And we start with good intentions, filling bags with some of Dad's clothes for Goodwill, but when we discover a box at the back of the closet containing photos, I can't do anymore. There's one of me as a baby at the top, as though Dad had been going through them, and that was the last one he saw. I wish so much that I could know how he felt. John's arm goes around my shoulder as I place the box on the bed, and then he's pulling me into a reassuring hug that feels so good.
"It'll get easier," he whispers.
"I hope so," I say, drawing back. John may feel safe, but there's an underlying intention that I feel lurking behind his care. An intention that feels anything but safe. Our eyes connect, and a shiver runs through me. He wants to kiss me, but there are so many doubts in my mind. Is the pull between us real or just generated by grief or by the vote he had with his brothers? Should I even care when my lips feel tingly, and my heart feels shattered? Then he's lowering his mouth to mine, and I want it. I want to touch him, to feel him. I need him close to anchor me.
And he's here. John is real and solid and present, where I feel like dust motes that are visible only when the sun shines. The kiss is everything I need, soft and warm and teasing, and my mind floats to a place where I'm happy, and there is nothing weighing me down. His sweater is soft in the grip of my hand, his body big and looming protection against all the darkness in the world, and it's what I need.
It's my hand that searches for his warm skin beneath his sweater. It's my fingers that find the muscled strength of his back and can't stop roaming. It's me who stands on my tiptoes to deepen the kiss that goes from tentative to frantic. When his hands grip my ass so he can lift me, it's me who moans.
John carries me out of Dad's room and further down the corridor as though I weigh nothing. He's built so solidly that he must be like a brick wall within the defensive line. His room isn't what I expected at all. There are no posters of ballplayers or women without enough clothes on. Instead, there's a large, tie-dyed wall hanging and photos of him and his brothers through the years. It's a room more about family and peace than anything else.
He lowers me onto the bed, looming over me with eyes misted with lust. Lust and kindness. "Is this what you want?" His big hand strokes my cheek, the callouses a reminder of how hard he works to be the best he can be.
"Yes." I pull him down onto me, reveling in the size of him and the weight. He must be two hundred and fifty pounds, and I love how small he makes me feel, even with my curves. Now we're on his bed, everything slows. Kissing him, touching him, it's like walking in warm water. No rush to remove our clothes, each new part discovered by unpeeling another layer. There's a sweet intimacy just being here with John, a focus that is lost when there are more men to please and more men to please me.
Does Danna get one-on-one time with the Jackson brothers? I hope she does.
It's quiet when he takes my nipple into his mouth. No brothers to tell him how it looks or ask me how it feels. My hands slide over his scalp to let him know, and he presses his cock against my still-clothed pussy in response. Rumbling deep in his throat, he bites down enough to make me jump.
"You make me crazy," he says. "Not just your body, but the way you are, the way you think. So tentative in some ways but running headlong into this plan like you need to live it to know if it can work." John doesn't wait for me to agree or disagree, just tugs down the cup concealing my other breast and feasts like a starving man.
I reach to pull off his sweater, wanting to see the big, muscular body that I've mapped with my palms. It's me who reaches for his belt buckle, tugging leather through the loops of his jeans in a whoosh that sends heat pooling in my belly. John is everything I could have hoped for and far more than I could have dreamed. The curve of his big shoulders, the broadness of his chest, the solidness of his pecs, and the undulating perfection of his abs. He smells good, of the outdoors, and something spicy that reminds me of Christmas. But it's the way he looks at me that spreads that heat from my belly between my legs. It's those chocolate eyes that have everything inside me melting into liquid.