Fall

by Callihan, Kristen

  He nods but keeps his attention on the far wall.

  God, I’ve messed this up. I’m a professional friend, for fuck’s sake, but I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with John. He never reacts how I’ll expect, and I’m totally out of my element here. I stand by the edge of the couch and wring my hands. “I don’t understand. You were worried about me because—”

  “You kissed me,” he cuts in with a rasping voice. “The night we met. I was infected then and didn’t know it.”

  His eyes lower and he studies his clenched fists.

  “Oh,” I say.

  A snort leaves him. “Yeah, oh.”

  In the resounding silence I hear the blood rushing through my veins. I’ve hurt him.

  He sighs and runs his hand over his messy hair. “As soon as I found out, I asked Dr. Stern about that kiss. If you were safe. She assured me it was okay. But I kind of freaked when you had a sore throat.”

  I would have too. Logic doesn’t always listen when fear shouts in your head.

  He stares up at me with solemn eyes. “I should have told you. But fuck if I could find a good way to say, oh, hey, I know you don’t think the best of me but let me add one more thing to the list.”

  “I don’t think badly of you, John.” He has to know that.

  His fists clench, then he flexes his fingers as if trying to shake something off. “I’m tainted, Stella.”

  “You are not tainted,” I grind out. “A good round of antibiotics will clear you up and life goes on.”

  He snorts, his brows winging up with a look of bemused irritation. “I took the meds. I am clean now. I have been for two weeks.”

  “Then what you do mean—”

  “Because that label will always hang over me,” he cuts. “Jax Blackwood, tainted. A pathetic joke. Fuckup—”

  “Stop,” I snap. “Just stop that crap right now.”

  He frowns at me. “What crap?”

  “You think you’re tainted and pathetic because you contracted an STD? Do you know how many people contract diseases? How many people have died because of one? Are you really going to sit there and call them that?”

  His expression turns mulish, and he glances away.

  I push on. “I doubt many people go looking to get a disease. And even if they weren’t acting responsibly, should that matter? Don’t put that shame on them, on yourself. Don’t be one of those people who acts like their shit doesn’t stink, who think that by shaming others who have fucked up or face misfortune, it will protect them from unfortunate things befalling them as well. It’s false comfort at best, and there’s already too much judgment in the world as it is.”

  John rubs a hand over his face and sighs. “Can we skip the lecture? I’m simply telling you what the world already thinks of me.”

  “I don’t give a shit what the world thinks of you, and neither should you.”

  His brows snap together. “Just like that, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  Red flushes over his cheeks as he sits up and leans toward me. “Until that tidal wave of judgment washes your way, you haven’t got a clue. No, I don’t want to give a shit what people think, but I do. I feel it. Right here.” He stabs at his chest with his thumb. “I feel it every time I walk outside and someone recognizes me. They used to look at me with adoration. Now, it’s either pity or a smirk or both, and I fucking hate it. But most of all, I hate that I care.”

  His words ring in the ensuing silence between us. Anger crackles over him, his chest rising and falling in agitation. I don’t avert my eyes; it feels like a betrayal to do so.

  I clear my throat, swallowing the need to touch him. “I’m sorry. It was out of line to get all self-righteous on you. You’re right; I don’t have a clue how it must feel.” I raise a hand, then let it fall. “I’m sorry.”

  All the stiffness leaves him on a heavy exhale, and he sinks back onto the couch cushions. “Ah, hell, don’t give me that look. I can’t take it.”

  “What look? I’m not giving a look.” I’m honestly not—my contrition is real.

  He tilts his head my way, a slight smile on his lips. “Yes, you are.”

  “I’m not. I swear, John.”

  The smile grows. But it’s thin and weary. “It’s a look, all right. Those big, sad blue eyes, full of worry and regret. It hurts to see it.”

  My lips twitch and I fight my own smile, because I know he isn’t angry anymore. “It upsets me that I added to your grief. I was trying to be helpful.”

  His laugh is husky. “Stella Button, you annoy the hell out of me sometimes, but I like that you’re willing to fight my battles. Even if you’re fighting me while doing it.”

  Relief flows through me, taking the strength from my knees. “Well, then, I should probably confess that I meant what I said.”

  He snorts. And it sounds an awful lot like “No shit, Stells.”

  I choose to ignore it. “You are not tainted or pathetic. I will never see you that way.”

  As soon as I say the words, I’m embarrassed. Not because they aren’t true, but it feels like they’ve revealed too much, and he’s too silent. We’re facing each other, but I can’t really look him in the eye. Maybe he can’t either because his gaze is hazy, almost lost.

  Uncomfortable heat cramps my insides and pricks at my skin. I want to turn and walk away, but I can’t move. That too would reveal things I don’t want seen.

  A deep breath moves through him like a sigh, and then he blinks as though coming out of a fog. When he looks at me again, his eyes are bright, like green glass in the sun. A man’s eyes shouldn’t be that expressive. It makes a woman forget to keep up her defenses.

  “Stells,” he whispers, “where have you been all my life?”

  A lump rises in my throat. “Drifting.”

  The corner of his lip quirks. “Well, stop. Don’t drift away.”

  “Okay.” It’s a croak of sound, my chest too tight for more.

  His expression twists and becomes pained. “You wouldn’t be so quick to agree if you really knew what I was thinking.”

  My heart thuds hard against my ribs.

  Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

  “What are you thinking, John?”

  From beneath lowered lids, he watches me, his long, lean body suddenly loose and languid on the couch. “I want to kiss you.”

  My breath escapes in a whoosh. “Just that?”

  God, please do it. Over and over.

  “For now,” he says quietly. But I see him retreating into himself.

  It’s shame. No matter what I say, he still believes he’s damaged goods.

  “And if I want you to do more than kiss me?” I ask, pushing.

  The light in his eyes dims further. “Button …” His voice cracks and he swallows. “You’ve got to learn not to take me seriously. I say stupid shit all the time. I’m not the guy for you.”

  My heart drops to my toes. I should believe him; why would he lie? There’s a thread of truth in his words. I can hear it clearly. I should let it go. The voice in my head—the one that always seems to show up and tell me that I’m a failure—is insisting that I’d never have a chance with a man like John. He is a legend and I’m just plain old me.

  Thing is, I hate that bitch; she’s ruled too much of my life as it is. I suspect most of us have a similar voice, an invasive naysayer who tries its best to make us hate ourselves. I suspect John has one that turns into a full-on scream some days.

  I take a deep breath, press my cold palms to my hips. “It was bullshit, then? You wanting to kiss me?”

  The muscles along his torso and arms visibly clench. And for a second, I wonder if he won’t answer me. But then he does, all hard tones and rasping pain. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the night we met and you stole one from me. I want to learn your flavor, the sounds you make, how you’ll move against me when I taste you.”

  His eyes go hot, focused on my lips. “I think about your mouth all the time. Those teasing little freckles, the
soft curve of your upper lip, the stubborn fullness of your bottom lip.” He husks out a laugh. “Stella Button, it’s downright embarrassing how much I think about kissing you.”

  “But you won’t.” I don’t even know how I’m talking right now. Inside, I’m a damn puddle of heat and hazy want.

  “No.”

  I feel that “no” like a kick in my chest. I should drop it and save myself further humiliation. But I can’t. “Why?”

  His hand shakes as he runs it through his hair. “Sex confuses things. Especially for me. I don’t know what to do once it’s over. It could break us, Stella. And I can’t afford to lose you.”

  Jesus, the things he says to me. How can he possibly think he’d lose me?

  “Or it can be the beginning of us,” I counter, heart in my throat—in my hands, because I might has well have set it right in his lap.

  His expressive mouth quirks, fighting a smile, but he looks tired and resigned. “I won’t fall in love with you, Stells.”

  That hurts, but it’s not like I didn’t expect it. I’m not sure I even want love. Love equals loss in my world. I don’t want to hurt anymore. But I do want John. That much I’m finally willing to admit. Because denying it hurts too. “Who said anything about falling in love?”

  His smile is faint. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  Oddly, he sounds almost disappointed. Beneath lowered lids, he watches me walk toward him. With each step closer, my heart beats harder and faster. The couch creaks a little as I put my knee on it. I straddle John, moving with a liquid languor like I’m flowing through water.

  His big hands settle on my hips, and his grip is firm when he pulls me closer until the notch of my sex presses against the growing bulge in his pants. We both suck in a breath.

  Light-headed and awash with heat, I lean into him, the tips of my breasts brushing his bare chest. My hand cups his neck, and the rapid beat of his pulse plays against my fingertips. Still, he watches me, silent and unmoving, his muscles tense.

  “John?” I whisper, our lips close enough that his soft breath tickles mine.

  His voice is just as soft when he answers. “Yeah, babe?”

  “May I kiss you?”

  A tremor goes through him, and he swallows hard. “You’re asking me?” The disbelief in his voice is faint but there all the same. His grip on my hips tightens and tugs.

  I adjust my seat, my sex pressing more firmly into his swelling cock. “Anyone ever ask you before?”

  Up close, his eyes are pure green, his lashes thick and soft; he’s almost too beautiful to look at. He blinks, those lashes sweeping. “No. Can’t say it’s ever mattered before.”

  Before.

  It matters now. Because he’s been sitting here believing he’s tarnished, thinking I didn’t want him.

  My fingers trace the strong column of his throat. “Thing is, I think about kissing you too. Ever since I stole that first one, I’ve wanted more.” John’s hand slides up my back as I talk, his fingers tangling into the damp heat of my hair. I shiver with pleasure, my confession coming out in a breathless rush. “Whenever I open my mouth to talk to you, I’m afraid I’ll beg for another kiss, just a little taste of you—”

  “Stella?” he cuts in, his gaze hot on mine.

  “Yeah?”

  “Kiss me.”

  So I do. And it’s so good that my entire body sighs with relief before melting with heat and need. His mouth opens to mine like he’s been waiting an eternity to feel me, taste me. I’m wrapped around him, as close as I can get, our tongues gliding, our lips slow dancing.

  John grunts, low and impatient, his grip in my hair tightening. He tilts his head, trying to get more of me. And I feel it everywhere, as though my body is attached to strings that draw up tight, clenching every muscle with desire. We kiss like that until we can’t breathe, then draw away panting, only to come back to each other again. And again. Deep, luscious kisses that only last a few seconds before we try another and another.

  John catches my lower lip and suckles. “Oh, fuck, you feel ... I’ve needed you …” He kisses me with soft greed, his hand moving over my body like he’s memorizing every dip and curve. “I’ve needed you, Stells. Needed this. Just this.”

  I’ve needed it too. I didn’t realize how much until I’d touched him.

  His lips skim over my neck, scattering shivers along my skin. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”

  He does too, his hair cool and silky in my hands, his jaw rough with stubble that tickles my lips. And the whole time, he’s rocking against me, working his hips in a slow, beckoning motion that makes me slightly frantic with lust.

  Our mouths come together and it’s explosive this time, our control slipping. I cup the hard caps of his shoulders, my fingers gripping and caressing. His hands slip beneath my shirt, smoothing the sides of my waist.

  “I want to see you,” he says against my mouth. “Can I take this off? Can I see you, sweet Stella?”

  Heat rolls over me waves. “Yes. Yes.”

  Our fingers tangle, mine trembling with impatience, as we pull the damn, suffocating shirt off together. It doesn’t cool me down. I burn hotter as John’s gaze moves over my torso, his expression rapt. “So pretty, Button.”

  I’m wearing a simple white bra, but under his stare, I feel as beautiful and delicate as spun sugar. His wide hands slide up my ribs, and I arch my back, thrusting my breasts out. He sits up, arms wrapping around me, and presses a tender kiss to the swell of my breasts. “Every night, I’ve dreamed of this. Of you.”

  His skin is hot and damp under my palms, and I run them over every inch I can.

  The blunt tips of his fingers trace the clasp of my bra. “This too?” he asks.

  “Yes. Please, John.” My breasts are swollen, my nipples tender and achy. I need his touch. “Please.”

  “Anything,” he says. “Anything you need.”

  The bra slips away. He makes a sound deep in his throat. “Oh, hell. Freckles. You’re killing me.” He goes about kissing each one, his tongue touching them like they’re candy. When he finally gently laps my nipple, I groan, tilting my head back.

  His hot mouth closes over me and pulls with rhythmic tugs. The tip of his tongue flicks the swollen tip, and it’s too much and not enough, and I curl myself over him, my arms around his neck, my breast at his mouth. I’m riding his cock, dry humping him as though we’re horny teens in a backseat.

  John releases my nipple with a wet pop. I shudder, wanting him to return.

  “Touch me,” he says, moving his lips along my skin, seeking out my other breast. “Please. Touch me.”

  His belly is tight and smooth. I follow the ridge down the center of his abs. He grunts, his mouth full of me. I fumble with the button of his jeans, and then he’s in my hand, hot and hard and substantial. I stroke that silken heat, my thumb running over the weeping crown, and he shudders.

  “Oh, fuck. Fuck. More, Stella. Give me more.”

  His mouth finds mine. There’s no more talk, just soft whispers of want and approval, needy whimpers, and groans for more. Our kisses are a mess, frantic, wet, deep. Exchanges of breath. Shaking exhales. I’m jacking his cock as he tweaks my nipples, and it’s so hot and good. I’m going to come and he hasn’t even touched my clit.

  “John …” I rock against him, keening.

  “I know,” he rasps, “I know.”

  I feel it rising, hot, cold, making me tremble. My body tenses at the precipice.

  A loud buzz cuts through the air. We both jump at the sound. Hot on its heels, another buzz rings out.

  My forehead rests against his. “Who is that?”

  “Shit.” John swallows, moves his swollen lips over mine. “Ignore it.”

  Whoever it is starts pounding on the door.

  “Oy!” a deep male voice shouts. “Get your ass in gear and open the door.”

  Panting, we both turn our heads toward the door in question.

  John’s hands are still on my breasts, a
nd I feel him tense before he slides them down to my hips. “Fucking cockblockers.”

  I husk out a laugh and slump against his warm chest. I’m still a little dizzy and a whole lot breathless. John presses his lips to the top of my head. “It’s the guys,” he says into my damp hair. “They invited themselves over for dinner. I forgot.”

  “Wonder why,” I murmur, and it’s his turn to laugh weakly.

  “Fuck,” he groans, long and pained. But it looks like that isn’t going to be happening anytime soon. “Shit, shit, shit.” John breathes slowly out through his nose in a clear effort to calm himself.

  I empathize. I’m too worked up, my sex is pulsing, wet, and left wanting. A shudder wracks through me, and John gives me a reproachful look, his fingers gripping my hips a little tighter. “Be still,” he warns, “or I’m going to fuck you with them listening on.”

  “Is that supposed to be a threat?” I ask, eyeing the cute little disk of his hardened nipple. I want to give it a gentle bite before licking away the sting. “Because I’m willing to be subjected.” But despite my bravado, and his pained groan, I ease off him. Goddamn, his cock looks good, all thick and dark with lust. It jerks in my direction, as if beckoning me back. And I’m tempted. So very tempted.

  The door buzzes again with a relentless insistence.

  “I’m coming, all right?” John shouts, his voice a little broken.

  “Not in the way I’d hoped,” I mutter.

  He husks out a weak laugh, running a hand through his hair. Sweat slicks his taut chest and abs. “Laugh it up, chuckles.”

  “It’s either laugh or kill your friends.” I struggle with my bra. I’m sweaty too, my breasts swollen and sensitive. Grabbing my shirt, I pull it over my head and stand. “I’ll get the door. You fix …,” I wave a hand in the direction of his persistently hard dick, “all that.”

  “I think I might break it if I try to tuck it away right now,” he grumbles before standing and hiking his jeans up. A wry smile tilts his lips. “Sorry about this, Button. I’ll make it up to you.” He gives me a butter-soft kiss, and then hustles toward the bathroom.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Stella