Cut Through The Heart || Chapter 5. Wrennie’s Bottle Pops

ctth5

You eat and talk – actually talk, as in a meaningful conversation, get to know each other talk. A bit about music – you remember the Aznavour album in his car – films, and books, his uni years, how everything was different, and how everything was the same at the same time. You laugh a lot. He has an acidic sense of humour. You both are obviously avoiding sensitive topics. But you can’t help but wonder for how long you can sustain this pleasant fragile harmony since the above mentioned topics are so numerous. His family, consequently your past, your family, six foster ones to be precise, his past, the work, the foundation, the lab, the Rivendell…

He excuses himself and goes to the bathroom. And you feel stupid but keep on thinking about the conversation you had with Phil. How past is past, and whatever happened before doesn’t matter. Because it obviously fucking does. And no amount of ignoring, forgiving, and being noble about it is going to fix it. All of a you feel sad. What did you get yourself into? And more so, what’s the point?

Your mind’s racing, and you just can’t seem to stop it. Where will you two go from here? Let’s face it, these relationships are bloody doomed, and you are so over meaningless sex. You have been burnt, so that’s done. And you will get attached if you sleep with him, and involved, because he will just absorb you, and he’ll never care for you the way you could care for him, and you will just disappear…

“Did you realize it was a shortsighted idea to go out with me and that these relationships are condemned from the start, while I was in a washroom?”

Oh fuck. You lift your eyes. He’s standing with his hands in the denim pockets with a cold smirk on his lips. You gulp.

“Why? Have you arrived to the same conclusions while you were in a loo?”

“No. It’s just you look rather nauseated. And I learnt to take it as a sign that you are doubting your propensity towards me.”

Oh fucking fuck.

“You see, Wren, that is usually the moment when you shake off your infatuation with me and rush to the door. After an optional slap or two.”

“Should I?” Why are you asking him? It’s not like you’re friends, and he’ll give you a constructive piece of advice. Besides, you’ve already tried it with a friend. Remember, how fucking well it ended, Wren?

“Up to you, kiddo.” And here we have Dr. John Crispin Thorington, world renown neurosurgeon, and a heartless wanker. That’s not the man who was just having a lager in front of you, and laughed about Monty Python.

And also, is this going to be his usual moniker for you? A wee bit patronizing, don’t you think? Well, if you actually run now, you won’t have to hear it ever again. He’s standing waiting for your answer.

“I think we should go back to the hotel.” Your tone is flat. He nods and leaves the cash on the table. You are reaching for your wallet.

“For once, let me please pay,” he grumbles, sounding exasperating.

“You always pay for me!”

“I’ve never paid for you.”

“In Hilton?” Oopsy daisy, none of your probably needed this reminder.

He gives you a pointed look. Right…

“It’s a date, Wren. I’m entitled to the right to pay for you.”

“It’s an outdated notion.”

“I am old. Suck it up!” You freeze in front of him, and then you both burst laughing.

His laugh is boisterous, rumbling in his chest, eyes closed, white teeth gleaming. And suddenly you just need to do it. You press into him and wrap your arms around his middle. He chokes on his laughter, but immediately hugs you in return. You press your face into the warm chest, and snuggle into him. Oh fuck, even if doesn’t work out, you will have this moment. His heart under your ear, the hard muscles, the smell of the cologne and his skin. He chuckles.

And then you remember: that is how it all started, and that is why it all fucking happened! Since the night in the tent, when he wrapped his arms around you, when you just got into his sleeping bag, and before it all got arsed up, for the first time, it was this piercing, painful feeling of breathtaking perfect… happiness!

“Well, now that slap is worth it. Bring it on.” You chuckle too, and keep on nuzzling him. You should probably stop, you are cuddling Dr. Dark and Sexy! Sober up, Wren! Aren’t you supposed to be mature, sophisticated, and confident? Well, bugger… Too late for that.

He doesn’t seem to be in much hurry to detangle from you, though. He puts his chin on the top of your head and hugs you tighter.

You gather lungfuls of him, and then sigh contently. And then the realisation dawns. You cuddled Dr. Sexy! And you purred and hummed happily.

Oh poop.

Well, there’s only one way out of it that will allow you to save the remainder of your dignity. You let him go, step back, and immediately grab the back of his neck. You have to stand on your tippy toes for that. You pull him down, and he obeys.

The kiss is passionate, but gentle, his lips on your upper lip again, and that is now your favourite quirk of his. One hand on your shoulder blades, so large that it’s almost covering both of them, the second one on your nape – the world shrinks to just being all about him; and you are soon panting, while he’s peppering kisses on your jaw.

“John…” You sound like an Austen heroine. Weak and trembling. Pity you don’t have much in the bosom department, to heave above the lacy bodice of your atlas dress. He shifts and looks at you. He looks so appetizing! The flushed cheeks, the huge pupils, swollen lips, oh give me, give me, give me! The Though stampedes through your brain. Sod it all!

You pull his hand and rush to the door.

Fuck getting to know him better; fuck being ready; fuck trust building and integrity something! John, hotel, bed – now!

***

Your coat’s on the floor of the lift; you’re pulling off his jumper – it’s still not public indecency, he has a white tee underneath. God, look at this chest! Even dressed, it’s indecent. Positively indecent! He’s caging you against a wall, and you push him back, and attack the buckle on his denim.

You tumble out of the lift, tangled and groping, pushing each other into walls – that only slows you down but who cares! – and he suddenly pushes you away and rushes back to the elevator. He jams the slowly closing door with his foot and grabs your jackets from the floor. The lift tries to squeeze him again, and he slams his hand into the door.

He darts back to you, rummaging through the pockets of his jacket, drops your coat, ignores it, pulls out his wallet, shakes the magnet key out of it, dropping the wallet to the floor. He doesn’t even look, one hand trying to unlock the room, the other pulling you into him again.

You’re kissing again and fall into the room.

God, you are so going to ravish him until he begs for mercy! And twice won’t suffice here!

Katya Kolmakov
Katya Kolmakov. Mother. Writer. Artist. Fanfiction and Wattpad. First novel on Amazon http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00XJ16W7W.

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