Page 48 of The Love Interest
He also knew he wanted her in bed with him before the night was through. There hadn’t been time for it in the few days since they’d met, but nearly every frenzied minute had been a prelude to sex. That’s how it felt to Jack, anyway.
He toweled off, gave himself a quick once-over in the steamed-up bathroom mirror, and put on the briefs and jeans he’d bought at the Walmart on the way here. Catalina had insisted on buying the DVD of a Pixar movie that was on sale by the cash register when he’d told her he hadn’t seen it. He had always thought he’d lived far too much of a life in his thirty-six years, but in the past few days, this woman had asked him if he’d seen or heard of or done twenty-seven different things, and the answer to twenty-six of them had been no.
When she’d ask him if he had ever been in love, he’d remained silent. He’d looked out the window of the Greyhound bus, and she’d touched his cheek with the backs of her fingers before resting her head on his shoulder and falling asleep. By the time she’d woken up, half an hour later, Jack had finally admitted to himself that he was in trouble. He had held his breath almost the entire time, it seemed, trying not to disturb her. He had inhaled the fragrance of her hair and had become hypnotized by the rhythm of the rising and falling of her chest. He had counted the number of freckles on her forearm and contemplated the meaning of the words that were tattooed around her wrist:What you seek is seeking you.
It was a Rumi quote, she had told him. He didn’t have a clue what that meant, but he did know that he had been seeking Catalina without realizing it—for years, perhaps. Ever since Marianne had been killed, he had searched all over the country and the world for someone else to live for. It was the last thing a man like him would admit to anyone. But admitting it to himself was the beginning of something that resembled inner peace. It made sense that he would attain this kind of inner peace on a crowded bus, traveling through a desert, while trying to elude killers and kidnappers.
That was before she had told him about her ex-husband. It was before he’d asked her about the thin scar that peeked out from her scalp on her forehead, the one she always tried to hide with her bangs. Before she had kissed him on the cheek when she woke up and thanked him for letting her borrow his shoulder.
Jack had forgotten to bring his new shirt into the bathroom with him. He combed his fingers through his hair and opened the door to the bedroom. He was planning to get dressed, set the table for dinner, and then charm the panties off of her by the time they’d finished the mint chocolate chip ice cream that she’d also insisted on buying. “This could be our last meal,” she had said, grinning. She had said the same thing the night before, at the beach, while convincing him to join her in having a beer with their fish tacos.
He would be the one doing the convincing tonight. Wordless but direct. That was his plan.
When he walked into the bedroom, he saw Catalina standing at the chest of drawers across the room, her back to him. She was barefoot, unfolding the new shirt that he had left there. She looked up into the mirror in front of her, holding Jack’s gaze in the reflection. She sucked in her breath when he took a step toward her. He paused, but she continued to hold his gaze. He approached slowly, never losing eye contact with her. When he reached her, he rested his hand on the small of her back.
She wouldn’t tell him how old she was. At times, she seemed impossibly young. At times, she seemed so much wiser than him. Right now, in her stillness, she was ageless and stunning. She exhaled, closed her eyes, and turned to face him. She didn’t embrace him and she didn’t make a move to kiss him, but he could tell that she wanted him. She wanted him to take her.
Her thin white blouse was unbuttoned, as always. His fingertips grazed her collarbone and her neck as he lifted the blouse from her shoulders. She was languid from growing up under the California sun, and her body started to sway a little, to that music in her head, as he let the shirt fall to the floor. He didn’t touch her breasts or the eager nipples that protruded through the sleeveless top she’d been wearing beneath her shirt. He had waited three days for this, and there would be time for that later. He brushed her hair to the side and kissed her neck, gently resting his hands on her hips. She reached behind herself to grip the edge of the chest of drawers, gasping as her head dropped back.
He could have pushed his knee up between her legs so her thighs would squeeze around it. He could have held her face in his hands and kissed her mouth, so deeply she could hardly breathe. He could have squeezed her ass and lifted her up onto the chest of drawers and ripped her tank top down the middle.
Jack’s wife had sometimes liked it rough, asked for it, and that had fascinated him.This woman—Catalina—seemed like she’d want it any which way he’d have her. But he would go slow with her for now. He had every intention of making love to her tomorrow—and the day after that and the day after that. But he knew better than to assume they’d get the chance again. The way things were going, this could be their last meal. Regardless, there would only be one first time with Catalina Calida, and he wanted to make sure she knew she could trust him. She could trust him to keep her safe. She could trust him to be a damn good kisser. And she could trust him to make this last all night long.
They both needed to eat and sleep, but they neededthisfirst.
He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her palm, kissed up the inside of her arm. From the inked bracelet of those mysterious words tattooed around her wrist, he planted kisses on her vanilla-scented skin. Vanilla and lavender and something exotic. She wouldn’t tell him. She was the meaning of life—unknowable and recognizable to him at the same time.
“Jack…don’t go so slow. You’re killing me with the slow…”
“I’m not killing you, darlin’, I’m giving you life.”
He snaked one arm around her waist, the other beneath her weak knees, and carried her to the bed.
“Oh, thank God,” she muttered.
He placed her down on the edge of the bed. “You can thank Jack for this, darlin’. I want to hearmyname more than God’s on your lips, you hear?”
She groaned because he raised her right leg up, that toned bare leg, and kissed the inside of it up to her inner thigh, just above the knee. He lowered her leg and himself to the floor. On his knees before her, he positioned himself between her legs. He stared into her hooded brown eyes as he reached under her loose skirt to pull down her panties. They were lacy and turquoise blue and very damp, and he admired them as he let them fall to the floor. She placed her hands on his chest, seemingly in awe of his muscular body. She traced the scars with her fingertips. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gave her a playful shove, encouraging her to lie back on the mattress.
She did. He tugged the waistband of her skirt down past her hips, kissed her from her pelvis up to her breastbone, pushing up the hem of her tank top as he went. By the time he reached her breasts, she was trembling all over. He circled her nipples with his tongue before kissing them, worshiping them, thanking them for being so enthusiastic ever since he had met her. His hand found her warm, wet center, and he heard his name—and God’s—ten times before she sat up and unzipped his jeans, demanding that he do the right thing and get inside of her immediately.
He did the right thing.
He did it until she was hoarse from crying out and they were both slick with sweat. Until they were energized and exhausted from trying so hard to merge so they could understand each other somehow. Or until they could forget about trying to understand why they had crashed into each other so fearlessly and completely. They clung to each other and let go of their pasts, for a moment or an hour. It didn’t matter.
They felt good. For a moment or an hour. It didn’t matter. It was good, and it was true. Even when it was over, at least they’d had each other for one night.
It wasn’t dark yet, so Jack could see the tiny scar on Catalina’s forehead. She was completely naked, and her eyes were closed, and her breath was slowing, and she was so beautiful. But all he could do was touch the scar on her forehead with his fingertip and wonder what else he could do to erase her memories of what had scarred her and—if erasing those memories would also erase his.
23
WILLIAM DEXTER
You Can Viscount on Me by Fiona Walker – Chapter Six (alternate version)
My Darling, Irrepressible Wife,
Bloody hell.
