Chapter 33 #2
He took another large sip of whiskey, then sat beside me. The sofa dipped, moving me closer. “My father, well, he isn’t, actually. My father, that is. Mom…” He shook his head. Now it was his turn to be at a loss for words.
I patted his shoulder like a coach. “Try again, chap.”
“I’m adopted.”
“Ah.”
“My mother…” A shadow flitted over his face.
“She wanted a child, but she couldn’t have her own.
So my parents adopted me when I was seven.
He never showed much interest in me and made it clear I was Mom’s responsibility.
The thing to keep her occupied while he traveled.
” A hollow laugh slipped from his lips. “Like a dog.”
“I didn’t see him much for the first couple of years. And when I did, he made it clear that I disappointed him in every way. I wasn’t smart enough. Not clean-cut enough. Not man enough. Not enough like him.”
Right. This turned dark quickly. I hadn’t expected John to open up to me this way, but now that he had started, he couldn’t seem to stop.
“Mom and I lived in…we lived close by. Just me and her most of the time. I was happy. Felt like I finally had a home.” He took another swig, letting the bottle dangle from one hand.
“She’s the reason I adore rom-coms. She was happiest with me curled up beside her, watching Annie Hall, Moonstruck, When Harry Met Sally.
” He smiled to himself. “Stories that make you feel like everything will be alright.”
John, the conundrum. And yet, the parallels of my relationship to my dad weren’t lost on me.
He brushed his hand over his face. “She died of cancer when I was fourteen.”
“Shit.” I winced. I felt like I was sitting in front of a mirror. There was a sliver of darkness we both shared, a twin pain that other people wouldn’t understand.
“Instead of letting me grieve with the only family I had left— him— my father, shipped me off to boarding school in England.” His voice cracked.
“So, I went to the schools, studied the things, dressed the way I was supposed to.” He twisted his silver watch.
“He was thrilled when I got engaged to Vivian.”
“You’re enough the way you are. You know that, right?”
John looked pained by my words. For a while he didn’t say anything, just studied my face.“You have no idea how much I wish I could freeze this moment in time.”
I turned my head ever so slightly, my forehead brushing his chin.
His throat bobbed as he looked down at me.
Disheveled. Tired. Slightly drunk. It was as if the tight hold he had on his press-persona had disintegrated completely.
I could see the real John—the raw pieces of him, the ones that weren’t perfect. It made my heart ache.
Now that I had let myself touch him, I found I couldn’t stop.
It was an odd craving, because it intensified the more you gave in.
Our noses brushed first, then our lips. Gentle, slow.
As if we’d be content to just stay here…
in this space, breathing one another in.
As if by slowing down, we could slow down time as well.
When John’s tongue slipped tentatively between my lips, and I answered with mine—it felt like coming home, yet the most exhilarating thing in the world at the same time.
John’s hand wound around my throat, tilting my face toward him, and then he kissed me with the intensity of a 1940s movie star. Slow, indulgent drawls, deeper with each tilt. My head rolled to the side and he cupped my chin, his thumb sliding over my bottom lip. I could taste the salt on it.
“I feel like I can’t breathe when I’m around you,” John said, kissing me again. “Promise me you won’t hate me when this is over.” The bottle clanked to the floor, then rolled under a stack of graphic novels.
“Just a little,” I said, gasping at the sensation.
He pulled back, his expression serious. “Nora, please.”
My body reacted to his touches like a junkie waiting for the next fix. I couldn’t think straight. “I don’t think I could hate you even if I tried,” I said before I could stop myself. And was rewarded with him taking his shirt off. I repaid the favor. Shirts should be outlawed, really.
I sat atop him as he watched the swell of my breasts rising and falling, the shadow of raindrops on the ink sprawled over my body, around my scar.
“Would this be a terrible moment to ask you to run away with me?”
I covered the pain his question caused by putting on a sly smile. Then I slid to my knees.
“My turn.”
“Shit,” he said, grasping the sofa.
I unbuttoned his pants, pulled the zipper down, and tugged on his jeans until they stopped at his knees.
My lips planted slow kisses on the fabric that covered the swell of his erection. His hand found its way into my hair. But he didn’t push or grab. He patiently twirled the strands between his fingertips.
“You don’t have to…” He gasped as I tugged him free.
I kissed the length of John’s silken skin; he was already rock-hard.
Curses were muttered. John gasped and groaned my name, saying things that made me think he might be a poet after all.
Words like "Beautiful" and "Perfect." It thrilled me when his grip tightened in my hair. With parted lips, I brushed my mouth along the sides, following with my hand. Never breaking contact. He bucked his hips up, then immediately apologized. I planted my hands on his hips and pushed them down, taking him as far as I could without making it uncomfortable. I was in control. John’s eyes flitted shut, and he whispered my name. I smiled as I swirled my tongue over the tip. I could’ve done this for hours.
But I felt John tense after just a minute of me tasting him.
“Can I…?” he gasped, and I knew exactly what he wanted. To finish in my mouth.
I shook my head. That was one thing—no matter how hot the guy—that was a hard no for me.
“Okay,” he gasped, swallowing hard. No complaints, no puppy eyes to make me feel bad. Just restraint.
“Hold it,” I said, slowing my movements and kissing my way up his stomach, tracing the trail of hair with my lips. “Just pretend I’m Uncle Fester.”
He let out a strained laugh. “That’ll do it.”
John lifted me onto his hip, reminding me just how large his hands were as he cupped every curve of me.
“The first time I saw you in that bikini, Nora—good lord.” John’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I was hard for you instantly.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said, but sucked in a breath when his teeth grazed the underside of my breast.
If anyone had told me six months ago that I’d be making out with John freakin' Kater in Dad’s store, I’d have changed my name and left the country. Never in a million years did I think this would feel so…Bowie help me.
John had freed me from my jeans. When we joined, he hit that spot again. A place I thought was rooted in gossip and fairy tales. Sex with him felt like sex people wrote about, not what you experience in real life. John Kater really fucking knew what he was doing.
My back arched, and I grasped the back of the sofa.
“Fuck,” I said, burying my hands in his hair, pulling him closer—if that was even possible.
I bit into his shoulder when his body pressed all the air out of my lungs.
He grunted as my teeth left marks, repaying me by leaving bites along my collarbone.
I watched as his stomach muscles contracted with every push.
Ignoring the complaints of the vintage sofa beneath us, our fingers intertwined and foreheads touched.
His arms began to tremble. I pushed against him, meeting him halfway, deepening the sensation.
He slid a hand between us to circle my spot as our kisses got more frantic, words slurring. Just then—
The bottom gave out. We tumbled, still connected, to the floor. I caught my breath, laughing and panting at the same time, as I beheld the remnants of what used to be my favorite spot in the store.
“That’s a first,” John said, still gasping on top of me.
Laughter rushed through me. “Your penis broke my sofa.” I cried tears, gasping for air as wave after wave of silly giggles shook me.
John’s hands framed my face, and he was grinning too. “I need that as an inscription on my headstone.”