After one last tender morning as a family, you return from the park with the girls to find John gone without a note, leaving the house hollow with the brutal realization that he walked away while you were still waving goodbye.
82. Still Waving
You lay there awhile in the dark, talking the way people do when sex has softened all the sharp corners off the night. About the girls. About Peach's newest school story. About Margot's obsession with pockets. About the hotel soap smelling weirdly like cedar and oranges.
Then the quiet deepened again.
You tipped your head back to look at him.
He was staring at the ceiling now, one hand still on you, thumb moving in those same absent little circles.
"What?" you whispered.
He blinked, looked down at you, and smiled. Small. Tired. Beautiful.
"Nothin'."
"No. There's something."
He exhaled.
And for one breath, one single fragile breath, you thought he might tell you. His hand came up and brushed your hair back from your face.
"I just..." he said, then stopped.
You waited.
He looked at you like a man standing on the edge of saying something he could not unsay.
Then he kissed your forehead instead.
"I'm glad I married you," he murmured.
Your heart softened all over again.
You smiled and touched his jaw. "That better not have been your big confession."
He gave you a faint laugh. "No."
But he did not continue.
You could have pushed.
Maybe you should have.
Instead, you settled closer, your cheek over his heart, and let yourself believe what made the most sense. That he was emotional because of the wedding, the kids, the op, life. That men like John did not always know how to sort gratitude from fear once they'd had too much of both.
You kissed his chest through the thin line of hair there and murmured, "I'm glad too."
His arm tightened around you.
That was enough.
Or it had to be.
At some point you drifted under, still warm from him, the sheets cool at your back, the city moving softly outside the glass.
Your last clear sensation was his hand at the nape of your neck and the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek.
You fell asleep on his chest feeling safe.
Morning came slow and soft.
You woke before him for once, not because of a monitor or a child or a list already running in your head, but because sunlight had found the gap in the curtains and laid itself warm across the bed. The hotel room looked different in daylight. Less golden, more real. The city outside still moving, but quieter from up here.
John was asleep on his stomach, one arm angled toward your side of the bed as though he had fallen asleep reaching for you and never let the instinct go. His hair was a mess. His mouth relaxed. The lines around his eyes gentler than they ever looked awake.
You propped yourself on one elbow and just looked at him.
At your husband.
At the man who had taken you into the city and loved you like the world was ending and somehow never made it feel frightening.
When he woke, it was all rough voice and warm hands and a lazy smile when he found you already watching him.
"What?" he asked, half asleep.
"You snore."
He shut one eye. "Lies."
"Tiny lies."
"Still slander."
You kissed him before he could properly defend himself. Then he rolled you onto your back and kissed you until both of you were laughing and breathless and far too lazy to move for another twenty minutes.
By the time you checked your phone, there were two pictures from your mom. One of Peach holding a spoon over a pancake like she was preparing surgery. One of Margot sitting in a laundry basket wearing a sunhat and one sock.
You showed them to John.
He smiled, but something flickered in his face too fast to name. Gone before you could decide if you'd really seen it.
"You miss them," you said.
"I do."
"Me too."
He reached for the phone, looked at the pictures again, then handed it back and sat up. "We should get going."
The drive home was easy.
The kind of easy built out of old music, coffee in paper cups, and one hand of his on the wheel while the other stayed over yours on the center console more often than not.
When you pulled into the drive, the house looked exactly like home should. Familiar. Slightly messy. Alive with things left behind and life waiting to be resumed. Curtains half open. Slinky visible in the window like a disapproving gargoyle.
The girls came at you both full force when you opened the door.
Peach first, because of course. Already talking. Already demanding to know whether hotels had tiny soaps and if you had breakfast in bed and if this counted as "romantic." Margot behind her, less articulate but no less insistent, throwing herself at John's legs and chanting "Da! Da! Da!" until he bent to pick her up.
He held her like he always did, one hand broad over her back, and looked around the house as if taking its measure all over again.
You took the bags upstairs and came back down to find him in the kitchen helping Peach pour cereal while Margot sat on the counter trying to steal dry Cheerios from the box.
You thanked your mother and waved her off. It could have been any other day. It felt like any other day. That was the thing that made what came next so cruelly ordinary.
By late morning, after showers and unpacking and the first round of washing already spinning because married life had dishes and hotel stays just made more of them, John said he needed to handle some work things.
Nothing in you snagged on it.
Not then.
Not really.
He was standing by the hall table, buttoning a shirt while Peach lay on the rug drawing and Margot tried to shove a crayon up Slinky's nose.
"What kind of work things?" you asked, mostly because you were half deciding whether the girls needed shoes or sandals for the park.
"Base paperwork. Calls. Boring stuff."
He said it easily.
Maybe too easily.
But he had always been good at making the dangerous parts sound administrative when the girls were in earshot. You barely looked up from tying Peach's hair into two neat braids.
"I thought we'd go to the park after lunch," you said.
He nodded once. "Good."
Peach immediately looked up. "You coming?"
And there it was. The smallest pause. Tiny enough that if you hadn't spent years reading him, you might have missed it.
Then he smiled at her. "Not this time, Princess. Need to get some things sorted."
She pouted. "But you push me the highest!”
"I know."
Margot, hearing none of the actual conversation but all of the emotional weight, toddled over and attached herself to his leg.
He bent and scooped her up. Kissed her hair. Held her a second longer than the moment required.
You watched that and told yourself nothing.
You packed the park bag. Juice pouches. Wipes. Snacks. The tiny football because Peach always wanted it and Margot liked carrying things bigger than her head. John found Peach's shoes before you asked, knelt to put them on while she kept one foot still with the exaggerated patience of a saint.
"Other one," he murmured.
"I know."
"You're wearing them on the wrong feet."
She gasped. "No I'm not."
He looked up at you over the top of her head, and for a second there was that private softness between you both. Familiar. Easy. Married.
"Your daughter," he said.
You smiled. "Unfortunately."
Peach finally got both shoes on the correct feet and launched herself up, immediately running to get her sunglasses even though the sky was half cloud.
Margot was next. John kissed the top of her head while you wrestled her into sandals she did not want and he held her still with one hand under her ribs.
"Mama park," she declared.
"Yes, baby. Park."
John looked at you then. Really looked.
Not enough to alarm you.
Enough, maybe, that later you would remember the exact expression and hate yourself for not understanding it.
You leaned in and kissed him quickly. "Don't work too hard."
He touched your hip, thumb pressing once through the fabric of your dress. "Take your time."
"That sounds suspiciously like an order."
"Maybe."
Peach was already halfway to the car, waving the football over her head. Margot twisted toward the front door in your arms, eager as anything. The whole house smelled like sunscreen and laundry and the last of the hotel shampoo in your hair.
You looked back once from the porch.
John stood in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, watching all three of you.
"Come outside," Peach shouted. "You can wave better from here."
He did.
He came down the front path, stopped by the passenger door, and leaned in to kiss Peach's forehead through the open window.
"Be good."
"I'm always good."
"That's not true."
She grinned.
He touched Margot's foot where it stuck out from her car seat and said, "Look after your mum."
"Da," Margot said solemnly.
Then he came around to your side.
You rolled the window down further and tilted your face up. He kissed you gently, one hand at the side of your neck.
"See you later," you said.
His mouth rested against yours one second longer than necessary.
"Later," he said.
You smiled and pulled away because the girls were watching and Peach found prolonged kissing morally offensive before noon.
You started the car.
Peach waved like she was leaving for war.
Margot copied with an open-palmed flap that looked more like she was swatting flies.
John stood in the driveway and watched until you were at the road. You lifted one hand from the wheel and waved again through the windscreen.
He did not move.
You were still waving from the car when he turned and went back inside.
The second the door closed, the house changed shape around him.
Silence. Real silence. Not the brief kind between children's questions. The deep kind. Hollow. Immediate.
John stood in the hall for one beat, two, looking at the rug where Peach's sunglasses had been before she remembered them. At the little jacket Margot had dropped by the stairs. At the framed photo on the wall from the wedding, all of you sunlit and laughing and unguarded.
Then he moved.
Not quickly.
Efficiently.
The duffel was already packed. Hidden in the coat cupboard behind the vacuum and the winter scarves. He took it out and set it by the front door. Phone. Wallet. Keys. Hat. Cigar case. All the ritual pieces. All the things that turned husband into Captain one choice at a time.
He put on his boots last.
That was when he nearly broke.
Not because of the boots themselves. Because from where he sat lacing them, he could see the living room. The toys still half out. One little stuffed rabbit on the couch. A crayon under the coffee table. Proof of life in every direction.
He stood too fast and had to put one hand on the wall.
The duffel waited by the door.
His phone buzzed once in his pocket. He did not answer it yet.
Instead he opened the front door, stepped onto the porch with the bag in one hand, and stopped in the driveway.
One pause. One terrible pause.
The afternoon was bright and ordinary. Somewhere down the road a dog barked. Someone started a lawnmower two houses over. Wind moved through the hedges in soft little shivers.
He could still go back inside.
Could still put the bag down. Call Laswell and say forget it. Let this be carried out. Go to the park with his girls and too much sun on their shoulders. Eat sandwiches on a blanket and push Peach too high and come home to baths and bedtime and the ordinary holiness of a house that expected him in it.
He stood there and let himself want it.
Then he shut the front door and walked to the truck.
You came home that evening with both girls pink-cheeked and tired.
Peach had fallen asleep in the car for ten minutes and woken up furious about it. Margot had one sock missing and a smear of melted fruit snack on her shirt. The football was somehow covered in dirt and duck feathers and no one could explain why.
You carried the park bag in one hand, Margot on your hip, Peach's sleepy little hand in your other, and got as far as the hallway before something in you went still.
The house was too quiet.
Not empty exactly. Just wrong.
No music from the kitchen. No floorboard creak upstairs. No muttered curse from the laundry room because the machine had jammed again. No John.
You set the park bag down slowly.
"Daddy?" Peach called.
Nothing.
Your chest tightened.
"John?"
You walked through the house fast then, trying to keep your face steady because Peach was watching. Kitchen first. Back garden. Upstairs. Bedroom. Spare room. Bathroom. Office.
Nothing.
No note on the table. No message on the counter. No stupid little scrap of paper with one of his half-assed attempts at reassurance.
Just absence.
When you came back downstairs, Peach was standing exactly where you'd left her in the hallway, the football at her feet, Margot now sitting on the rug and babbling at nothing.
"Where’s daddy?" Peach asked.
You looked at the front door.
At the empty hook where his keys had been. At the space by the wall where his duffel usually sat when he was home. At the silence pressing against the walls like the whole house knew before you did.
And because there was no note, no warning, no softening of it at all, the truth landed all at once.
He was gone.
You stood in the middle of the hallway with your daughters looking at you and the whole house around you suddenly hollowed out.
No note.
Nothing but the echo of the front door closing and the knowledge that he had walked out of this life in the middle of an ordinary day while you were still waving from the car.
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With the girls safely away for the night, John surprises you with dinner, a hotel room, and a deeply intimate evening where romance, desire, and the fragile gratitude of your life together all come rushing to the surface.
NSFW
81. All Night
John told you to get dressed and refused to explain himself.
That should have been warning enough.
Instead, you stood in the middle of your bedroom with a dress in one hand and a heel in the other, staring at the closed bathroom door while steam curled out from beneath it and wondering what exactly your husband had planned.
"John," you called. "Am I dressing for nice dinner or terrifyingly nice dinner?"
From behind the door came, "That depends."
"On what?"
"How pretty you feel like being."
You laughed despite yourself. "That is not helpful."
"It is if you know me."
That was true, annoyingly.
You ended up in black. Something simple and soft that skimmed your body instead of fighting it, with earrings you had not worn in months and shoes that made you feel taller and just a little dangerous. By the time you finished your makeup and twisted your hair up, he was standing in the doorway in dark trousers and a crisp shirt, jacket over one arm, tie loosened just enough to look unfair.
You stopped with your lipstick still in your hand. He looked at you and forgot whatever he had been about to say. That was not ego. It was obvious on his face.
"Alright," you said slowly. "Now you're making me nervous."
He came closer, eyes never leaving yours. "Don't be."
"Where are we going?"
He took the lipstick from your hand, set it on the dresser, and kissed you with the sort of patience that made your knees feel soft. "Out."
You laughed into his mouth. "I gathered that."
He smiled against your lips. "Trust me?"
That was never the right question for him to ask. Not because it was unfair. Because your answer had been yes for too long now to pretend otherwise.
So you kissed him once more and said, "Fine. But if I'm underdressed, I'm blaming you."
"You won't be."
Your mom had both girls for the night. Peach had been thrilled by the idea of a sleepover and had asked at least six times if this counted as a date. Margot had waved you off with all the dismissive confidence of a toddler who believed grandparents were built solely for her amusement. By the time you and John got in the car, the house was quiet in that strange way it only was when both girls were gone.
It felt wrong for exactly one minute. Then John reached over and took your hand as he drove, thumb brushing the side of your ring, and everything in you settled into the warmth of his palm.
The city looked beautiful at night. You did not get to it often like this, dressed up and unhurried, with nowhere to be except beside him. Streets wet from an earlier rain caught the light and threw it back in long blurred ribbons. Shop windows glowed gold. Music drifted from open doors. People moved in clusters on the pavement, coats open, laughter hanging in the cool air.
John parked outside a restaurant with soft lighting and too much glass and held the door for you like he had all the time in the world.
Inside, everything smelled expensive and clean and faintly of candle wax. White tablecloths. Low voices. A piano somewhere you could not quite see.
You looked at him as the hostess led you to your table, "John Price."
He pulled out your chair. "What?"
"You've gone full romance."
He sat down opposite you and smiled in that quiet way that always made your chest ache. "Thought my wife deserved a nice night."
You should have teased him more. You did not. Because there was something in him already. A softness sharpened by gratitude. A kind of careful attention that turned every ordinary gesture reverent.
He ordered wine you liked without asking because he knew it by heart now. He let you steal pieces from his plate. He listened to every rambling thing you said about the girls and Peach's latest teacher-crush and the way Margot had started saying Slinky like "Tinky" and how your mom had absolutely overpacked pajamas for a one-night stay.
And he looked at you. God, he looked at you. Not in a hungry way. Not only that, anyway. Like he was full of something too big to carry neatly.
At first you thought it was just the wedding still settling into him. The simple fact of husband and wife. The strangeness of surviving enough to get here. The girls. The house. The impossible luck of it all. Then you thought maybe it was the last op too, whatever sharp edge of it still clung to him. Maybe he was trying to put himself back together by soaking in beauty for one evening.
That explanation made sense. It just was not enough to explain the exact expression on his face when the waiter walked away and the city lights outside the windows softened into blur and he said, very quietly, "I'm a lucky bastard."
You smiled around your wineglass. "That so?"
He nodded once. You waited.
He looked down at his hands for a second, then back at you. "Got a wife I don't deserve. Two girls who somehow think I hung the moon. A house that feels like home every time I walk in it." He huffed the faintest laugh. "Didn't think I'd get this. Not really."
Something warm and painful moved through you. "You deserve us."
His eyes held yours. "Maybe."
"That's not modesty. That's annoying."
That got a real smile.
You reached across the table and touched his hand. "You do."
He turned his palm up immediately and laced your fingers together.
Outside, the city kept moving. Inside, the table between you felt like a little island of candlelight and wine and the low glow of being seen.
After dinner, he took you to a hotel two blocks away.
Again, he had not told you this part in advance. You found out when he handed his card across the desk and the woman behind it smiled at you with a sort of knowing politeness.
You looked at him as you stepped into the lift. "You booked a room?”
He loosened his tie another inch. "Aye."
"And didn't tell me?”
He leaned against the mirrored wall and looked far too pleased with himself. "Wanted to surprise you."
"So that's what this is."
"That and the fact that I did not fancy drivin' home if we had too much."
You laughed. "Responsible and secretive. Dangerous combination."
The room was all dark wood and city lights and too many windows. A bed bigger than necessary. A bathroom with a tub that probably cost more than your first car. The whole city spread below in sheets of gold and glass and movement.
You stood by the window and stared out, hands resting on the cool pane.
Behind you, John set his wallet and keys on the dresser with deliberate little sounds, like he was buying himself a second to simply watch you.
You turned and found him doing exactly that. "What?" you asked softly.
He crossed the room. Put both hands at your waist. Looked down at you like he had known you in a hundred other rooms and still found this one astonishing.
"Nothin'."
"You keep saying that."
"I keep meanin' somethin' else."
His mouth found yours before you could ask what.
The kiss started slow. It did not stay there.
At first, it was just his mouth finding yours with that deep, familiar patience of his. The kind that made the rest of the room slip out of focus. The city lights blurred behind your closed eyes. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs pressing through the soft fabric of your dress like he was grounding himself there.
Then you made a sound. Small. Unthinking. Barely more than a breath against his mouth. John changed. Not drastically. Not in a way anyone else would have noticed. But you knew him.
You felt the shift in the way his fingers tightened at your waist. The way his chest pressed closer. The way the kiss deepened all at once, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that had been waiting politely through dinner, through wine, through candlelight and soft conversation.
Your hands moved to his shirt. He breathed out through his nose, rough and controlled, as your fingers curled into the crisp cotton.
"John."
His mouth moved from yours to your jaw.
"Hm?"
The sound was low. Too calm. A lie.
You felt the need under it. "You planned all this."
His mouth touched the side of your neck. "Aye."
"The dinner."
Another kiss.
"The hotel."
His teeth grazed your pulse, "Mm."
"The dress code."
His hand slid up your back, slow and firm. "Wanted to see you like this."
You closed your eyes. "Like what?"
His mouth stilled against your skin. Then he lifted his head. The look on his face stole whatever teasing thing you had been about to say.
He looked at you like the room, the city, the whole world had narrowed to the space between his hands and your body. Like there was something sacred about you standing there in black with your lipstick kissed slightly soft and your eyes already dark for him.
"Like mine," he said quietly.
Your breath caught. John saw it. Of course he did. His thumb moved at your waist.
"Not in the way a man owns something," he said, voice low. "Never that."
You touched his face. "I know."
His eyes held yours. "In the way a man comes home and knows the door will open."
Your chest tightened. The city moved behind you in a thousand little lights. Inside the room, everything went still.
You kissed him this time. Harder.
John's hand came to the back of your head, careful of your hair but not careful with the kiss now. He kissed you like the whole night had been leading to this exact second. Like dinner had been restraint. Like the lift had been restraint. Like standing by the window with you in front of him had nearly finished him.
Your fingers found his tie and pulled. He made a low sound against your mouth. "Careful."
"You're the one who brought me here."
"Aye," he murmured, letting you loosen the knot. "And I'm tryin' to behave."
You laughed softly, “Are you?"
"No."
The honesty sent heat straight through you. You pulled the tie free and let it fall to the floor. His eyes dropped to it. Then back to you. "That was a nice tie."
"I'll apologize later."
"You won't."
"No."
His mouth curved. Then his hands moved to your hips, and he walked you backward until your spine met the cool glass of the window.
The contrast made you gasp. City cold behind you. John warm in front of you.
His body pressed close, solid and familiar, one thigh nudging between yours. You gripped his shoulders, breath catching as his mouth returned to your throat.
"John," you whispered.
"I know."
"You always say that."
His mouth moved lower, to the place where your neck met your shoulder. "Because I usually do."
You wanted to argue. You could not, because his hand had slipped to the side of your thigh, drawing your dress up inch by inch. Not rushed. Not careless. He took his time, fingers dragging over your skin with the kind of intent that made your knees weaken.
"You wore this for me," he said.
It was not a question. "Yes."
His hand paused beneath the hem. "Had a hard time not staring all through dinner."
"You did stare."
His beard scraped lightly over your jaw. "Had a hard time not doin' worse."
Your fingers tightened in his shirt. "What would worse be?"
He pulled back enough to look at you. The corner of his mouth shifted, but the hunger in his eyes stayed too serious for a smile.
"Wanted to bring you back here before the wine even came."
Your stomach fluttered. "Why didn't you?"
His hand slid higher beneath your dress. "Because I like watchin' my wife enjoy herself."
Your breath caught as his fingers brushed the edge of your underwear.
"And because," he continued, voice rougher now, "I knew I'd get you to myself after."
The words settled low and hot. His fingers traced the delicate fabric at your hip. You tipped your head back against the glass. John watched your face.
Always.
That was the thing about him. He could make you feel like you were being consumed and studied at once. Like every tremble mattered. Every breath. Every little shift of your body under his hands.
His mouth found yours again as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric. You gasped into the kiss. He swallowed it. Slowly, he touched you.
Not enough at first. Just enough to make your body wake fully under him. A careful stroke through heat and wetness that made his breath change against your lips.
"Christ," he murmured.
Your cheeks burned. John's forehead rested against yours.
"You're already wet for me."
You tried to laugh, but it came out thin. “You kissed me against a window."
"Aye. And?"
"And you look like that."
His fingers moved again, slower. "Like what?"
"Like you're going to ruin me."
His eyes darkened. His fingers pressed more firmly, finding your clit with a patient circle that made your hips jerk against his hand.
"Not ruin," he said.
You whimpered softly. "No?"
"No." He kissed your cheek. "Never ruin." Another slow circle. Your nails dug into his shoulders.
"Just remind you."
"Of what?"
His mouth brushed your ear. "How good it is when you let me take my time."
Your knees nearly gave. John caught you with his free arm around your waist, holding you upright against the glass while his hand worked between your thighs. Slow. Precise. Devastating. The sounds of the city felt far away, sealed behind the window at your back.
A car passed below. Someone laughed on the street. Inside, you were falling apart against your husband's hand.
"John," you breathed.
"Quiet, love."
The words should not have affected you that much. They did.
His mouth touched your ear again. "Can hear every little sound in this room."
Your body tightened. His fingers paused. Then repeated the motion that had done it. You gasped.
"There," he said softly. "That one."
You turned your face into his neck, trying to muffle yourself. He let you. His hand did not stop.
Pleasure built slowly, steadily, with the cruel patience of a man who knew exactly how long he could keep you on the edge. His fingers worked you through every tremble, every soft plea, every little shift of your hips chasing more.
When you were close, your hand caught his wrist. Not to stop him. To hold on. He understood. He always did.
"That's it," he whispered. "I've got you."
It rolled through you hard enough that your forehead dropped against his shoulder. He held you through it, his fingers gentling but not leaving you, his mouth pressed to your temple as your body shook against his.
You barely had time to breathe before he kissed you again. Slower this time. Deep and warm, tasting the sound you had made.
Your hand slipped down his chest to his belt. John caught your wrist. You blinked up at him. His eyes were heavy, but his expression was careful.
"Not yet."
The words sent a pulse through you. You swallowed. "No?"
He shook his head once. "I've been thinkin' about taking this dress off you since you walked out of our room."
You felt your body go soft and hot all over again. His hands moved to your waist.
"Turn around."
Your breath hitched. He saw it. His face softened slightly. "You alright, love?"
You nodded.
His thumb brushed your hip. "Say it."
"Yes, John."
His eyes held yours another second. Then he guided you gently away from the window and turned you until you were facing the city.
Your reflection stared back from the glass. Hair pinned up. Dress bunched around your thighs. Lipstick softened.
John behind you, broad and dark, his shirt still buttoned except where you had pulled it loose, his gaze fixed on you in the reflection like you were the only thing in all that glittering city worth seeing.
His hands came to the zipper at your back. He lowered it slowly. The sound was quiet. Somehow indecent. Your eyes fluttered. John kissed the back of your shoulder as the dress loosened.
"Beautiful," he murmured.
The word went through you. You watched him in the glass as he slid the dress down your arms. Not rushed. Not hungry in a careless way.
Hungry like reverence.
The fabric fell inch by inch, exposing your shoulders, then your chest, then your waist. His hands followed, warm and steady, palms moving over the skin he uncovered.
The dress pooled at your feet. John looked at you in the reflection. Your breath caught. There was no hiding from him like this. Not really.
Not with the window reflecting both of you back. Not with his hands on your bare stomach, your ribs, the curve of your hips. Not with your body still sensitive from his fingers and his mouth so close to your neck.
"Look at you," he whispered.
You tried to glance away. One hand came gently to your jaw.
"Don't."
The word was soft. Still, your eyes returned to the glass. John watched you watching yourself.
"There she is."
Your throat tightened, “John."
"Aye."
His mouth touched your shoulder. "My wife."
Your body pulsed at the words. He felt it. His hands tightened.
"My beautiful wife."
The second time was rougher. Lower. You leaned back against him. He inhaled against your skin like restraint was beginning to hurt.
"Need you," you whispered.
His eyes closed for half a breath. When they opened, something in him had gone almost raw.
"I know, love."
"No." You turned in his arms, your hands catching his shirt. "I need you."
His face changed. The hunger was still there. But beneath it came that ache from dinner. The one too big to carry neatly. The one that had made him look at you across the table like gratitude could become grief if he held it too long.
You started undoing his shirt. One button. Then another. Your hands were not as steady as you wanted them to be.
John looked down at them. Then covered them with his own. You thought he would help. Instead, he brought your fingers to his mouth and kissed them.
One by one. Your chest tightened. "John."
His eyes lifted. "I'm here."
The words were quiet. Simple. But you heard what he meant. I made it back. I'm trying to stay in this room. I'm yours.
You finished opening his shirt.
He let you push it from his shoulders. Then the undershirt beneath. His chest came bare under your hands, warm skin and old scars, the strong steady beat of him beneath your palm.
You kissed his chest. His breath caught. You kissed him again, lower, over an old scar near his ribs. His hand slid into your hair.
Not guiding. Just holding.
"Love."
You looked up at him. His jaw had tightened. Not with impatience. With feeling. You rose and kissed his mouth.
It started soft and turned deep quickly, both of you losing patience now, hands moving with more urgency. His belt came undone beneath your fingers. He stepped out of his shoes. You pushed his trousers down with clumsy need, and he gave a low breath of amusement against your mouth.
"Eager."
"You rented a hotel room and touched me against a window."
"Fair."
You laughed into his kiss. The sound seemed to undo something in him. He picked you up.
Not suddenly enough to scare you. Just with that easy strength that always made your stomach flip. Your legs went around his waist, your arms around his neck, and he carried you to the bed.
He did not drop you. He laid you down. That was worse. Slower. Careful. Like he had all night and would spend every second of it proving so.
The mattress dipped under your back. John stood at the edge of the bed for a second, looking down at you.
The city lights cut soft lines across his bare chest. His trousers were low on his hips, his hair slightly mussed from your hands, his mouth kiss-swollen and serious.
You reached for him. He came immediately. His body covered yours, warm and heavy but not crushing, one forearm braced beside your head. His mouth found your throat, then your collarbone, then the center of your chest.
You arched when his lips closed around your nipple. He groaned softly, as if your reaction hit him somewhere deep.
His hand cupped your other breast, thumb brushing over the tight peak while his mouth worked slowly. Not teasing now. Not exactly. Loving. Learning. Making each sound you gave him into something he needed more of.
Your fingers slid into his hair. He moved to your other breast, giving it the same attention until your thighs tightened around his hips and you could feel how hard he was against you.
"Please," you whispered.
He lifted his head. His eyes were dark. "What do you need?"
"You."
"You have me."
"John."
His mouth softened at the sound. He kissed down your stomach.
You realized where he was going and caught his shoulder. "I need you inside me."
He stopped. Looked up. The stillness between you changed. His voice was low.
"Yeah?"
"Yes."
He came back over you slowly. His mouth brushed yours. "Tell me again."
You opened your legs wider for him. "I need you inside me."
His control fractured in the smallest visible way. A breath. A flex of his jaw.
His hand gripping the sheet beside your shoulder.
Then he kissed you hard. You reached between your bodies and wrapped your hand around him.
John cursed softly into your mouth.
He was hot and heavy in your palm, already wet at the tip. You stroked him once, and his hips jerked forward before he caught himself.
"Careful," he rasped.
"Why?"
His forehead rested against yours. "Because I want this slow."
You tightened your hand just enough to make his breath hitch. "And if I don't?"
His eyes opened. There was heat there. Need. Something possessive, held in check only because he loved you too much to let it run wild without permission.
"Then I'll give you what you need."
Your breath caught. The words were simple. They ruined you anyway.
"Slow," you whispered.
His expression softened. Thankful. His hand moved over your cheek. "Aye."
You guided him to you. He paused there, the head of him pressing against your entrance, and for one second neither of you breathed.
There was something about this, about him bare in every way that mattered, about the hotel and the empty house and the girls away for the night. About the way he looked at you like he would give you anything, including another child, including the whole shape of his future, if your body and life and timing asked it of him.
Your hand slid to his face. "John."
His eyes opened. The look in them was almost too much.
"Think about puttin' another baby in you every time you look at me like this."
Your body went hot. A soft sound slipped from your mouth before you could stop it.
John heard. His pupils darkened.
"Christ," he murmured. "You like hearin' that?”
Your cheeks burned.
"Maybe."
His jaw flexed.
Then he pushed into you slowly. Your mouth fell open.
John's eyes stayed on yours as he entered you inch by inch, his breath rough, his body trembling with the effort of going slow. The stretch was deep and intimate and overwhelming, your nails digging into his shoulders as he filled you.
When he was fully inside, he stilled. His forehead dropped to yours. You wrapped your legs around his waist. For a moment, nothing moved but your breathing.
"God," he whispered.
You stroked the back of his neck. "Stay there."
"I am."
"No." You tightened around him on purpose.
His breath broke.
"Stay there."
His eyes lifted to yours. Understanding moved through them. Then something darker. "Want me deep?"
Your answer was barely a breath. "Yes."
His mouth brushed yours. "Want me to take my time with you?"
"Yes."
"Want to feel me tomorrow?"
Your whole body clenched. John groaned.
"There it is."
He moved. Slowly. One deep drag out. One slow thrust back in. Your head tipped into the pillow.
The sound that left you was soft but wrecked. John kissed it from your mouth. He kept the pace exactly like that. Deep. Slow.
Intense enough to make the whole world narrow to each measured movement of his body into yours. He did not rush even when you clawed at his back. Did not lose rhythm when your hips lifted to meet him. He took his time because he had said he would, because John Price's promises in bed felt as binding as vows.
His mouth stayed close to yours. His beard scraped your cheek. His breath warmed your lips.
"You feel perfect," he murmured.
You whimpered. He thrust deeper.
"So good for me."
"John."
"Aye." His hand slid beneath your thigh, lifting your leg higher. "I've got you."
The new angle made him hit something that stole the breath from your lungs. You gripped his shoulders.
"There?"
You could only nod. He did it again. Slow. Exact. Your eyes squeezed shut.
His hand came to your jaw. "Look at me."
You opened your eyes. His face was close, too close to hide from. Everything in him was there. Hunger. Gratitude. Fear. Love. The lingering shadow of whatever had made him bring you here and behave like the night itself was something borrowed.
He moved again. Your lips parted. He watched.
"Beautiful," he whispered.
You touched his face. "You feel far away tonight."
His rhythm faltered. Only once. Then he slowed even more. Your chest tightened.
"John."
His eyes shut. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down until his weight settled more fully over you.
He breathed against your mouth. "I'm here."
"I know." You kissed his cheek. "Come back all the way."
His body shuddered. That was the thing that broke him. Not the sex. Not the want. The invitation.
He buried his face in your neck and thrust into you again, still slow, but heavier now. Needier. His control shifted from careful distance to desperate closeness.
His hand slid under your back, holding you to him. Your legs tightened around his hips.
"Fuck. There," you whispered. "There you are."
His mouth moved against your neck. "Love you."
"I love you."
His hips rolled deeper. "Love you so bloody much."
"I know."
"Don't think you fuckin’ do."
You gasped as he moved again. "Tell me."
His breath came rough. He lifted his head, eyes locked on yours.
"I'd give you everything."
Your throat tightened. "John."
"I mean it." Another slow thrust. "This life. This house. The girls. Every bit of peace I never thought I'd get."
He kissed you. A deep, aching kiss. Then whispered against your mouth, "You gave me somewhere to come back to."
Your eyes burned. You could barely breathe around how full you felt. Full of him. Full of the room.
Full of the awful, beautiful knowledge that he was loving you like a man who knew too well that nothing was guaranteed.
You threaded your fingers through his hair.
"I'm here."
He thrust deeper.
"I know."
"I'm yours."
His whole body tightened.
"Say that again."
"I'm yours."
His mouth found yours hard, the control breaking for a moment as his hips drove into you with more force. You cried out softly, and he immediately gentled, forehead pressing to yours.
He gave it to you. A slow, hard thrust that made your body jolt under his. Then another. Still measured. Still deep.
But the restraint had roughened at the edges, turning the pleasure sharper, hotter, more consuming. The bed shifted beneath you. The city glowed beyond the windows. His body moved over yours like he was trying to make time stop through sheer will.
His hand moved between you.
The moment his fingers found your clit, your breath broke.
"John."
"I know."
He touched you slowly, in time with his thrusts. Your body was already so sensitive, so open, that the pleasure built fast. You tried to hold it back because you did not want this to end. Not yet. Not when he was finally here with you fully, not when his eyes had stopped looking past the room and started staying on your face.
John saw you fighting it.
"Don't."
Your breath caught.
"I don't want it over."
His expression softened painfully.
"It's not."
His thumb pressed a little firmer.
Your hips jerked. "We've got all night."
The promise moved through you. All night. Not a stolen hour before alarms. Not a rushed reunion before goodbye. Not a quick, quiet moment fitted around exhaustion and children and duty. All night.
Your body gave in.
It rose slowly, then broke over you with a force that made your back arch and your mouth open around his name. John covered your mouth with his, swallowing the sound, his fingers still moving as you clenched around him.
He groaned deep in his chest. You felt how close he was. His thrusts turned uneven. But his breathing had gone rough and broken against your mouth.
You wrapped your legs tighter around him. His eyes squeezed shut. A broken sound left him. His control snapped softly. Not wild. Not careless. Just undone.
He buried himself deep and came with a low groan against your mouth, hips pressing into yours as his body shuddered. His arm locked around you, holding you there while he spilled inside you, breath hot and ragged against your cheek.
You held him through it. One hand in his hair. One hand against his back. His heart hammered against your chest.
🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪🥃🧸🍪
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John Price plays the bass. He technically could play the lead guitar but he says he's too old for this shit. His words. John only learned to play the guitar because he wanted to impress a girl he liked as teenager. Long story short, he was shit at it and the girl made fun of him. After that, John didn't touch an instrument till he met Jonny in a pub. The scot was drunk and played like he was born with it. Through some friends and incidents they became friends and John joined the small garage-band-arangment Jonny had with Kyle. Because of his dislike for the guitar, Kyle gave him the bass. It was much easier.
Some songs are sung by him. He's not one for a big perfomance but his gravelly and deep voice, he's had since a young adult, fits the slower songs perfectly. His ma cried the first time hearing her boy sing live. Kyle showed him how to vocalise certain notes and believe it or not, John got really good at what he's doing. Especially the older women scream the loudest if he takes his shirt of because "it's too hot".
At the beginning of their touring modt of the organisation was made by John and Simon until they became popular and needed an manager. That's when Kate Laswell joined. The two of them often fight discuss like they're an old couple. Even Kate's wife gets tired of hearing them barking insults at each other.
mean price spanking you with his cigar between his lips. His heavy hand coming down on your clothed ass before he grunted. “Hmf, get this off.” Before pulling your jeans and underwear down himself. “Maybe. Now, you’ll listen.” You’d hear the older man grumble, his calloused hand coming down in time with each word.
He wouuuuuld so leave your ass sore, all while letting ash from his cigar drop onto your legs. “Dumb thing, making me do this.” Mayyyyybe,, he’d even lightly press the ember end of his cigar against the back of your thigh. Relishing in the way you flinched away from the sudden heat.
Price (casually) slapping readers ass at any chance he gets? I'm rlly into that and I haven't seen any pics about it
tags: smut 18+ only + john is obsessed with your ass
At first you really didn't think about it.
You genuinely thought it was something John did in passing at first to let you know he was thinking about you or something, or anytime he found you bent over, he'd slap your ass and then caress it with a soft grunt before going back to whatever it was he was doing.
Then it became more frequent.
In the shower he'd stand behind you and lather up your body with soap and somehow end up mostly focused on your ass that his palms kept sliding over, making him chuckle.
When you're about to go to sleep and your faced away from him, you can feel John reach over to give your ass a slap then squeeze.
At the grocery store, his palm would find your ass in a quick slap, then before you get in the car and after you get out, when you're cooking or even just standing there. At home he was more prone to just touching and groping the soft globes, memorized with how it jiggled for him.
It went from being outside the bedroom to inside.
John had a new obsession.
He wanted your face down, hips up, or riding him so he could keep his greedy palms on your ass cheeks, slapping them in tandem or once in a while, both of them getting the same attention, then sweet, tender touches. "Look at you, so pretty on top of me, keep goin' cowgirl."
Another sharp slap to get you moving again.
It had grown into such a thing that even your friends commented on it whenever John picked you up from the bar when you had too many drinks, your skirt flying up when you pawed at him drunkenly and him smoothing it down while giving your ass a slap, letting you drool on him.
There was something about it that made John smile with joy, and don't get him started on those little sundresses you wear, sometimes with no panties, and he can see everything, giving him an instant boner.
Sometimes John would hold you against him when he caught you doing dishes after making coffee, and he'd have you pinned against the counter, lazily pawing at your hips while grinding his cock against your ass as he nuzzled into your neck, sending you into sensory overload.
Tight shorts will also do the poor man in.
He can feel his chest ache whenever you're wearing them or leggings that hug the curve of your ass that is getting spanked.
"Look at her." John's rough thumb glided easily through your slick, cum-covered pussy, making you shudder with something close to embarrassment even though he just had you folded like a lawn chair and his cock buried so deep inside you, you swore he was in your guts.
You shifted on top of the mattress and squeezed your eyes shut while your fingers curled in the soft buttery sheets. On instinct, your hips bucked at the slight stimulation to your throbbing clit, and then there it was.
His tongue lapped at your hole, gathering the cum that dripped from you, so much so that he spit it back on your cunt, making it glisten under the bedroom light. "John!" You whined, grinding against his mouth, unable to stop. He chuckled against you and kept licking.
It was wet.
Nasty.
A filthy squelching sound echoed from between your legs with each expert stroke of your husband's tongue. He hummed like it was the frosting from a damn cupcake and ate it up happily. It was nothing like what you've heard from your friends, their husband didn't even give them a kiss after giving them a blowjob, and you get this?
Your back arched clear off the bed, enough so that a mini car could drive under it when he sucked on your aching bud before he flicked it, knowing just how to turn you into a mess, which he did gladly.
Strong arms hooked up and around your thighs to keep them spread wide open for him to devour you. His beard tickled you, making giggles mix in with the sinful moans that spilled from your swollen lips from so many stolen kisses as John wrecked you with his cock.
"I don't know—" You broke off with a high-pitched whine when another orgasm sent you into orbit, causing you to clamp John's face between your thighs and ride out your high, chanting his name like a broken record.
It wasn't until John pulled back to give you reprieve did you realize how hot it was to see his own cum on his beard with a smirk as he looked up at you through his lashes. "Have enough, princess?" He teased kissing your thigh before laying down, where he pulled you in a warm embrace.
Your face still felt hot as you buried it in his damp chest and huffed. "For now, we need water, and then we're going to go again." John grinned and slapped your ass in agreement.
ps: my asks are open for things like this slkfmbrt
