7. Lina #2
"I don't remember my father," I continue, my voice dropping to a whisper over the sound of the rain.
"My mother told me he was a bad man from a bad place, and that he was gone.
I don't even have a picture of him. Just... a blank space where my early childhood should be. It’s like my life didn't start until we got here. "
"Do you want to find him?" John asks, his voice very quiet, very deep.
"No," I say, my chin tilting up with that familiar, stubborn pride. "If he wanted to be in my life, he would have found us. My mother worked herself to death to keep me safe. I don't need a man who abandoned us."
John’s jaw tightens. The muscle in his cheek twitches, and for a split second, he looks like he’s carrying a weight so heavy it might crush him. The secret is sitting in his chest, rotting, but his face remains a mask of granite.
"You are stronger than you think, Lina," he murmurs.
"I have to be," I say, looking at his bare chest, at the warm firelight dancing across his muscles. "I don't have anyone else."
"You have me next door," he says.
He shifts, sliding closer to me on the velvet cushion. The movement is slow, deliberate. My heart starts to pound, a wild, chaotic rhythm that has nothing to do with the thunder outside. He stops when his bare shoulder is only inches from mine.
"John..." I whisper, my breath catching.
"You are shivering again," he murmurs, his dark eyes dropping to my lips.
"I'm not cold," I breathe.
"No?"
He raises his hand. His fingers brushed against the side of my neck, his thumb tracing the soft line of my jaw. The touch is electric, a sudden, blinding heat that spreads straight down to my core. I let out a soft, broken sigh, my head tilting back into his palm.
John leans in.
He is so close I can taste the rain and cedarwood on his breath. His gaze is heavy, dark, and completely consumed by my mouth. His bare chest brushes against the wool of my yellow sweater, the contrast of his hot, naked skin making my entire body shiver with a desperate, wild hunger.
"You are so beautiful, piccola," he whispers, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against my lips.
"John..." I gasp, my hands rising instinctively to press against his bare, hard chest. My fingers sink into his muscle, feeling the hot, steady pulse of his blood beneath his skin. "We shouldn't..."
"Do you want me to stop?" he asks, his lips brushing mine as he speaks. It is a tease, a whisper of a touch that makes my stomach coil into a tight, desperate knot of want.
"No," I whisper.
He groans, a sound that vibrates straight through my chest. His hand slides into my hair, his fingers tangling in my braid, tilting my head back as he leans down to claim me.
Our lips meet.
His mouth is hot, demanding, his tongue sliding past my lips to taste me, deep and possessive. I gasp into his mouth, my hands clawing at his shoulders, pulling him down to me until his heavy, hard body is pinning me back against the emerald-velvet cushions of the chaise.
The heat is suffocating. I can feel the hard, thick ridge of his muscles pressing against my chest, his thigh sliding between mine, pinning my legs to the seat. Every touch of his bare skin is torture, a wild, raw friction that makes me let out a soft, whimpering moan into his mouth.
He kisses me like he’s trying to consume me, like he’s trying to imprint his very soul onto my skin. His hands slide down my neck, his fingers tracing my collarbone, his thumb pressing hard against the pulse point at my throat.
I am completely lost. The storm outside, the coffee shop, the safety, the locks on my doors, they all burn to ashes in the heat of his touch. There is only him. Only his bare body, the taste of his mouth, and the terrifying, delicious certainty that I am falling past the point of return.
He pulls his mouth back a little, his lips brushing my jaw, his breathing ragged.
"You are mine, Lina," he growls against my throat, his grip on my waist tightening until it hurts. "Do you understand me? You are mine."
The words are a shock of cold water.
Mine. The possessive, dominant command rattles through my brain, triggering a sudden, sharp spike of my mother's warnings.
No one owns you, Lina. No promises. Don't let them have you.
I gasp, my hands pressing hard against his bare shoulders, pushing him back with all the strength I have left. "John... stop. We have to stop."
He freezes. His chest is heaving, his dark eyes completely black with blown-out lust, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth grate.
He looks down at me, his body still pinning mine to the velvet, and for a second, there's something different in his eyes—the cold, unyielding predator who doesn't take 'no' for an answer.
Then, slowly, the glacier returns.
He draws a deep, shuddering breath, his hands slowly releasing my waist. He rolls off me, sitting up on the edge of the chaise, his back to me as he runs both hands through his wet hair. His shoulder muscles flex, his spine a long, straight line of rigid control.
"My apologies," he says, his voice rough, flat, and completely devoid of the warmth from a moment ago. "I went too far."
I sit up, my hands shaking as I pull my yellow sweater down, my chest heaving as I try to find my breath. The silence in the shop is deafening, punctuated only by the crackle of the wood stove and the steady, quiet patter of the rain outside. The thunder has stopped.
"It's... it's okay," I whisper, my voice trembling. "I just... I can't do this."
"I know," he says, not looking back at me. He stands up, grabs his wet sweater from the floor, and pulls it back over his head. He slides into his dark wool coat, buttoning it up to his chin, his face turning back into that unreadable, granite mask. "Go home, Lina. The storm has passed."
"John—"
"I will see you tomorrow, neighbor," he says, his voice clipped and formal.
He turns and walks out the front door, the brass bell chiming a low, metallic note that sounds like a funeral toll in the quiet shop.
I stay on the emerald-velvet chaise lounge for a long, silent minute, my skin still burning where his hands touched me, my heart hammering a wild, confused rhythm. I look out the window at the dark, wet street.
And I touch my swollen, tingling lips in the dim light of the wood stove, I know one thing for certain.
I am in deep, deep trouble.