” He continues to stare, and I feel myself leaning forward. He clenches his jaw as I get closer, and just when I think he’s going to try to kiss me again, he shakes his head and stands.
    “Okay, I seriously have to get out of here, because if I stay, I’m going to make you uncomfortable with all my filthy, relentless lust.” He exhales and rakes his fingers through his hair. “So, tonight. Dinner at my place? I’ll cook whatever you want.”
    “Sure. What time do you want me?”
    He takes a deep breath. “I want you all the time.”
    I shake my head and smile.
    “Sorry, but you did ask. If you don’t want innuendo, rephrase the question.”
    “Fine. What time would you like me to arrive tonight?”
    “Six thirty. I want to discuss something with you before dinner.”
    “About?”
    “You’ll see.” I’m immediately cautious. He gives me a half smile. “Don’t panic. I think it’s going to be a good thing. Trust me.”
    I’m trying. I’m really, really trying.
    “Do you want me to bring anything?”
    He stares for a few seconds. “Just you. That’s all I need.”
     
     
    Time is a fickle whore. Whenever you want it to pass slowly, it speeds up, and whenever you’re full of nervous impatience, it crawls like a sloth on sedatives.
    The entire contents of my closet lie on my bed. Everything has been tried on at least twice. My hair is sleek and straight. Makeup light but careful.
    I remind myself that this is not a date. It’s dinner.
    Just dinner.
    Then why am I wearing underwear that cost more than the national debt of some small African countries?
    I shouldn’t be going to this much trouble. I shouldn’t be this nervous. And I really shouldn’t get so flustered when I