“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, watchingAnnie 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 mouthalong 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.”
