Page 47 of Wall

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go home.”

John’s smile engulfs his whole face. “Check, please.”

???

As soon as John pays, he morphs into a different man. He was a gentleman before, patient, calm, cool, and collected. Now? He’s a man on a mission.

He puts me in my coat, zips it up to my nose, grips my hand tightly in his, and rushes me out the door.

“John?” I’m trying to go slow. The dropping temps have frozen the slush puddles.

He half-mutters, half-growls, wraps his arm around my waist, and hoists me to his hip. In a few giant strides, we’re at the truck.

I’m breathless, the frigid air burning my lungs. But I feel light, too. Giddy.

John nearly flings me into the cab, pausing a second to skewer me with burning eyes which send a sizzle down my spine. “Buckle up.”

In seconds, he’s behind the wheel, and we’re pulling off onto the highway. It’s freezing—he didn’t wait to warm up the engine at all—and it’s so funny. He’s drumming on the steering wheel, flipping the radio from station to station, checking on me every half-second, but he is not letting the odometer go a mile past the speed limit.

We get passed by a guy in a Buick Skylark from the 90s.

“What are you grinning at?” John narrows his twinkling eyes. “That man’s a maniac.”

“He was going at least fifty-six.”

“Right? Madman.”

My lips twitch, and my jangly nerves begin to settle. The next time John fiddles with the radio, I swat his hand away. “Leave it.”

We listen to old-timey country the rest of the ride, and by the time we pull up to the house, the urgency’s gone, and we’ve gotten shy again.

John’s slow to come for me, his boots crunching in the snow. It’s dark now, and the moon is shining.

I take his hand. We walk together to the front door. He stops us on the porch. He cups my jaw with a calloused palm.

“You gonna let me in, baby?” His hand slips down to wrap around the back of my neck. He tilts my head back and drops a soft kiss on the corner of my mouth.

“Yes,” I exhale. It has the power of a starter pistol.

Somehow, he has the key, and he’s throwing open the door, edging me inside, and then my back’s to the wall, and his shirt’s unbuttoned, and my sweater’s on the floor and my hair is standing on end from the static electricity.

I try to smooth it down, and he steps back, taking me in. My breasts are heaving from trying to catch my breath. We’re in the middle of the dimly-lit living room, the only light coming from the corner lamp I always leave on.

He’s wearing a sleeveless undershirt. Oh, wow. Veins run down his bulging biceps and his solid forearms. His shoulders and his pecs are cut; even his neck is corded with muscle. His body is amazing.

I choke out a gulp. He grins.

He sees where I’m staring, and he flexes his pecs, making them twitch like they’ve been zapped. I giggle; I can’t help it.

He grins wider and does it again. Happy I’m happy. Like a silly kid.

Then his fingers drop to the button of his pants. My mouth waters. My breath catches. And then his hand falls to his side. Oh. He’s changed his mind. No. I follow his gaze. He hasn’t thought better of this; he’s completely enthralled by my breasts.

My nipples were already hard, but they tighten and chafe against the lace of my bra. He groans. My fingers fly up to the swells that spill out of the cups.

“Yes,” he exhales, closing the space between us in one, long stride, taking my face in his hands, gently easing my neck back so I meet his eyes.

“You want this, Mona?”

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