Chapter 5
REVELATIONS
"Johner, where did you learn to read?" She handed him the book that she had retrieved from the shelf in her bedroom. "If you grew up on the street, it’s a wonder you ever did."
"I lived in an orphanage when I was very small," he said. "The sisters taught me the ABC’s, and we had started the part about making words with them when I left."
"Left?"
"I was---‘adopted’. By a man who wanted a bed partner, not a six year old son."
"God, Johner---I’m sorry."
"It was a long time ago. I didn’t stay with him long. Three days, if I remember right. I couldn’t find the orphanage again, so I just---lived.
"I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s ancient history, long gone and forgotten. Not a very interesting subject."
She put her hand on his arm. "It’s interesting to me. And I still don’t know how you learned to read."
"Well, I had a start at the orphanage. It didn’t take me long on the street to see that those who could read had a big edge, and I needed all the help I could get. So I used to collect stuff to read; anything printed that I found in the trash, newspapers, books, anything at all. I knew the letters, no one else was going to teach me, so I just hunkered down, and eventually I figured it out."
"You’re telling me that you taught yourself to read. Living on the street, a small child, and you taught yourself to read." She shook her head.
"Well, it took years. I wasn’t a small child any more by the time I could read everything. There were a few other things that took priority, like eating, so it went by fits and starts, whenever I had the time."
When she looked up at him her eyes were full of tears.
"Jeez, don’t cry!" He was embarrassed. "I did fine. I was big and strong, and I did OK. Now, let’s talk about something more interesting than this!"
"I told you before, Johner, I care about you. I don’t know exactly why, but I have this feeling that you’re---family." She looked down at her hands, a little embarrassed.
For a long minute he said nothing. Then he laughed shortly, without mirth. When he spoke, his voice was harsh, its usual velvet timbre gone. "You mean like a big brother? Or maybe a father? Afraid I don’t fit the role. Find someone else to fill your stupid fantasies."
She
looked up at him, stunned. His face was hard, his eyes coldly
steady on hers. She stuttered, "I---I’m sorry if I--if it’s not---acceptable
to you. Sorry." She turned her face away from him and began
to busy her hands with the book in her lap. In a minute she got up and
without a further word left the room.
******
It was some hours later when he knocked softly on her bedroom door. "Connor?" No answer. "Connor---please?"
The door opened; she looked at him silently.
"Please, Connor, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad at me."
She opened the door wider and gestured for him to come in. As she turned her face to the light he saw that she had been crying. "God, Connor, I never want to do anything to make you cry. I’m sorry!"
"What happened? I’ve been trying and trying to figure out what I said that made you turn on me like that. I can’t figure it, Johner. Can you explain it to me?" Tears spilled onto her cheeks.
His arms went around her involuntarily. He pulled her head down onto his shoulder, one hand cradling it, the other arm close around her, holding her tight against him. "Don’t cry, don’t cry, it’s all right, it’s all OK, I’m sorry , don’t cry---." He kissed the top of her head, losing all caution in his distress at her tears.
"I’m not crying! I don’t cry!" She raised her head and sniffled.
He smiled a little. "You’re crying."
"OK, so I’m crying. Women cry. I am a woman, aren’t I?"
He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said softly, in his velvet voice, "You’re a woman."
She moved back, out of his arms, and walked over to the bed. She settled down with her back against the headboard, pillows piled behind her. "Come over here and sit down, Johner. I need to understand what happened. Please, explain it to me."
God, what was he going to say to her? How to explain the knife in his heart when he heard ‘family’? Brother? Father? No! God no! Let him be lover, husband, even friend; slave, if the truth were told. But not family!
He moved slowly across the room, and sat on the end of the bed, his mind racing madly to come up with something, anything that would satisfy her.
As the silence lengthened and his mind refused to help him out, he took refuge in a familiar place. He began to get angry. Godammit, she was pushing him again! Gratefully, he felt the icy fingers of rage freeze the pain he felt. He looked up at her, on his face the cold, closed look that had stunned her a few hours before.
She saw, and recognized that he was angry again for no reason that she could understand. For the second time. She was off the bed in an instant, facing him in a defensive crouch. "NO! I won’t do this! I won’t have this! Get out of here! Get out of my room! Get out of my house!"
Her body was tense, her face strained and angry. She was so little, and so courageous, and God! how he loved her! His heart hurt as he looked at her, and his rage collapsed suddenly and left him defenseless. He crumpled onto the bed, his face buried in the covers, struggling to suppress the first tears he had felt in thirty years.
Sarah straightened slowly. Whatever crazy reason he had for his anger, it was over. His shoulders were shaking. What was wrong? It dawned on her in a moment that it was tears he was fighting; and a rush of warmth and sympathy washed over her.
"Don’t,
Johner,---don’t." In a moment she was beside him; her arms
went around his shoulders, she lifted his head to press against her breasts.
Her fingers slid under his chin, to pull his face up to her. He resisted,
burrowing his head into the warm angle of her neck.
"It’s all right, I understand, I won’t leave you, I’ll stay with you. Sh-h-h, now, don’t feel so bad, it’s OK, it’s OK," she crooned to him, rocking him in her arms.
His arms went around her and he held her to him. In a moment, as he came to control of his tears, he raised his head to look at her. Her face was so close---her full-lipped mouth that he had longed to kiss was so close, that his hard-held control deserted him at last. Slowly he began to close the distance between them. She didn’t move, didn’t flinch; then there was no more distance, and he gave a little moan as his mouth covered hers.
The kiss was intoxicating; her mouth was so soft, so sweet, so yielding. But when through his daze of pleasure he realized that she wasn’t returning his kiss, that she accepted it without response, he ended it abruptly.
"I shouldn’t have done that." he muttered, his head down, not looking at her.
"Why not, if you wanted to? I’m not fragile. I’ve been kissed before."
There was a flash of returned anger. "Because your charity is not what I want!"
She said nothing for a long moment; then, quietly: "What do you want, Johner?"
He freed himself from her embrace, stood up and turned away from her. He threw his head back and took a long breath, staring upward blindly, unable to speak. What could he tell her? What lie could smooth over this snarl of anger and tears and evasions?
Then, slowly, his tense pose relaxed. When he turned to her his face was emptied of emotion; he looked only very tired. "There’s nothing left but the truth." he said. "What I want is you. Since the very beginning."
His shoulders slumped, and he turned to the door. "I’ll get out of your hair. It’ll take me a day to find a place, but I’ll be out of here tomorrow."
"Johner?"
He turned back.
"Why don’t you ask me what I want?"
"I guess---whatever it is that you want, I know from that kiss---it’s not me."
"I thought---well, there was a reason for that. I thought it was just an impulse you had. I’ve always thought you just wanted us to be friends. I was scared, Johner. Scared to let you know how I feel. Could we try it again?" She got up and came toward him. When she reached him, she slid her arms around him and turned her face up to him.
"Kiss me, Johner."
He bent his head and his mouth found hers hesitantly. But this kiss was different; her mouth opened under his, and he felt the tip of her tongue reach into his mouth, to stroke softly the inside of his lower lip. His arms tightened around her, and as it came to him that she was really kissing him, delirious pleasure surged through him, and he kissed her as he had dreamed, his tongue exploring her mouth, his hands moving over her body. It went on and on, and he had no desire to stop. Her mouth was so sweet, so hot and wet and willing.
His mouth left hers at last only to move over her face and down her neck to the edge of her shirt, then back to her face again. His words were slurred by the contact of his mouth with her skin as he whispered, "God, I want you so much. I love you, Connor. I love you."
His hands were warm on her, sliding over her, touching her with gentleness and ardor. One hand moved low to her buttocks, and with the other hand on her back holding her against him, he lifted her up, into his embrace, pressing her hips against his surging manhood. A soft sound was drawn from him then, and his eyes closed in pleasure as he felt her warmth pressed tightly against him. Then he opened them to look at her with quick anxiety. "OK?" he asked softly. But her face told him what he wanted to know. Desire was plain in her heavy lidded eyes, her flushed face, her mouth half open to accommodate her panting breath. As he looked down at her, it came home to him at last. "Connor? You want this. You want this as much as I do. You want me."
She nodded. "Yes---oh yes, I want you; I have for a long, long time. I love you. I have for a long, long time." She reached up to kiss him softly, her mouth trembling a little, her eyes starry with unshed tears.
Then she smiled. "Johner,
there’s the bed, right over there; why are we way over here?"