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Hurricane Eye

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She’s half naked and in his lap, his thumbs circling her nipples, her hands buried in his hair, and of course that’s when he pulls back, looks at her with big serious Winchester eyes, and asks, “Have you done this before?”
Jo knows what her answer needs to be, and so she pulls back, too, and retorts, “I’m nineteen and in college. What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” John answers, seriously. “That’s why I’m asking.”
She doesn’t like to lie outright, but she knows when it’s necessary. “Yes, John,” she says. “You don't have to worry about that.” She can, she hopes, make the second part into something not completely untrue.


And at first she can. Oh, she can. He replaces fingers with mouth on her breasts, and it’s amazing: Other guys have done this, but no one who knew anything, who knew that the scrape of teeth followed by a gentle lick would make her moan. Her legs fall slack and John moves to settle between them, and the press against her of the hard line of his cock, long and thick, is both scary and good. Jo pushes up against it, and he lets out a groan that’s almost a growl. She grins at him, and when she goes to unbuckle his belt, he doesn’t fight her.


He strokes her clit, his touch gentle but his skin roughened with calluses, and it’s perfect—even more so when he bends to slide his tongue over her, spreading her thighs with his hands and tasting her with unexpectedly delicate licks until she’s whimpering, head thrashing on the pillow and she doesn’t even care that she’s begging. He sucks her clit into his mouth and she screams, comes so hard that it’s like a blackout.


But even after all that, when he pushes inside her, she can’t stop the yelp that escapes—and it is, unmistakably, a cry of pain.
John looks down at her, and he doesn’t even say anything but she still can’t meet his eyes. He holds himself up on his elbows, withdraws slowly, and says, “I think there’s something you didn’t tell me.”
She ventures a glance back up at him. His eyes are steady, not angry, but implacable nevertheless. She looks away again, sighs, and nods. He rolls to his side, lying close but not touching, and asks, “Why’d you lie to me, Jo?”
“Because you wouldn’t have done it if I’d told you I was…” She trails off.
This time he sighs, and moves to his back. “Probably not,” he admits.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because—” He’s a man of few words, but, when he does speak, he’s rarely at a loss for them; now, though, he doesn’t finish his sentence, and stares up, unspeaking, at the ceiling. “Because it should be special,” he finally says.
“Well, fuck you very much,” she snaps, and John’s eyes go back to her, surprised. “It’s not like I didn’t plan this,” Jo goes on. “That should have been pretty clear.”
John doesn’t reply in words, but his eyes and hands gesture acknowledgment.
“Maybe I wanted it to be with you,” she continues, more quietly, “and not some idiot I barely know who won’t have a clue what he’s doing.”
“If you’d told me,” John says, “I would have done some things differently.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“I would have been gentler,” he says, like it’s obvious.
“What, you think I want flowers and candles?”
“No,” he says, and now his voice is quiet, too. “But I don’t want to hurt you any more than I have to.”
There’s a silence that stretches.
Finally Jo gathers her nerve, turns, and puts her hand over John’s. “How about a do-over?” she says. “Start all over again. Take it from the top.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and she’s about ready to get up, wrap the sheet around herself, and flee into the bathroom. But then he smiles, and it transforms his face like it always does, washing away the lines and the years. “From the top, huh?”
“If you think you can handle it,” Jo says, and basks in the pleasant rumble of his laugh.