Seventh Wonder (16 page)

When she backed away a moment later, feeling slightly embarrassed, John’s face (now covered in stubble that even further accentuated his male beauty) lit with a teasing grin. “Good morning to you, too,” he said.

“You disappeared,” Meg said, still a bit breathless. “I thought maybe...something had happened.”

His kissed her chapped lips as he threaded his fingers in the hair at her nape. “I’m right here. No need to worry.”

They made their way back over to their ersatz fire pit. Meg resumed her spot while John rekindled the fire. Once it was lit, with shreds of smoke being snatched away by the ever-present breeze, he came to kneel in front of her. Meg opened the blanket, allowing him in before wrapping them both in its abrasive warmth.

“Mmm.” He hummed softly as he pulled her against him. “You’re not wearing anything.”

Meg’s breath caught when he palmed her left breast before pulling her nipple into his mouth. She instinctively opened her legs, allowing him to crowd closer. John dropped his hand between her thighs and pressed his thumb against her clit. Her head lolled back as if the bones in her neck had turned to cartilage. “God,” he whispered, stroking her faster.

He grabbed behind her knees and tugged her closer to the edge of the rock she sat upon, and she put her arms behind her to brace herself. The blanket fell from her shoulders, but she didn’t care: she no longer needed it for warmth.

John leaned forward to kiss her stomach just beneath her belly button. Meg sucked in her abdomen as he kissed a trail downward. She whimpered when he hooked her legs over his shoulders and used his fingers to spread her lips.

Seeing the uncertainty in her eyes, he leaned up to kiss her on the mouth. “Relax, OK?” he said. Then he ducked his head and speared his tongue inside her.

Meg held her breath as he touched her in this way - in a way no man had ever touched her before. The flick of his tongue was light and soft as the kiss of a moth’s wings, yet it caused a riotous electrical storm to charge through her, from her clitoris to the tips of her curled toes.

She moaned softly in protest when he paused minutes into his onslaught. “Tell me how that feels,” he whispered before once again zeroing in on her opening.

She was at a bit of a loss. None of her other lovers had ever encouraged her to be more vocal. Michael had been expressive enough for the both of them - she doubted he would have heard her even if she had made an effort to match him in volume - and the others hadn’t seemed to notice her penchant for biting her tongue (or if they had they didn’t care).

John asking her for feedback felt a little like being granted permission to do something she’d always longed to do - even if she hadn’t realized until this moment how badly she had longed for it. Her moaning articulations weren’t particularly intelligible, nor were they in any way profound. And yet it was the most satisfied she’d ever felt when it came to conveying what she felt right now, in this moment.

Clearly, Meg wasn’t the only one enjoying her newfound voice. She could feel John’s eyes on her, watching her. His groans turned to growls, and he clutched her legs tighter, digging his fingers into her flesh. But for all the roughness in his hands, he kept his sucking and licking gentle and light, expertly nudging her closer and closer to the proverbial edge. In that moment just before, when she felt as if she were on the verge of combusting, she threaded her fingers through the hair on the crown of his head and pulled. Every cell, every nerve, every muscle in her body fluttered and pulsated. She felt her feet cramp as she squeezed her toes, felt her shoulder blades bite into the rock beneath her as her back arched.

John slowed his pace, but he didn’t stop right away. Instead, he let his tongue absorb the aftershocks of her orgasm. Only then did he pull away to place a kiss on the mound of flesh above her opening.

He rose slowly to his feet, then pulled the fallen blanket snugly around her before kissing her swollen lips. He whispered: “You’re perfect.”

* * *

After Meg had had time to recover, she offered to return the favor. Her brow wrinkled in confusion when John declined, but ironed out again when he explained his rationale. He’d had time to think while gathering wood, and he’d already decided by the time he returned that this morning would be about her. His time would come later, he told her (though truthfully only to appease her frustration). What he didn’t say was that he’d been fantasizing about tasting her for an embarrassingly large percentage of the past 24 hours. Just as she’d had to recuperate from her orgasm, John felt equally in need of recovery. If they’d gone on to make love, he knew, his staying power would be middling at best.

The sun had emerged from behind the clouds and slowly heated the rocks. Soon the air would hold heat instead of chill; already he’d snuffed out the fire, since they were no longer in need of the warmth it provided. The canyon, too, had cleared of fog; he imagined it swirling away through a drain at the very bottom.

John sat with his back against a sheer faced boulder with one leg draped over the canyon’s edge and the other bent, supporting his sketchpad. Meg sat opposite with the blanket wrapped around her waist, eating a plum. She never had bothered to get dressed, which John couldn’t have been more pleased about. He was sure he would never tire of admiring her body.

She glanced up, caught him staring. He smiled at the pink flush of her cheeks. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

Her blush deepened and spread to her ears. “So are you,” she replied. She cleared her throat. “I, um. I hope I’m not distracting you from your work.”

He shook his head. “You’re anything but a distraction.”

“Aren’t I?”

“There isn’t much in the world that’s more inspiring than making love to a beautiful woman.”

She smiled a little at that. “Something we haven’t done this morning, if you’ll recall - despite my best efforts.”

“What we did still counts,” he replied.

He studied her as she took another bite of her plum, her teeth breaking its tender skin. Juice dribbled down her chin, and she used the back of her hand to wipe it away as she turned her gaze back to the landscape before them.

He glanced up at her often as he sketched the soft line of her jaw, the full curve of her lips. She’d picked up her book, but she held it in her lap, leaving him an unobstructed view of her face.

“What’s that you’re humming?” he asked, still sketching.

She looked at him in surprise. “‘Spanish Eyes.’“ Smiling, she added, “I guess I hadn’t realized I was making any sound.”

“Hum away. You can even sing if you’d like.”

She laughed that gorgeous, musical laugh. “I’d better not.”

She shook her head slightly, causing a strand of her hair to slip out from behind her ear and fall forward to frame her face. “Don’t,” said John before she could reach up to rectify it. “Don’t move it.”

She froze mid-motion with an odd look on her face as his hand moved over his sketchbook. He could see the puzzle pieces clicking into place for her. “Are you drawing
me
?” she asked.

“Is that all right?” John asked carefully. Perhaps he should have asked first...

Again she laughed. “I suppose so. I just... The Grand Canyon is
right there
- and you’re drawing me.” She shook her head, as if the mere thought of it was purely ludicrous.

“I already told you you’re beautiful,” he said by way of explanation. “In fact, I think I even used the word ‘perfect’ at one point.”

She lifted her chin in mock pride, her grin still in place. “You did say that, yes.”

A moment later, as he continued to sketch, she asked, “I’m not going to see this hanging in the lodge, am I?” Her tone was teasing.

He smiled without looking up. “This one is for my enjoyment only.”

A span of time passed with neither of them speaking. Meg had stopped reading her book and was staring out at the canyon, her eyes unfocused. John considered asking her on several occasions what she was thinking, but somehow managed to refrain. She was serene, wherever she was, and he had no interest in disturbing whatever peace she’d found.

Then she spoke his name.

John lifted his head. Her eyes pierced clean through him, no longer clouded with errant thoughts. “I want you to know that no one’s ever done that for me before,” she said. Her voice sounded faraway, like she was speaking to him from some parallel universe.

“Done what, sweetheart?”

“Oral sex,” she replied. “That was a first for me.”

He raised his eyebrows. This was a surprise to him. They came from different generations, and his impression was that hers was far more sexually progressive than his had been or would ever be. What sort of men had she been with in the past that didn’t know how to satisfy her the way she unquestioningly deserved?

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said quietly - although really this was only partially true. In some ways it was gratifying to hear that he’d tread where no man had before.

She chewed thoughtfully on her upper lip. “Before Rick, I was with someone else named Michael. We were completely different - probably it was ill-fated from the very start. No one wants to believe their relationship is doomed, though. We were together for more than a year, so I became very adept at ignoring the red flags.” The corner of her mouth lifted in a regretful smile.

Casting her eyes downward, she continued. “He was hard to keep up with...in the bedroom.” Her cheeks colored, but she didn’t stop like John feared she might, unsure as he was of whether he wanted to hear what came next.

When she spoke again, her voice was stronger, as if she’d conjured some inner reserve of strength to say it. “I let him do things to me that I regret now, just to hold his interest. There were times when I could see his attention wandering elsewhere, and I was desperate to stay at the center of it.” Her shoulders sagged; her agitation was clear in the way she wrung her hands. “That must sound very weak and immature to you, and it’s certainly nothing I’m proud to admit. Co-dependent, I think, is the term for it.”

Her lip trembled as if she were on the verge of spilling tears; the sight of it made John’s heart feel as if it had fractured in two. “Come here,” he said, holding his arms out to her.

She came willingly, tucking the blanket beneath her arms to cover herself. She turned sideways to sit in his lap, and John cradled her like an infant, shushing her between kisses that were meant to provide some modicum of comfort. He couldn’t guess what she meant by ‘things she regrets,’ and he was torn between asking her to sate his curiosity, and knowing deep down he’d be sorry if he did.

There was one thing, though, that he had to know. Holding her tighter he whispered, “Did he ever...force you?”

He grit his teeth in anticipation of her answer. Relief coiled through him when she shook her head. “No. I did it all willingly - or at least that’s what I told him.” Her voice was a miserable croak. “I can’t claim to be a victim...which honestly sort of makes me hate myself all the more.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, blinking back the blitz of emotion he’d been about to unleash. “You don’t have to be sorry anymore,” he said into her ear. “Just let it go, sweet Meg. What’s done is done.”

A moment later she sat up, using her fingers to swipe away the sheen of tears coating her cheeks. “I needed you to know,” she said, the firmness back in her voice. “You needed to understand that no one’s ever made me feel as cherished as you.” Her eyes flicked to his lips before moving back to his eyes. “We may not have time on our side, but even after I’m gone, I know there isn’t anything I’ll regret with you.”

John sucked in a breath as his hands curled around the nape of her neck and brought her lips to his. He pulled away only slightly and leaned his forehead into hers. Stroking her cheeks with his thumbs, he said, “Me neither.”

* * *

After almost an entire day of not wearing clothing, it felt strange to be dressed again. While John loaded the Jeep, Meg stuffed her feet in her boots, then did her best to smooth her tangled hair into a low ponytail.

She turned to face the canyon one last time before leaving this part of it behind. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t leaving it altogether - it still felt like goodbye. And goodbyes were never something she did very well with.

The crunch of boots on gravel alerted her to John’s approach behind her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he asked, “Ready to go?”

“What if I said no?” she asked without turning around. “Could we stay here forever?”

He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze and leaned to kiss behind her ear. “What if I said yes?” he murmured.

She was filled with a sudden and inexplicable anguish, a miasma that infected her like some malignant, metastatic disease. Determined not to cry, she avoided looking at John’s face as she spun around and buried hers in his chest. He gripped her tightly, his arms shielding her and trapping her in every way she wanted to be shielded and trapped. She wished she could crawl inside of him and stay there forever.

Gradually the nexus of grief loosened enough so that she was able to take a step back and meet his eyes. John was watching her with a concerned expression, so she donned an artificial smile in an attempt to ease his worry. “Let’s go,” she said. Then, winking: “I’ll drive.”

She was taken aback (and a little frightened) when he really did relinquish the keys. For the first few miles of furrowed, uneven road, she sat forward in her seat and kept a firm, two-handed, white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. John was a calming presence beside her. He kept the soothing weight of one hand on her knee, and he affected a tone of coolness and composure when pointing out various bumps and holes to avoid.

Eventually the road smoothed out some (or perhaps Meg simply grew more confident in her power to navigate it), and she was able to relax a bit. She dropped her hands to the bottom of the steering wheel, leaned back in her seat and let the wind buffet her face and toss its gnarled fingers in her hair. John’s eyes were on her for most of the ride: his gaze warmed the side of her face.