Fall (VIP 3)

He chuckles and holds me close. “That turned you on, didn’t it?”

“Totally,” I whisper in his ear, unashamed, loving the way he tenses, then moves his hand down to cup my butt. “When can we go?”

“Not for hours,” he says with a small groan. But I can wait. For him, I’ll wait as long as it takes, for however long he needs—because he is always worth it.

The next day, John ushers me out of the house. He’s taking me someplace but won’t tell me where.

“Not even a little hint?” I ask as we ride the elevator down from his loft. I still live with Brenna, but I spend most of my time at John’s. Neither of us has talked about moving into together, but it seems to hover in the air, this final, silent barrier between us.

I don’t even know what’s holding me back, only that some small part of me still has a protective wall around it. I think John realizes it, but he never says anything about it; he simply gives all of himself every day. And it makes me feel worse because I love him more with every day.

On the street, John flags a cab and gives him an address in Murray Hill, an area of massive old brownstones with tree-lined streets and clunky brick high-rises looming on the perimeter. I’m not really paying attention, though. All of my being is focused on the man next to me.

I feel the warmth of his body and his smooth skin along the whole of my exposed side. His familiar spicy scent teases my nose every-so-often, making me yearn to lean in and press my face into the crook of his neck. I love that spot on him. I love that I know when I kiss him there, he’ll shiver, then grunt low in his chest and pull me closer.

The cab stops in front of a big, lacy, wrought-iron gate tucked between two brick townhouses. John gives me a small smile and produces a key. Beyond the gate is a long alleyway lined with trees and potted plants.

“It’s an old mews,” John tells me, opening the gate and stepping back to let me enter. It’s a bit like stepping back in time to the nineteenth century. The sunlit space has an almost hushed air about it. Red brick townhouses with massive arched windows that run along two floors make up each side.

“It’s totally private.” John stops at an inky black door that has ivy climbing up along the side. “Another world tucked inside the city.”

Gaslights flank the door, flickering and hissing in the silence.

“It’s beautiful.” I have no idea why we’re here, but John has a key for this place as well. He takes a deep breath before opening the door, like he has to brace himself, and I have the urge to hold his hand.

Inside is filled with light, the walls creamy white plaster with huge onyx-framed windows. The worn wood floors give a slight creak when we walk over them, giving the space a sense of history. The place is empty, and our steps sound hollow beneath the high ceilings.

“There are four floors,” John says, leading me through a big living room with a black marble fireplace. “A library is over here.”

He’s pointing out features with the efficiency of a realtor, and I smile.

“What’s with the tour? Are you thinking of buying this place?”

John stops beside the big arched window and sunlight pours over his tall frame. “Not exactly. Come on. There’s more.”

He shows me a smaller room, lined with walnut wood bookshelves and a big window with diamond panes. As if he can’t help himself, he takes my hand. His is warm but slightly damp, and I know he’s actually nervous. I give his fingers a gentle squeeze as he leads me to a wide circular staircase made of mellow wood honed to a gentle sheen.

Upstairs is another living area and a kitchen. There’s a half roof of slanted windows that let in more light. Here, someone has left an old brown-leather chesterfield sofa and a battered wood coffee table. I’m shown a small bedroom tucked toward the back, and then we’re going up again to another level that houses three big bedrooms and three baths. There is a rooftop terrace with a trellis but the rest is fairly bare.

John shoves his hand into his jeans pockets and walks around. “A couple of potted plants and maybe some bougainvillea or wisteria on the trellis, and you’d have your own oasis.”

“It’s more than most people get in the city,” I say neutrally. He’s not buying this place, so why is he showing it to me?

“True.” He casts a critical eye at the one of the pavers, and kicks a lose pebble to the side. “But I always thought the character of a place is more important.”