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.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Some mistakes were made.
Not my first one-night stand.
I truly, truly hate John Kater.
At first, I was disoriented.
Then came the full-body jolt.
I was in John Kater’s bed. With John Kater.
Fucking hell.
I blinked against the too bright morning light. Trying to get my bearings.
Beside me, John’s back rose and fell in a steady rhythm. His dark curls sprawled over the pristine white pillow. His long lashes rested in stillness. The curtain cast a soft shadow over his cheekbone, his three day stubble.
My heart thudded wildly. The urge to lean in, to drag my nose along the line of his shoulder, to breathe him in, was almost too much.
Instead, I pulled away. Craning my neck to survey the scene of the crime. My clothes were scattered across the room. I had no clue where my phone or my underwear were. An industrial-looking clock on a mid-century dresser told me it was half way through the morning.
I sat up—and didn’t know what the hell to feel.
There was giddiness. A buzz in my fingertips. They itched to brush the warmth of his skin.
There was lust. Echoed by the sweet ache that pulsed between my legs. I could just climb back under the covers and kiss him awake.
But then my sensible self reminded me that this was bad news.Verybad. He’d wake, look at me, and regret every second. Or worse—he’d pretend nothing happened.
But wasn’t this why I came here in the first place? Maybe the tension was finally broken. Maybe now we could go back to good old-fashioned mutual loathing.
Why didn’t I feel relieved then?
I laid back, staring at the ceiling, willing time to slow. To just stay here in this suspended moment. Keep him beside me a little while longer. Bathe in the scent of us—me and him. Skin and sweat and something I couldn’t name.
Then he stirred.
I panicked.
I tiptoed out of bed, hunting through the war zone of clothes and blankets in the living room. Found my jeans and my bra (under the coffee table).
I touched my swollen lips in the mirror. A red mark bloomed along my neck. My eyes were glassy. How was any of this real?
Flashes came back: John shoving my jacket off my shoulders. His tongue moving with mine. His fingers in my hair, his body pressing into mine, inside me?—
I gripped the sink. My breath came fast. My chest tightened with something that felt suspiciously like longing.
Get it together, Nora.
