Chapter 14
Jonny
Shira pulls me into her bedroom, her fingers already at my belt buckle, and I catch her hands, gently redirecting them.
“Hold your horses,” I murmur, kissing her. “We’re not there yet.”
She pulls back, blinking up at me. “Not there yet? Jonny McKay, I have never been this forward with a guy in my life, but you’re putting on the brakes at every turn. What’s going on? If you’re not into me, just say so.”
The hurt in her voice hits me hard. This is absolutely not how I wanted her to feel, ever. I slide both hands to her waist, pulling her against me. “Does it seem like I’m not into you?”
Her eyelids flutter as she presses into me. “Okay, then what is it? Did I spoil the thrill of the chase by being too obvious?”
“No,” I say. “There’s something I should probably tell you, though.”
Her brow furrows. “Please don’t say you have a girlfriend.”
I chuckle. “No.”
“Or, wait—did you make some kind of vow of celibacy? A purity promise?”
I bark out a laugh. “Absolutely not.”
“Then what’s going on?”
I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, trying to think how to explain that just because I’m not taking her to bed doesn’t mean I’m not interested.
In fact, it’s the opposite. But how do you put into words something you don’t even fully understand yourself?
I want her, but not in the way I usually want things, restless and fleeting.
It’s a little disorienting, all these feelings and impulses I’m having around her.
Then something occurs to me—a memory from when I was a kid. A lesson I learned during Christmastime many years ago, and something I guess I’m still working on.
“Can I tell you a story?” I ask her.
She huffs, but curiosity flickers in her eyes. “A story?”
“A holiday story. I’m the main character, so you know it’ll be good.”
That earns a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Fine.”
I guide her to the bed, positioning myself with my back against the headboard, and draw her into the space between my legs.
She settles there like she belongs, her back against my chest, her hair brushing my jaw.
I press my face to the curve of her neck and inhale the mix of her shampoo, perfume, and skin.
She exhales. “All right, get on with it. What’s the story?”
“Bossy, I like it,” I say, chuckling. “Once upon a time, there was a naughty little boy who loved Christmas morning.”
“Sounds familiar.”
I lean against the headboard as my fingers tease the bottom hem of her sweater, finding a gap of warm skin between the soft wool and the waistband of her jeans. Her breath quickens.
“You know my dad’s a hay farmer, right?” I say, and she nods. “So that means sometimes we had good years, and others were lean years. And when I was growing up, we had some really lean years.”
I think back to those times, when I could see the stress in my parents’ eyes, hear their whispered conversations at night about how they’d pay the bills.
“But no matter what,” I go on, “my parents always made Christmas feel like the best day of the year—and they always made sure there were plenty of gifts under the tree. Most of them were things we needed, like socks, a new coat, notebooks and pencils for school. Practical stuff. But even when times were hard, my parents always made sure we had at least one gift that was just for fun. A little bit of magic.”
I slide my hand under her sweater, fingers splaying against the warm skin of her stomach, and she sighs with pleasure.
“Go on,” she says, relaxing against me.
I smile. “Every Christmas morning, I was on a mission to find that special gift as fast as possible. I’d hunt for it, tearing through the paper, bows flying, everyone yelling because I was making a mess.”
She lets out a quiet laugh. “I can totally see that.”
“Then one year, I think I was about twelve, my Grandma McKay—”
“The shortbread one?”
The fact that she remembers makes my smile widen.
“That’s right. A few days before Christmas, she was over for dinner, and she pulled me aside next to the Christmas tree.
She put her hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Jonathan, look at all those pretty gifts under that tree. Now, why do you think we take the time to wrap them up? Wouldn’t it be easier to just hand them to people unwrapped? ’”
“How did you respond?” Shira asks.
“I don’t remember—I think I just wanted her to stop talking so I could get some dessert.”
She laughs, then her breath hitches as my hand drifts slowly upward, to her ribcage, right below the bottom edge of her bra. I slide my other hand onto her thigh, spreading my palm wide, feeling her soft curves through the denim.
“But my grandma explained that unwrapping the gift is as much a part of the experience as what’s inside. The anticipation, waiting and wondering what it could be. She suggested I try taking my time that Christmas and see how it felt.”
“And did you?”
“Sure did,” I say, nodding. “That Christmas morning, I tried my best to slow down, and it was surprisingly fun. I realized my grandma was right, that I’d been so desperate to get to the thing inside that I’d ignored everything leading up to it. How the anticipation was its own kind of magic.”
I press a kiss to the curve of her neck, and she shivers.
“When the next Christmas rolled around,” I go on, “I went even slower. Started with the smallest box. Peeled the tape off one corner. Ran my thumb along the creases. I made myself feel the weight of the paper, its texture, and listened to the sound it made when it tore. My siblings were going crazy, telling me to hurry. But I didn’t speed up; I just kept unwrapping slower. And slower.”
My hand slides up to cup her breast, a feather-light hold, and she arches into me.
“Every year I stretched it more and more,” I say, “and I always saved that one special present—my main present—for last. At first, I dragged it out so long I didn’t finish unwrapping that last gift until right before Christmas dinner.
Then I started saving it for the next day.
One year, I waited all the way until New Year’s Eve. ”
My hand is physically aching with the desire to move under her bra, to feel the heat and softness of her breast under my palm. Instead, I let my thumb drift over the fabric as I listen to the quiet hitch in her breathing. Then, ever so gently, my thumb brushes her nipple.
“Jonny,” she gasps. “That’s a lot of patience.”
I laugh, low against her ear. “You have no idea.”
She draws a shaky breath. “And now you’re applying this same technique to something other than Christmas presents, I take it?”
“That’s right.” My eyes drift closed as I circle the peak of her nipple, lazy and slow.
I may have learned how to slow down with Christmas presents, but not with other important things.
I’ve been in too much of a rush for too long—in business, and in relationships, too.
Pushing forward, getting what I want, then putting it behind me.
But I’m not sure if I want to admit to her how careless I’ve been in the past, so I say, “I’m trying to remember that the anticipation is part of the magic.”
She sighs. “Well, you better not wait to unwrap me until New Year’s Eve, because I’ll be gone by then. If you don’t get moving, this holiday fling is going to expire before it even starts.”
Her words send a twinge through my chest. Holiday fling.
Yeah, I guess that’s really all it can be.
She’s going back home to Chicago. I’m staying here until Kara’s had the baby and Dad’s released to full activity.
After that, I have no idea where I’ll end up.
Whatever happens between Shira and me, it should be simple. Clean. No strings.
So why does my stomach feel like it’s hollowing out?
Trying to shake that off, I lower my mouth until my lips brush the hollow of her ear. “Don’t worry. It’ll be worth the wait.”
“So cocky.”
“Confident,” I correct, pressing a kiss to the curve of her neck. “Because I know I’ll deliver.”
She lets out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Oh, yeah? And I’m supposed to take your word for it?”
“Nah. Just pay attention to how you feel when I touch you.”
I wrap my hand fully over the cup of her bra as my other hand slides up her inner thigh. She melts against me, proving me oh-so-right.
“That final gift,” she says, her voice coming out in a rush. “The one you’d wait to open?”
My mouth grazes down her neck. “Mmm-hmm?”
“I’m feeling a little bad for it, being teased for days. Must’ve been torture.”
“You want to talk about torture?” I groan softly, thinking back to this morning. “Let’s talk about that little stunt you pulled in the truck.”
“What stunt?” She rolls her head to the side, and I take full advantage, sliding my mouth across her skin, tasting, nipping gently.
“Making me watch you touch yourself.”
“You could’ve joined in. You still can.”
I slide the hand I’ve got wrapped around her thigh upward until it’s between her legs. “Like that?”
“Yes,” she breathes. “You’re making me lose my mind, Jonny.”
“At least we’re even, then.” I start to move my hand away, but she catches it and holds it against her.
“Please.”
The desperation in her voice nearly unravels me. Never in my life have I held off this long, and part of me can hardly believe I'm actually doing it. But another part wants to savor this as long as possible—the tension, the wanting, the closeness.
But goddamn it, I’m so hard it almost hurts, and if she’s feeling a fraction of that, she’s teetering on the edge of her own agony.
“All right,” I whisper. “Let me make you feel good.”
Slowly, I unbutton her jeans, then slide my hand inside them, but over her panties. She makes a growling sound in her throat and grabs my hand, sliding it under her panties.
My brain glitches. “Fuck.”
“I’d love to,” she says, “but apparently that’s off the table for tonight.”
Her legs fall open as she slides my hand lower, my mind going blank so all I register is heat and softness and holy hell, she’s wet.
“Can I take advantage of your hand for a few minutes?” she murmurs.