You may remember I recently reviewed Megan Hart’s Tear You Apart. It’s out now and Megan has kindly offered an excerpt to whet your appetites if you’ve not yet read it. I was totally knocked out by the book for its honesty and well-observed commentary, so it’s a pleasure to be able to share it with you.
- The title comes from the song by She Wants Revenge.
- The character of Will is unabashedly based (physically) on Norman Reedus. Love him! (Google him)
- In the book, Elisabeth experiences synesthesia, a condition in which sights and smells or sounds and sights, etc. become linked. I don’t experience this to the same extent as she does, but I definitely link sensations in odd ways…for example, something might taste the way something (totally unrelated) smells.
- I also despise modern art, and experienced something very much like Will and Elisabeth’s trip to the Museum of Modern Art. Moved to tears by Starry Night. Underwhelmed by some other pieces. Drunk on the MOMAtini. (The rest of it didn’t happen to me!)
- The book can be experienced, in addition to the text, as a “rock opera” with a full playlist. It can be found in the back of the book, and should be listened to in order. The songs tell their story.
- Tear You Apart is one of the fastest books I’ve ever written, and until literally just a few chapters from the end, I had no idea what was going to happen.
- Elisabeth is named in honor of the main character in 91/2 Weeks.
- Will is not named in honor of anyone; I can’t remember why I picked that name, only that it fit him.
- Gillian Anderson would be a great Elisabeth.
- Tear You Apart is not a romance. It’s a love story.
It happens all at once, so smoothly, how he pulls me close to him. He is going to kiss me. I am going to let him.
At the last second, I turn my face. I can’t do it. To feel his mouth on mine would be too much. It’s already all too much. Will smiles and everything inside me melts, liquid, running hot. He pulls me closer. He doesn’t kiss my mouth.
He kisses my neck, not soft or accidental but entirely on purpose. I don’t cringe, and I don’t pull away. I offer myself to him like I was waiting for this all along, and maybe I was but didn’t know it, but the first moment I feel the scratching brush of his stubble on my skin, all I can do is give up to it.
I give up to him.
My fingers thread through the back of his hair, holding his mouth closer to the soft and sensitive skin of my neck as my own lips part on a sigh I can not contain within the jail of my throat. Then my back is against the wall and Will presses against me, but he didn’t push me. I went there on my own. I pulled him against me. His leg eases between mine, his thigh pressing. My heel hooks over his calf. His kiss slides along my throat and jaw, but again when he tries to kiss my mouth, I turn my head. My hands find the hem of his shirt. Don’t do it, I tell myself. Don’t. But I do it anyway, I lift his shirt and let my fingertips find his smooth, hot skin underneath. His back. His stomach. The flat of my hand slides across him, and it’s not enough. It will never be enough.
“I have to go. I really should go.” Murmured between kisses against his throat, the words are insincere. No matter what I should do, what I have to do, I’m not leaving.
Will pauses, his breath hot on my cheek. He doesn’t move away, and oh, God, I can feel his cock, hard through his jeans, the thick ridge of it against my belly. I am undone.
We stay that way for the in-and-out of three or four breaths. My hands are still under his shirt. I blink rapidly, a puddle of silk ribbons in my brain for a couple seconds when my fingertips skid along the small indents of his spine. Crimson silk ribbons, that’s what his skin feels like.
“You should go,” he whispers. “You really should go.”
But I’m not leaving, I’m following a few stumbling steps toward the small alcove beneath the loft and the couch there. Leather, overstuffed, I think it’s black but it might be brown, I can’t focus on the color or the pattern of the pillows. My hands are flat on his chest, and Will lets me push him back onto the couch. Then I’m on top of him, straddling, my dress hiked up around my thighs, and his hands are skimming the edge of the fabric the same way mine did with the bottom of his shirt, and all I can think about is how much I want him to touch me.
Everything is hands and mouth and teeth and lips and tongue. We fumble, and it doesn’t matter. Laughter stutters out of me like rocks skipping on a lake. I bend over him, yank at his belt, freeing him. My hair falls in my face, and he pushes it back so he can get at my neck again. My throat. I can not get enough of him.
I push up his shirt, then pull it off over his head. Smooth, smooth skin. Hot. My fingers curl against his ribs. He has a tattoo, a stylized bird over his heart. My thighs grip his. His erection nudges me, thick and hard, and all I can think about is touching him. My hand strokes. His hips push upward. A groan slips from his throat.
I did that.
I did that to him.
It’s open to all. Good luck!