"Sure are," he agreed and I could see he was pressing his lips together to keep from laughing.
"This isn't funny."
"Honey," he said, suddenly turning me and pressing my back against the glass of a freezer, crushing my body against it with his, his hand still in my back pocket, "not like I got my hands in your panties. People want to look, let them look. They're probably just jealous 'cause they got no ass to grab or their husband hasn't grabbed theirs in a decade. Fuck what everyone else thinks." With that, he stepped away and resumed his casual cart pushing, firm hand on my behind as he smiled huge at anyone who dared looked our way.
Fuck what everyone else thinks. I wondered if that was some motto of his. Judging by his tats and piercings and the unusual modern-day punk way he dressed, I figured that was probably the case. I was never that kind of person. I always worried, always wondered what people were thinking about me or saying about me. I always molded my behavior so that they didn't have much to work off of. And, quite honestly, it was exhausting. How nice it must be for him to not fret like that over every little thing. How much head space that must have cleared up.
"Buttermilk?" I asked as he slipped it into the cart.
"You're making me homemade biscuits," he informed me.
"Oh I am, am I?" I asked, smiling a little.
"Of course you are," he said, nudging my shoulder with his.
And it was right then, right there in the cold aisle in an unfamiliar grocery store when a thought hit me that made me feel almost light-headed. And that thought was: I liked this. I liked shopping for food with him. I liked his familiar friendliness. I liked his boyish presumptuousness. Heck, I even liked his hand on my butt. I could do it, this exact thing, I could do it with him every week for the rest of my life and never get tired of it. That was freaking terrifying.
"Uh oh," he said, tugging me out of my head. "There's those lines again," he said, reaching out and touching them.
"I was just thinking. Stop watching me; it's creepy."
"About damn time you got yourself a nice girl," a female voice called from behind me and Johnnie's face immediately lit up. "Parading around town with all those short skirts with nothing but air between their ears." Johnnie turned me, but did not remove his hand from my pocket to face the woman. She was middle aged (or just past) with dark hair and light, almost see-through green eyes that were unmistakably familiar. This tiny little slip of a woman was Paine's mother. "Manners," she said to Johnnie with a lifted brow and he had the good sense to look sheepish. "Mama Gina, this is Amelia. Amelia, this is Gina. She's..."
"Paine's mother," I supplied, offering my hand which she accepted. "I met your son yesterday. He was nice enough to, um, walk me to... my door."
"He's a good boy when he lifts himself from whatever stranger's bed he tumbled into," she said frankly, but with very little animosity and I was left wondering why it wasn't weird that she knew her son was a, well, whore. "Good to see Shoot here settling down," she said and Johnnie didn't move to correct her and I felt it wasn't my place to do so. "Maybe it will rub off on my son. Whoring around is cute and all in your twenties. Not so much in your thirties. You cooking for him?" she asked me, nodding toward the cart.
"Yes, ma'am," I answered with a small smile.
"Lose this one and I'm coming over and tearing you a new one," she said to Shooter, who smiled. "Don't let his reputation fool you, he's a good boy. Just needed a good woman to calm him down. You guys have a nice meal. Amelia," she added, stopping mid-turn, "have Shoot bring you to dinner at my place sometime."
"Yes, ma'am," Johnnie answered immediately, leaving me almost sputtering at him as she walked away. "What?" he asked, looking innocent.
"You shouldn't tell her you'll bring me when you know you won't."
"Who says I won't?"
"Johnnie..."
"Look," he said, charming smile falling away, looking suddenly all-business. "I'm not the kinda man to pussyfoot around shit. I think it, I feel it, I say it. So I'm saying this and I don't care if it freaks you out. I don't care if it permanently etches those lines between your brows. I like you, honey."
"You don't even know me," I countered automatically, a swirling feeling starting in my belly that was scary, but in an almost good way that I knew could only mean trouble.
"I like the way you try to put me in my place. I like that you know how to cook and bake. I like that you're passionate about helping people you don't even know. I like the way you hate my fuckin' cat. I like the way you filled out those jean shorts the first day I met you and the way you fill out a sundress even better. I like the way some of your smiles can mean 'fuck you' and I like the way your voice dips low and shy when you're unsure of yourself. Babe, how the fuck much more do I need to simply declare that I like it?" He did sort of have a point. "And know what else, angel?"
"What?" I asked, not given much of a choice.
"I think you like me too."
"I don't know..." I started.
"Babe," he said, shaking his head at me like I was trying his patience. "You know I was beat as a kid. You know I ran away from home to escape that shit. You know my dad was a fuck and you know I never let that go. You know I was a spiteful little shit sending him scotch every month, hoping he was drowning himself in it. You know I have the mouth of a sailor. You know I kill people for a living. You know all that bad shit and you still like me."
I swallowed hard against the realization that he was right. I knew all of that, all those dark and unlikeable parts of him and, despite myself, I did still like him. "You're... ah... pretty sure of yourself," I went with, not quite comfortable admitting the truth to myself, let alone him.
"What's not to be sure about?" he asked, giving me his boyish, cocky smile as he gestured toward his body as if maybe sensing that he was pushing too hard and I was pulling away. "Is it too much to expect you to make loaded sweet potatoes for dinner?" he asked as he finally released my butt and put both hands on the cart, leaving me to walk beside it, letting me have the space I needed.
"We have to go back and get the ingredients," I relented and his smile absolutely did not warm me up from the inside out.
"Marry me," he said, mouth still full of his first bite of dinner.
"Good?" I asked, feeling a swell of pride well up in my chest. I never really had anyone to cook for except his father and that was so different. It was an entirely new feeling to know a guy that you realized you had some feelings for liked your cooking.
"Baby..." he said, drawing out the word like it meant more than an endearment. When I held my hands out like I needed more than that, he smiled. "Know what?"
"No, what?"
"Only one thing I've had in my life that is better than this meal," he started, smile going downright devilish. "And that's your pussy." I felt the place in question tighten almost painfully, my mouth falling open. "In fact, the only way to make this dinner better is to get some of that for dessert."
"Johnnie," I tried, shaking my head, not sure how one was supposed to respond to a comment like that.
"Nope. Accept it. I'm getting my face between your thighs within the next hour," he declared, stabbing a bit of loaded sweet potato and bringing it up to his mouth.
I reached for the wine he had stopped on the way home to buy and took a sip as I tried to reason with the chaos between my legs that was very much in agreement with Johnnie's plans for the evening. "Be serious," I tried, rolling my eyes.
"Gonna eat your right here on this table," he declared, putting his hand on the surface as I pushed my thighs together under the table, seeing the hunger in his eyes.
"Johnnie..."
"If there's anything I'm fuckin' serious about, angelface, it's how much I like getting you off. So you're gonna be a good girl and climb up here when we're finished eating and I am going to show you just how much I appreciate you cookin' for me. And I'm gonna do that by running my tongue up that sweet, wet pussy of yours until you co
me so hard you forget your own name." He paused, watching my face for a while before he let the intensity fall from his gaze. "Now let's talk about this potato..."
"The... potato?" I parroted back at him, not quite comprehending the turn in conversation.
"Yeah, honey, the potato..." he said, smiling down at his food like he was enjoying my momentary loss of functioning brain power.
"Johnnie I..."
"For instance, does it taste this good when it is reheated?"
"Reheated?"
"Yeah 'cause I changed my mind."
"About what?"
"About the order of my meal. I think I want dessert first," he declared, slowly moving out of his seat and walking around the table toward me.
"You can't be..."
"Serious?" he finished, reaching down and pulling my fork out of my hand, letting it clank loudly against my plate as he pulled me out of my seat. "Oh, I can be. In fact, I am," he said, hands moving to my pants and making short work of my button and zip. His hands went inside slightly to snag my panties too and dragged both layers down my legs as I stood there too shocked to react. "Fucking love these thighs," he declared, running a hand up one.
And that was, perhaps, the only thing he could have said to snap me out of my weird little brain fog. "What? They're fat," I said automatically, my disdain for the thighs in question very clear in my tone.
"Fat?" he repeated, eyes scrunching up.
"Yes, fat."
His forehead fell to mine and his whole body started shaking and it took me a second to realize he was laughing. He was laughing at me!
"What are you laughing at?" I asked, my voice taking on a shrill edge.
"You," he declared, moving back an inch and reaching out to boop my nose.
"I don't like being laughed at," I said, lowering my eyes at him.
"Then stop being so silly."
"I'm not being silly."
"Baby, if you think your thighs are fat, then you're definitely being silly."
"I'm being honest," I countered, not sure why I felt the need to fight with him to convince him to buy into my insecurity.
"So we're being honest. Then let me be honest," he said, pulling back so that the only part of us that was touching was our feet. "I've had a lot of women in my life. I've had every fucking body type: short, tall, skinny, muscular, soft. And they're all good, baby. They all have their own sort of appeal. But me? I like me the kind of curves I can sink my fingers into. And, newsflash darlin', a lot of men do. So when I say I love your thighs, I ain't saying that because I want to get between them, I'm saying that because I fucking mean it. Don't you dare try to convince me that seeing something I like and telling you I like it is somehow me trying to be dishonest with you. Now all that being said, I am going to get between these thighs and I am going to love to feel them wrapped around my face while I eat your sweet pussy. So if we're done arguin' bout stupid shit, I'd like to get to that if you don't mind."
"Um..." I started, a little too stunned to say more because, really, how do you respond to something like that? How do you say thank you to someone for making a lifetime of insecurity vanish in a minute? "Thank..."
"Thank me by getting that sweet ass on this table already," he said, reaching for a napkin as I moved to do so, feeling awkward about having my bare butt on the table where we had just been eating a nice dinner. And then I looked to see what he was doing and he was tucking the napkin into the collar of his shirt.
"Oh my god... what are you..." I started, feeling my cheeks heat up as a strange, strangled laugh got caught at the back of my throat.
"Manners, baby," he declared with a wicked little wink.
"Oh my god stop. Seriously," I said, hands going up to cover my flaming cheeks.
In that position, I didn't see him lower himself to the floor beside my dangling feet. I did, however, feel him force my legs wide a split second before his tongue traced up my slick cleft. A shocked gasp exploded from my mouth as my hands dropped to the table, grabbing the edge almost painfully. His face tipped upward, looking devilish. "Got a problem with my dinner etiquette, honey?" he asked.
"N... no," I said, shakily.
"Good. Then lay back and wrap those thighs 'round me, baby," he demanded and I immediately moved to comply. After that, there was no more joking, no teasing. There was nothing but his tongue moving against me with such exquisite precision that I felt the pressure deep in my lower stomach get heavier, my thighs tighten around him. His tongue ring flicked over my clit and I moaned loudly, my hand swinging out and knocking something to the floor. Johnnie didn't so much as flinch he was so focused and I felt his hand snake up the inside of my thigh, pressing through my wet folds and pausing at the entrance to my body. I felt myself tense, but his finger just stayed there for a moment, pulsing against the opening but not pressing inside until I felt the uncertainty slip away, replaced with a primal sort of knowledge that I needed to feel him inside. Then I didn't have to need it, because he was giving it to me. His finger slipped inside to the hilt, pausing for a moment as he sucked hard on my clit, before starting to thrust in and out of me, creating a friction that threatened to make me dumb.
"Johnnie..." I groaned, my hands going into his hair and holding on.
Inside me, his finger turned, crooking upward and stroking over the top wall, seeking the spot and finding it way too quickly, making my entire body spasm as I tightened around him. Against my flesh, he made some sort of humming growl that I swear vibrated all through my system. His tongue ring made another sweep as his finger dug into the spot a little harder and I just... shattered.
My entire body tensed as the orgasm broke through my system, drawing out a strangled cry as I rocked up into him, the pulsations strong and insistent as Johnnie kept stroking, kept licking, kept drawing it out.
My back flattened back against the table as I gasped for breath, my thighs shaking slightly as I forced my hands to untwist from his hair, one resting on the back of his neck, the other falling with a thump to the table beside me. Johnnie's finger slid out from me and his hands moved up to spread my thighs against the table as his mouth shifted to kiss down my thigh then up the other, sealing his approval deep into the marrow, making me realize I would never look at them with the same kind of derision that I used to.
Finally, one of his fists planted beside my hip and he pushed himself up, waiting for me to open my eyes. When I did, he pulled off the napkin and made a show of folding it and dabbing daintily at the corners of his mouth. "That was delicious. Time for the next course."
I choked on a laugh, shaking my head. "I hate you," I declared with a smile.
He chuckled, grabbing my arms and pulling me upward until I was sitting at the edge of the table again. His hands moved to cup my face, his thumb stroking over my lips before his head tilted down and touched his to mine, soft, sweet, until everything inside me felt melty and warm, until I felt him invade every part of me. As he moved away and I reached for my pants and panties, I had the blinding realization of how much it was going to hurt when he got ripped away again. And, make no mistake, that was exactly what was going to happen. Maybe not that day or the next or even the next week. But it was going to happen eventually.
He was going to walk away and there would be a Johnnie-sized hole inside me; a space I knew I would never be able to fill up. I knew this because I knew the feeling of watching a man you cared for walk away. I knew that kind of hurt deep. I knew that hurt from the seven year old perspective, watching the first man I cared about leave me. I heard that slamming door down to my soul and I swore I would never let myself feel that way again. I promised myself that I would never let another man leave an empty space inside me. But there I was, buttoning my pants and moving to sit across a table from a man who seemed oblivious to, or unconcerned by, the inevitable hollowness.
But, I guessed as I picked up my fork and ate food that settled like poison in my stomach, that was how it worked. The men wa
lked away, moving on and creating more voids that the women would be left trying to fill... all the while knowing they never could.
Fourteen
Amelia
The rest of the evening went off without much incident. Johnnie made some more phone calls; some of them he took in front of me and some he excused himself into the hall for. We fetched my bag from my car. I took a shower. I got into bed. Johnnie stayed up on his laptop doing who-knew-what. We didn't speak much. He either didn't notice the sudden decline in my mood or he was letting me have my space. Either way, I was thankful for it. He came to bed sometime late, the sunrise a whisper across the sky. My body, unaccustomed to someone getting into a bed while I was in it, jolted awake violently, my heart slamming hard in my chest before I could even register where I was, that I was safe.
"It's me, angel. Go back to sleep," Johnnie murmured into the crook of my neck as his body slid around mine.
I knew I should have told him to move away; I knew that I needed to keep him at a distance both metaphorically and literally, but it felt nice to just be held. It felt comfortable and easy and safe. So I let out the breath I was holding and I did what I was told; I went back to sleep.
I woke up in the morning, Johnnie's body still behind me, his heavy arm draped over me. I looked down at it for a long moment as the last traces of sleep slipped away, trying to memorize every tattoo stabbed into his skin. I did this for a long time before I realized what I was doing and gently lifted his arm and slid out from under it, going to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I was creeping around the side of the bed, ducking down to grab fresh clothes out of my bag when I was tagged from behind, a strong arm wrapping around my belly and pulling me backward until I was sitting on his lap as he sat off the edge of the bed.
His face went into my neck, planting a kiss there that sent off a flutter of butterflies in my belly. It was too early; I hadn't had a chance to slip my guards back around me yet. "You get up early," he said and it sounded like an accusation.
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