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God, it feels too good the way he’s exploring me with those small kisses, as if he can’t really help himself. I can’t either. My hand slowly runs up and down his trim waist. I struggle to keep track of the conversation, and then it hits me. “Oh,” I say, in a burst. “It’s lavender.”
John pauses for a second. “I hate lavender.”
“Wait. You hate the way I smell? Stop talking in circles.”
He sighs. “You’re trying to pick a fight, aren’t you?” He nips my side with his fingers. “We’ll talk about why in a minute.”
I glare down at his head, not that he sees me. He’s too busy fiddling with my shirt, running a finger along a fold in the fabric.
His voice stays low. “I’m pretty sure you heard me earlier when I said you smell nice. So it can’t be lavender. I fucking hate lavender. Had this assistant once—June. She loved that crap. Thought it was calming and put all these lavender oil sticks everywhere. Gave me the worst headaches.”
I can’t help but smile. “There’s a huge difference between cheap essential oils and the actual plant. I have potted lavender on the terrace, in my bedroom, and in the living room. Use bundles of it to keep my clothes smelling fresh.”
He breathes in deep and then lets it out slowly. Pleasure shivers through me, my skin prickling.
Kiss me. Let me taste you. I need it. The words stick in my throat. I’m nearly vibrating with want, and he feels it. He has to, because he tenses. For a hot second, I expect him to raise his head and find my mouth with his. But he doesn’t move. Instead, he clears his throat.
“Thank you for coming to find me,” he says.
I lie there, slick and burning, not sure what to do with the formality of his tone or the fact that he’s stopped exploring me. “Of course,” I say, staring at his bent head, and the way it makes him appear defeated. Whatever is bothering him still weighs him down. “You want to tell me what set you off?”
The muscles along his neck and shoulder go rock hard. Though he doesn’t move, I can feel every inch of him withdraw, as if a massive wall has slid between us. “It wasn’t any one thing. It just happened.”
He’s lying. I don’t know how I know, I just do. But I can’t force trust. I can only support. “You know what I think we should do?”
John shifts against me, sending a delicious tremor into my lower belly that I studiously ignore.
“What should we do, Button?” His teasing tone is back, but he’s easing away. So much for sex. Maybe all he really needed was a bit of physical comfort. Despite now being horny as all hell, I don’t begrudge him that. Comforting people is my wheelhouse, and I’m more than happy to give that to John.
“Order a pizza and watch a movie.”
The bed barely moves as he flops onto his back and rests his head on his hand. His hair is mussed and there are circles under his eyes, but he doesn’t look lost anymore. “Who gets to pick the movie?”
“Me. Obviously.”
He flashes a quick smile. “Obviously. What are you going to torture me with, little mint thief?”
“For that, I should pick a Twilight marathon.” I smile evilly as John groans. “But I’m feeling magnanimous. I’ll go with the Lord of the Rings trilogy.”
John stares at me for a long moment, his lips slightly parted. A strange look flits through his eyes, then he slowly smiles. “How did you know those are my favorite movies? No one knows that.”
Pleased, I smooth back a tuft of his unruly hair from his furrowed forehead. “Because we have scarily similar tastes, remember?”
The corners of his eyes crinkle as he swoops down and gives me a swift, light kiss on the cheek. With that, John rolls over and hauls himself out of the bed. Uttering another groan, he lifts his arms over his head and lean, tight muscles stretch out, exposing a line of flat abs and smooth skin. “You know, Stella,” he says when his arms fall loose and relaxed at his sides, “you’re a Mary Poppins.”
“Mary Poppins?” I repeat, watching him saunter into the bathroom. “Like a governess?”
He stops in the doorway and glances back. “Practically perfect in every way.”
Chapter Fourteen
Stella
* * *
I’m brewing coffee the next morning when an email comes in from Dr. Stern. At first, I don’t pay it much attention. She reminds me to finish off the last of my antibiotics and stay hydrated. I know this well. But it’s the rest of her report that has the blood slowing in my veins. Apparently, I’m also free of any sexually transmitted diseases.
It’s not like I don’t remember Dr. Stern asking if I wanted a complete checkup, including blood work for any possible STDs. At the time, I thought it kind of her to be so thorough. Now, however, it has me pausing. Because a forgotten memory flickers to life. She’d said John was worried, that he’d wanted me to get those tests, but that it was up to me to choose. Some fuzzy ignorant part of me had hoped it was his weird way of assuring both of us were safe for sex. But her use of “worried” makes me wonder why.
