15. Fifteen
Fifteen
Lennon
A s it turns out, I’m a fucking idiot.
It is not recent news that I’m impulsive and a bit reckless, but sleeping with Noah was probably the biggest mistake of my adult life. The idea that the attraction would go away if we just went for it one time turned out to be a fallacy–one created from complete delusion.
I’m considering suing Cass for her shit advice. I might as well sue the author of that book as well.
The more time I spend with Noah, the more comfortable I get. It’s like hanging out with him is easy–more pleasant than I originally thought possible. And as he sits on the couch across from me in my minimally decorated living room, finishing the sandwich we ordered, I can’t help but realize I’ve made a grave mistake.
I don’t want to sleep with Noah just once.
“Okay,” I start. “What made you want to get your doctorate?”
I can’t get what he said out of my head–the way he was so confident in everything I’m doing. I’ve spent so much time hearing criticism from my family that I’ve started ignoring the feelings completely. It doesn’t fucking matter what they think because I’m going to do the thing that makes me happy, anyway.
But just because that’s true doesn’t mean his recognition of my hard work didn’t set my dark soul aglow.
Noah smirks in the way that causes a small dimple to appear on his left cheek. I love it.
“I wanted to major in English. It’s kind of difficult to do anything with that unless you get a doctorate.”
He collects the wrappers off the coffee table and shoves them in the bag before leaning back against the couch. Stretching his arms above his head reveals the small patch of skin he flashed outside earlier when he was wiping the sweat off his forehead. My entire body warms.
“So, you didn’t do it just to be an asshole?” I ask, pulling my socked feet up onto the couch and crossing my legs as I face him.
The fireplace crackles from across the room, now fully functioning and making me feel like I’m one step closer to welcoming more stories into the space. I can imagine guests sitting around the fire, sipping hot chocolate while discussing adventures, family–memories. The historic elements of the home charmed me–desperate for more stories to be added. That warm glow of the fire stretches across the floor and kisses the worn wooden coffee table where my e-reader, our trash, and two drinks sit.
Another story the walls of this place will remember.
“No,” he says with a laugh. “Despite what you may think, I actually enjoy the teaching aspect.”
I raise a brow. “Any excuse to assert that your favorite piece of literature is Pride and Prejudice and make the women swoon, I take it?”
He leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees and turning his head sideways to look at me, his hair mussed and his thighs looking criminal in the dirt-streaked jeans he’s wearing. “Would you swoon if I said it was Pride and Prejudice ?”
I scoff, my heart picking up its pace in my chest. “No. Is that really what your favorite classic is?”
He smiles wide, and my stomach flips. “It’s not,” he says.
I lean forward, fighting the urge to scoot even closer. “Okay, then. What is it, Professor Ashwood? Wuthering Heights ? Because honestly, I hate that fucking book.”
Noah runs a hand through his hair before sitting up and adjusting so he’s facing me more fully, one leg propped on the couch.
“I don’t hate it, but the characters are objectively insufferable.”
I risk touching him–if only because I can’t stop myself. I jab his calf with my foot as I speak before pulling it back. “That book deserves more hate. You can hate it, Noah. Nothing brings me more joy than quality time with people who hate the same things I do.”
“I’ll hate it if that’s what it takes to spend more time with you.”
My stomach flips as the air in the room disappears–at least that’s what it feels like. It’s as if the line we could cross is right there, taunting me and begging me to move closer–kiss him again, ask for another round, invite him to stay over.
I finally gather myself. “You never answered my question,” I push. “What is it?”
Noah looks embarrassed, rolling his tongue along his teeth before he answers. “ The Scarlet Pimpernel .”
“You’re kidding.” I laugh as I lean back. “That’s quite romantic.”
Noah’s jaw ticks as if he’s holding back a smile. “It’s a spy novel.”
I lean toward him again, drawn in by his presence as my gaze meets his to make my point. “Noah, he kisses the ground she walks on. It’s romance .”
“Fine,” he says. “It has a romantic element to it. What do you read then? You were reading that one day I was over. I bet it’s horror novels about chopping up your enemies and burying them in the river.”
“I actually just read about people fucking.” The look on his face is beyond worth the comment, and I find I very much like pushing the boundaries.
Noah leans around me, snatching the e-reader off the coffee table and turning it on. “You’re lying,” he says before adding a bookmark to my page and scrolling through the book. I try to grab the device from him, but I’m barely making an effort. It’s more of an excuse to get closer, and by the time I give up, our legs are touching.
“No fucking to be seen here, Lennon.”
I try to glance at where he’s at in the book, unable to figure it out. “It’s more of a slow burn,” I admit.
He’s on a mission, scanning the words across the page and scrolling through until his brows raise as he gets to something good. “Oh, here we go,” he says before clearing his throat. “ His hands find their way to my hair, tangling in the brown strands before he tugs gently, baring my neck to him. His mouth is there, hot and seeking as he– ”
“You can stop now,” I interrupt. My body warms, remembering the way his hands felt on my waist, demanding and directing as I ground myself on his cock. “You’re going to spoil all the fun. I’d like to read it with the appropriate build-up.”
“So, it’s the build-up for you?” he says, his eyes meeting mine over the screen.
I thumb the fabric of my leggings, my knuckles brushing against his leg and sending a jolt up my arm. “You should know,” I say, his eyes darkening. There’s a fire there–one I’d be happy to burn in.
“This scene has a lot of dirty talk, too,” he starts, his voice lower–taking on a gravel that has heat pooling in my core. “Is that what you like?”
My eyebrow lifts in silent challenge, the fire in my chest growing hotter with every breath. I want to push even more. “I liked when you complimented how I was taking you.”
“Yeah?” he says, shifting forward slowly until he’s right there–his mouth hovering over mine. “And what about the part when I asked you to sit on my face?”
My breath catches, and I note the way his pupils have blown out, the way it feels like we’re wrapped up in some kind of battle–waiting to see who breaks first.
“Maybe,” I whisper.
“What if–” His finger traces circles around my knee, slowly moving upward. “What if I told you I liked tasting you. I liked the way it felt when you came on my tongue.” His finger moves higher–halfway up my thigh as I finally lose control of my reactions.
My body feels like it’s pulled taut and about ready to snap. I’m practically panting when his hand grips the outside of my thigh and squeezes gently.
“Is this enough of a build-up for you, Lennon?” he asks, his bottom lip ghosting over mine. “Or should I drag it out more?”
I suck in a lungful of air, leaning forward and desperate to make contact with his mouth, when a phone alarm blares.
Noah leans back, pulling his phone from his pocket and glancing at the screen. “Shit,” he says. “I have to leave now if I’m going to make it in time for my night class.”
“Right,” I say, clearing my throat before standing up to gather our bag of trash so I can throw it away. I walk across the room, turning back and noting how disheveled he looks, running his hand through his hair, his bicep flexing where the sleeve of his t-shirt ends. “Bonfire tomorrow?”
Noah freezes, eyes meeting mine as a small smile appears on his lips–lips I was so close to kissing again. “Yeah,” he says. “Just text me the time.”
I nod once before retreating to the kitchen, throwing away our trash and listening as he walks out the door.
My hands grip the scuffed countertops of the kitchen island as I fight to catch my breath.
As I mentioned before, I’m such a fucking idiot.