Page 75 of Hannah.
My core throbs at his promise, and I grin, biting my lower lip. Johan raises an eyebrow.
“You’re incorrigible.” He sounds secretly thrilled by the fact. “I have to say, I’m liking this new side of you.”
Then he kisses me again, cupping my face, and the driving need from earlier is gone, replaced by a content, affectionate feeling that has me wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing against him, regardless of the mess. All I want is to be close to him...to savor these stolen hours.
21
Hannah
The shower is a revelation.
Johan pins me against the tile wall, water steaming and sluicing down his back and over the swell of his ass, which I indulge myself in squeezing, making him growl playfully. We kiss, and kiss, and kiss, until my lips are swollen and my breath is coming short. But I can't seem to get enough.
He lathers a loofah with soap and washes my body, his hands gentle and reverent as they glide over me. When it's my turn, I take my time, washing his broad shoulders, down his chest and stomach, and when Johan hisses and jerks away, laughing, I know I’ve hit a ticklish spot.
“Don’t,” he warns, but I can't help but reach for it again, and Johan growls, yanking me flush against him, his cock digging into my hip.
We stumble from the shower, and Johan wraps me in a towel, kissing me as he rubs another over my hair. Somehow, we avoid mauling each other like two animals, but Johan seems intent on keeping his promise. When we come together for thefirst time, it's going to be special. It won’t be rushed or in a moment of impulsive passion. It’s going to be slow, intense, and intentional.
“Let's go out,” he says, wrapping a towel around himself. “Get you some real food. If we don't get out of this suite, then I’m going to do something I regret.” He pauses. “Well, not regret, exactly. Something that goes against the careful plans I’m trying to craft here.”
“Plans? Careful plans?” I laugh, toweling my hair. “Care to elaborate?”
“No, not particularly.” Johan grins. “And you’re going to need the energy that only real food can provide. I want everything to be perfect.”
“It already is,” I tell him, standing on my toes and kissing the corner of his jaw. “Every second is. Trust me.”
“You are too good for me, Hannah.” His serious voice makes the smallest pit open in my stomach, but I refuse to let that doubt creep in over us—not today.
“Impossible,” I tell him, emphasizing every syllable. “That's completely impossible.”
I’m not sure if he believes me or not, but I’m willing to let it slide for now.
Johan dresses in slacks and a dark navy-blue sweater that makes his eyes pop, and I go with a long, warm dress. It features a high turtleneck to keep my neck warm against the cool November breeze and long sleeves that taper slightly at the wrists, providing both elegance and comfort. The fitted waist accentuates my curves, while the skirt flares out just enough to allow for easy movement, falling to just above my knees. We keep the conversation light and easy as we get ready, and I can't help but notice just how easy this all feels. How right. Everything just fits into place with him.
The fluffy cloud I’m floating on dissipates somewhat when I finally check my messages and see that my texts to Astrid have still gone unanswered. While Johan gathers his things, I bite my lip, finger hovering over her contact. I’m thinking about calling her again. But the idea of it seems wildly inappropriate in a way. How the hell can I call her when the man she has feelings for had his face between my legs only an hour ago? I can't do it. It feels wrong. So I slide the phone into my small bag, turning to Johan when he quietly says my name.
“Ready?”
“Absolutely.”
Johan offers me his hand. “Let's go.”
Breakfast is a feast. Johan takes me to a quiet cafe that brings us a full spread within minutes of sitting down—fresh fruit, pastries, croissants, eggs, and sausage. We take our time with coffee and mimosas, lingering over the food and the view, and it's like the rest of the world doesn't exist. It’s just him and me, the sunlight, and the ocean. When he isn’t paying attention, I watch him eat, fascinated by the smallest movements he makes––the way his hand flexes when he cuts something, the drop of juice on his bottom lip after he takes a drink, and the hum of satisfaction as he takes a bite of a particularly juicy strawberry. How can these mundane things make butterflies take flight in my stomach so effortlessly?
“So what do you do with yourself when you aren't elbow-deep in research or teaching?” I ask, swirling my mimosa as I speak, the liquid making a lazy vortex in the champagne flute. “Are you still into horse stuff?”
“Oh, yes.” Johan swallows the bite of toast he was chewing and nods, grinning. “Still am. It’s a bit harder to indulge in that as much as I'd like, though. But my dad still tends to the horses every day like he used to when I was home, and this used to be our way of bonding together.”
“That's really sweet.” I smile, and Johan shrugs. There's a wistful look on his handsome face, and I want to smooth the line between his eyebrows with my thumb. “I can’t really commiserate, though. It was always Elise’s thing.”
“Do you ride?”
I shake my head at his question before sipping my coffee.
“I could teach you.”
I almost laugh until I realize he’s serious, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Really. I know you aren’t into dressage, but I think I can change your mind about how fun horse riding can be.”