Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
He never stood a chance.
Once is enough.
Carpet burns are the least of my concerns.
He should have.
But.
Maybe it was the hour. Maybe it was the dark. That stretch of time between today and tomorrow, when thoughts go soft around the edges and reality tilts just enough to feel like fiction. As though tomorrow was too far away to worry about.
“If I were any stronger,” John murmured, “I’d kick your ass out of my house right now.”
And then—his hands were on my thighs, lifting me. Pinning me against the door.
A sharp gasp escaped me, but he swallowed it instantly with his mouth. His hips pressed me into the wood, his hands already working at the zipper of my leather jacket. It dropped with a heavy thud.
My fingers gripped his silken hair, then traced the defined muscles of his broad shoulders. His back. His spine. I couldn’t get enough of him. A slow, deliberate roll of his hips made me mumble incoherent words into his mouth.
He gripped my ass—rough, not cruel. Just perfect. Lifting me off the door like I weighed nothing.
Still kissing, still clinging, we crashed backward toward the sofa. The very same sofa where, not 24 hours ago, we’d been drinking beer and watching zombies rip out fake intestines.
How did that evening feel like an entirely different life, yet this moment the unavoidable continuation?
He dropped onto the cushions with me straddling him. The motion wasn’t entirely smooth—his laugh caught in my mouth as I adjusted my knees around him. My hands planted on either side of his face.
His arms cinched around my waist, dragging me closer until his arousal pressed perfectly against my center. I melted—fully, morphing into a willing puddle. His mouth was hot and wet, and when he pulled away to breathe, I followed him. Like the beckoning of the tide.
I tried to memorize everything:
The way his hand brushed my breast through my sweater.
The way he gripped my thighs like they were lifelines.
The way he tugged the sweater over my head and tossed it aside.
The way our bodies clicked into place.
His tongue traced my tattoos. Up my ribs. Across my collarbone. He scraped his stubble against my neck, soft and scratchy, before finding the one spot behind my ear that turned me into liquid.
“Fuck,” I gasped, rolling harder against him.
He bit down—soft but sure. Testing. Like I was a delicacy that he couldn’t believe he got to taste.
I grabbed a fistful of his hair and kissed him again. Desperate. Breathless. Fumbling for the button of his jeans.
He reached down to help, then paused, tugging his jeans partway off. I rose on unsteady legs, watching the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
He looked like a goddamn painting. Messy, breathless, beautiful art. His curls were a halo of chaos. His face, lit faintly by the marina lights, looked sculpted. Unreal.
“Ready for that kiss?” I asked, trying to hold on to some sliver of cool-girl confidence. But my voice cracked. My hands shaking.
John huffed a breathy laugh. “I never stood a chance, did I?”
I grinned. But I didn’t answer.
Instead, I dropped to my knees between his. Slowly. Deliberately.
His breath hitched as I let my fingers graze his thighs—nails dragging just enough to make him twitch. Just as I did, he seemed to enjoy the slightest edge of pain.
I slid a finger beneath the waistband of his boxers. A strangled sound falling from his lips.
“Not good? Should I stop?” I asked.
“Nora,” he warned.
God, I loved the way he said my name.
I freed him from his restraints, slow and deliberate.
My mouth began to water. I lowered my head, licking a single line up his length—from base to tip. Salt bloomed on my tongue. John went taut, his whole body strung like a bow. Eyes fluttered shut. I pressed one soft kiss at the top, then sat back on my heels.
“There. Out of my system.”
His eyes snapped open. Dark. Blazing.
His fingers dug into the cushions beside him, knuckles white even in the dim light.
“Shall I go now?” I tilted my head, voice level. Like this wasn’t tearing me apart. Like I wasn’t seconds away from crawling back into his lap and begging him to fuck me.
But I didn’t have to wait long.
In one motion, John surged forward—gripping my waist, lifting me onto the coffee table behind us. Anything in the way hit the floor: mugs, books, a dish that shattered somewhere in the background. My jeans joined the chaos, and his mouth was on my skin before I could even blink.
He kissed his way up my legs, across my stomach, tracing each line of ink, every pucker of scar tissue.
Hot fingers found the curve of my breast, then tugged my bra aside. The night air brushed over my skin, replaced instantly by the hot press of his tongue—then teeth. I arched too fast, the back of my head smacking the table, and I laughed. Breathless. Dizzy.
John chuckled too, and it was the sexiest sound I’d ever heard.
Then his hand slipped beneath the edge of my underwear, dragging it aside. A single finger slid over my soaked center—then dipping into me. My arousal was impossible to hide. I gasped, hips bucking. We groaned at the same time, his voice low and reverent.
“Fucking finally,” he murmured. “You feel incredible.”
He watched his hand as it rhythmically stroked in and out of me. Deeper with each thrust. The cool metal of his watch grazing my inner thigh with each movement.
John licked his lips. Then lowered his head to cup my swollen centre with his mouth. Heat seeped through the fabric that was still covering me there. He bit, sucked and licked and I never hated clothing this much.
We should have been doing this all the time.
I dug one hand into his hair and pressed him further into me. He groaned and the vibrations of his voice set my nerves on fire.
John replaced his tongue with his thumb, pressing hard and bit the inside of my thigh.
I choked out a sob, arching from the table. Pushing his teeth deeper into my flesh. He rewarded me with more bites, then gentle licks over the small wounds. A wolf having a meal, then licking the bones clean. Pain ebbed into pleasure and I writhed under him, desperate for more.
Normally, I was all for a slow burn, drawn-out, teasing foreplay. But tonight? Super-horny-Nora didn’t even have the word patience in her vocabulary.
Judging by the strain on his face, the way the muscle in his jaw flicked, John and I were on the same page.
His brow furrowed. “I don’t know if I have condoms. Birth control?”
I shook my head. “I’m tested, and…”
I took his hand and guided it up to my scar. The one across my lower abdomen, where the window glass had once cut deep. “I can’t…” My voice faltered. I’d never said it out loud before.
But John’s expression stayed calm. Understanding. The fire behind his eyes still burning brightly.
He nodded, dark curls falling over his strong brow. He bent down and kissed my scar with so much tenderness it ached. Then he lifted one of my legs gently to the side and paused, waiting for permission.
I nodded.
When he nudged my entrance, there was the sweet sting of fullness. The heady promise of more. More pressure. More heat. More John.
Slowly, he pushed inside—stretching me, inch by inch. My head rolled back, eyes shut tight, then forced open again. I didn’t want to miss a single moment.
“Fuck.” I don’t know who said it first.
I gripped the edges of the coffee table.
With both my legs wrapped around his waist, John drew back—then rolled into me again. Deep. Deliberate. Controlled.
His knees were firm on the ground and he steadied us both as he built a slow, torturous rhythm, filling me completely. Every movement he stretched me more, wound me tighter. He lifted my legs over his shoulders, angling me just so, sliding deeper into me.
And my last clear thought was—
This is the hottest moment of my life.
I felt him everywhere, yet I still pulled him down to me—needing more. Our mouths met again, deeper, hungrier, as his rhythm quickened. My chest scraped against the buttons of his shirt, and I tore at them, desperate for his skin on mine.
A hand slid beneath my back, lifting me off the table and fully onto him.
The rough carpet scraped my bare knees, but all I could feel was the deep, breathtaking fullness as he moved inside me.
John finally yanked off his shirt, then my bra followed.
When our bare skin touched, we both let out shameless, primal sounds—at the heat, the feel of it.
His fingers dug into my hips, guiding my movement, anchoring me to him.
I secretly hoped they’d leave finger-shaped bruises, so I could replay this moment by tracing them.
I still couldn’t believe it was John Kater I tasted on my tongue.
That it was his expensive cologne that lingered on my skin.
I wanted to freeze this moment in time—this moment where he was entirely, undeniably mine.
“You’re so fucking soft,” he growled into my ear, his breath scorching. “You taste so fucking good.”
I buried my face in his hair, my lips brushing over his brow, his nose, every piece of him I could reach.
When he hit the spot that made the world spin, I gasped—and he kissed the breath back into me.
Each thrust was punctuated by a kiss. A band in me began to tighten.
A release starting to built. So did the ache to stop time, wanting this to never end.
His arms locked around me tighter, and I felt my body clench, a singular focus overtaking everything else. I barely registered the burn on my knees as he gritted his teeth and drove deeper, over and over. Harder, faster with every punishing thrust. My shaking hands scrambled for hold in his hair.
Pinpricks of light danced at the edges of my vision as I came apart. Me coming undone made him lose the last restraints he’d kept on himself. It was a strange feeling seeing John Kater unravel beneath me…I wished I could get used to it.
Our mouths met again, this time slower, languid. No urgency, just heat and breath. His arms loosened, and his hands glided over my back in soft, lazy strokes. Where we’d been tight and ravenous before, now we were loose, heavy-limbed, slick with sweat, and drowning in gentle kisses.
I didn’t want the moment to end. Because I knew exactly what came next.
As if on cue, John pulled back and pressed his forehead against mine.
“That was fucking stupid,” he said, breath hitching in short bursts through his nose.
“You’re a real charmer, you know that?”
He leaned back, studying my face with an expression too careful, too measured.
Suddenly, I couldn’t bare to look at him. “I wish I had a smoke,” I muttered, focusing on the faint yellow streetlight glowing off the water beyond the patio.
“I have some. By the window,” John replied, his voice quieter now. His hands had stilled.
“Aren’t you full of surprises.”
I stood, suddenly aware of the cool night air.
Of the bareness of me in front of him. I grabbed a blanket from the sofa—the same one I’d curled under just last night—and stepped outside.
The city hum and chilled air wrapped around me like a second skin.
I leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.
The flame flared bright, a brief glow in the dark.
A moment later, John joined me. He’d pulled on his pants but nothing else. Our shoulders brushed as he stood beside me, close but not touching. Smoke filled my lungs. I closed my eyes, savoring the burn.
Then he took the cigarette from between my fingers. The ember glowed again as he inhaled. The red light caressing his features.
“And did it work?” he asked, voice low.
I turned, pressing my flushed face against the cool stone wall. Watching the lines of his bare torso shift in the moonlight as he looked back at me.
“Did you get me out of your system?” he asked.
I took the cigarette back, inhaling as my eyes drifted across the skyline beyond the scattered row of mismatched houseboats. Buying time. Pushing down the words I wanted to say. Words like Never. And Impossible.
Instead, I exhaled and said, “I have no fucking clue how you got in there in the first place. It definitely wasn’t your charming personality.”
“Neither was it yours.”
“Fuck you.” I laughed.
He joined in. Some of the tension between us eased—just a sliver, but enough to breathe.
I stepped toward the edge of the patio, where a low privacy fence shielded us partially from view. I stubbed the last of the cigarette into a snow-filled plant pot. It hissed as it melted a dark crater into the pristine white.
A cold breeze whipped across the deck, lifting my hair and sending goosebumps down my bare arms.
John had gone quiet. I turned to check if he was still there.
He was.
Watching me.
“This wouldn’t be so hard,” he said quietly, “if you weren’t so goddamn beautiful.”
A smile tugged at my mouth. I tilted my head, loosening my grip on the blanket just enough. The fabric slid, slow and deliberate, slipping from my shoulders, over the curve of my breast, until both were bare against the chill of the night.
My nipples peaked beneath the moonlight’s kiss. The blanket pooled at my waist.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
His jaw flexed. “It is.”
I could imagine what he saw: my collarbones glowing silver in the moonlight, the sharp line of my black bob brushing my jaw, a woman half-naked and unapologetic, framed by the city’s skyline. Forbidden. Untouchable. His—if he dared.
“Maybe once wasn’t enough,” I said. “Won’t matter if I leave now or...” I raised a brow, slipping back into the version of myself that didn’t care. The girl who never stayed the night.
Before I could finish that thought, John stepped forward. Lifted me in one swift motion.
My back hit the rough wall of the house, the wood cool against my spine. His arms caged me in. His breath was fire.
“Just this night,” he said, his voice gravel, heat, and warning.
Then he kissed me like he was trying to ruin me for anyone else.