Chapter 16
Honor
Noah’s bedroom smells of him. Which is a very good thing. And he’s made his bed perfectly. Which, for some reason, tugs at my heartstrings. He’s a good boy, tidying his duvet and fluffing up his pillows before breakfast—even if he had an ulterior motive for making the bed look inviting.
He pokes his head out of the open door to what’s presumably his ensuite bathroom, toothbrush in his mouth.
Grins and holds up a finger before disappearing back inside.
He’s still in his shorts and t-shirt. That’s a relief.
I’m definitely hooked. Definitely. But it’s one thing to have an evening of passion that’s more spontaneous and uninhibited than I’ve ever had before, and it’s another to show up to this guy’s booty call, stone-cold sober and in the relentless, dazzling daylight of a Cote d’Azur morning.
I passed out last night and then woke at five, and I’ve been awake ever since, my gut churning with an emotionally exhausting mix of guilt, self-judgement, smugness, desire, excitement and bewilderment.
After a decade of being firmly camped out on the moral high ground, I put myself on an equal footing with Jackson last night before I could say I’m coming.
Waking up to this knowledge was the most bizarre feeling.
It’s exactly like that gut-churning anxiety and excitement I used to get at uni, or in my early days at ITV, when I’d snogged someone the previous night and then had no idea how to react, or behave, or think.
The difference is, last night I got naked with a man who was not my husband!
And my kids were upstairs in bed! And we were outside—anyone could have come down to the pool and found us starkers!
My mind has been pumping out exclamation marks ever since.
When I came down to breakfast (again, with my children!), the turmoil in my stomach got worse, especially as soon as I saw him grinning at me, and I ran for the hills.
And when he came into the butler’s pantry, I didn’t know whether to be more scared that he’d give me the cold shoulder or make good on his promise and pull down my swimming costume there and then.
But of course, he behaved like the perfect gentleman (apart from the boob graze).
He held me, and reassured me, and made me feel desirable without going full-on predator.
And he looked gorgeous. And smelt amazing.
And my stomach’s been flip-flopping in a really good way since then.
Right through breakfast, trying to avoid his unhelpfully suggestive grins as I swatted away his bare foot under the table.
Every time I snuck a peek at him, it was as if I got to see him in a new light, now that the veil had been lifted.
I took in the curve of his jaw and knew how it felt to run my mouth along his stubble.
He licked some jam off his lips (he was really going for it with that jam) and I was jealous of his tongue.
Ridiculous! He rested his elbows on the table as Angus regaled them with some anecdote (who knows what about; I wasn’t listening) and I knew exactly how the jut of that bicep and the hairy tautness of that forearm would feel under my fingers when I got him to myself.
He’s done in the bathroom. He hangs from the doorframe for a moment, back-lit against the sunlight, and his t-shirt rides up.
That flat stomach. That happy trail I kissed my way down last night before surprising both of us by letting him have his full release in my mouth.
Admittedly, a small part of my motivation was not wanting to get my new Missoni dress ruined.
I didn’t want Di having any awkward conversations with our dry cleaner.
But I enjoyed the whole thing more than I expected.
Far more. I loved being in the moment with him, showing him that I was far less uptight than he would probably have guessed.
Loved the exhilarating sense of power that came with being the instrument of his desire.
Loved the slick hardness of him in my mouth, the look of disbelief and adoration on his face when I glanced up and nodded at him, signalling that I wasn’t going to pull away.
Loved the fervour with which those fingers twisted in my hair. I loved the whole fucking thing.
So when he walks towards me, his hands up in front of him as if he’s approaching some unstable gun-wielder, it makes me smile. But his answering smile is as lazy and inviting as ever.
‘Is it creepy that I made you come up here? We can go for a walk, if you like. I just wanted to get you to myself. We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.’
‘It’s pretty creepy. Lucky you’re very hot.’
I slide a hand around the back of his neck and lean in.
The smile lines bracketing his mouth are the sexiest thing ever.
I press my lips to one corner of his mouth, then slide them over his lips and find his tongue with mine.
He’s minty and perfect, and our kiss is slow but heated.
This must be what happiness is: standing in a sun-filled room in the South of France, your body pressed against that of a man whose hands are doing laps of your bare back, punctuated with squeezes at each end to the nape of your neck and the curve of your arse.
His mouth and tongue showing you you’re tantalising and delicious and addictive.
Just in case his steady hardening against the front of your shorts isn’t a clear enough sign.
He pulls away enough to pull off his t-shirt, and my insides do a little dance.
Are all women hard-wired to find the sight of a man pulling off a t-shirt panty-meltingly perfect?
It must be relentless subliminal brainwashing from formative years filled with Levi’s ads and Athena posters and Baywatch on a Saturday evening.
Put a puppy or a baby in his arms right now and I wouldn’t know my own name. My lips part of their own accord.
‘Wow.’ He laughs. ‘Hungry eyes.’
‘Famished.’ My hands slide down the glorious curves of his shoulders. Biceps. Forearms. Yup. Exactly how I knew they’d feel at breakfast.
He leans his forehead to mine before taking my shoulders and turning me gently away from him. Brushes my ponytail aside and kisses my neck. Slides his hands around my waist, to the flies of my cutoffs.
‘May I?’
‘Yes.’ My throat is tightening by the second. The anticipation has kicked in again.
My eyelids drift shut as he fumbles with the button and zip, before his fingertips push the shorts down and brush down my thighs. Back up my thighs, to the sides of my high-legged swimming costume.
‘Jesus.’ It sounds more like a whispered prayer than blasphemy as he lowers his mouth to my shoulder and his hands coast over my waist and hips. My heart-rate is ratcheting up. His featherlight strokes are working my nervous system into anticipatory bliss.
I turn, slowly. Take his rapt face in my hands and kiss him. Slowly. Deeply.
‘Last night was ridiculous but… I’m enjoying every second of this,’ he tells me. ‘You, in the light of day—you’re even more beautiful like this.’
His hands go to the straps of my swimming costume, his eyes searching my face for permission.
He peels the straps off my shoulders, down my arms, the costume sitting at my waist. His face is a picture.
He stares at my breasts and runs a hand over his face.
The level of awe reflected on his beautiful features tightens my chest. And my nipples.
I help him out, pushing my swimming costume the rest of the way down and stepping out of it. His gaze drops to my landing strip—which is impeccable, if I do say so myself—and he lets out a shuddery groan.
‘Oh, God. Oh, God.’
Then he’s fumbling blindly with the drawstring on his swim shorts, tugging them down and doing an unintentionally comedic dance to get them off from around his ankles. I giggle.
‘Sorry.’ He laughingly kicks them away and puts his arms around me. ‘Not my smoothest moment. You have me acting like a spotty fucking adolescent who’s never seen a naked woman before.’
‘You feel like a fully grown man to me.’ I press myself against him and cup his arse for good measure. It’s slightly, softly hairy and utterly glorious. I didn’t get a good handful of it last night.
And then we’re on the bed, and my legs are around him, and the sensation of his skin and hair and muscle against mine is sublime.
He disentangles my limbs from his and crouches above me on all fours.
Admiring. Absorbing. His hair brushing my face as he leans in to kiss me.
His hand sweeping over my breasts, across my stomach.
He groans. ‘Jesus Christ. Where do I start?’
I shift on the bed. The sheets are crisp beneath me, and the light breeze coming through the open windows dances on my skin, reinforcing the fact that I’m gloriously naked and exposed for this man. Every nerve ending on my skin is awake.
‘I said it last night, and I meant it.’ He parts my legs and sits back on his heels, his hands brushing my skin. His thumbs making a trail up and down my inner thighs. His eyes flickering over my body. ‘You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.’
His thumbs move north and I open my legs further. My pulse is beating in parts of my body that are nowhere near my heart. The blood builds between my legs. From arousal comes courage.
‘Show me.’
He grins at me. I’m not the only one who’s famished.
‘I will, baby. I promise. I’m going to show you how beautiful you are. But I may need some help. I don’t have enough hands.’
He runs his hands firmly up over my stomach. Fingers tracing my breasts. When they hit my nipples and squeeze, I convulse. That. That feeling. Is. Everything.
He takes his time. His hands on my nipples. Rolling. Pressing. Chafing. It’s simultaneously heavenly and torturous. I could explode just from this, but it’s not going to hit the spot the way I need. I squirm on the bed.
‘Noah. I need you inside me. Please, for the love of God, say you have condoms.’
‘I do.’ He kisses me. Slow. Tongue taut. ‘But I want to make you come first. Unless you can come just from my being inside you?’
‘Not usually,’ I admit. Vaginal orgasms are as intriguing, and as improbable, as unicorns.
‘Not a problem. Give me your hands.’
He puts my hands on my breasts. ‘I need you to touch yourself for me. Do what I’ve been doing, okay?’
His hands move downwards, and he slips a couple of fingers inside me. Oh, God. He’s finally given me a body part. I push into his hand, but he doesn’t move it. Instead, he grins and raises his eyebrows at me.
‘Go on. I need you working your magic at that end.’
‘Dick.’ I make a face at him, but he’s unmoved.
‘Come on. Team effort. Don’t be shy.’
Desire and frustration overtake self-consciousness.
I move my fingers, rolling my aching nipples between them like pebbles.
As soon as I do, he pulls his fingers out and pushes them back in, hard.
The sense of relief at both ends of my body is so massive, I close my eyes and moan.
When I open them, he’s watching me, and wetting his lips, and shaking his head.
‘You’re going to kill me. I may not survive this. The most beautiful woman in the world, touching herself.’
My breath comes faster.
‘Make it worth my while.’
‘I will. I fucking will.’
And he crouches down. Puts his mouth on me.
Holds me open with his hand, his tongue hitting all the most sensitive parts of me.
His long fingers pushing into me, like they did last night.
There’s no way I can hold out for long. The heat builds and swells and pulses through my entire body and crescendos in an almighty rush between my legs, and the heavenly torment turns to blissful, unreal release as my entire body surges against him.
‘Quick.’ I’m delirious. ‘Quick. Where’s your condom?’
He kisses my inner thigh and scoots up to grab one off the bedside table.
My legs hang open. Shaking, useless. He rips the foil and I stare at the delectable sight of him rolling the condom over his very hard, very gorgeous, very large dick.
He runs a hand over it and I smirk. The Cote d’Azur knows how to put on a good show.
‘Come here.’ I hold up a hand and curl it around his neck.
He crouches back down, framing my shoulders with his elbows. He’s shaking as he edges into me, and I take. No lube necessary today. Definitely not.
He reaches down and hooks an arm behind one of my knees, pulling it up.
Edges in further. And the sensation of being filled up is glorious.
Far better than his fingers. The aftershocks of my orgasm are still coming, the friction as he moves inside me rounding out that sensation to a state of perfect fulfilment.
I may not come like this, but I can sure as hell revel in the perfection of his hard, rhythmical thrusts as he drives into me, sending a wall of pressure up through my entire abdomen, pushing the air out of my lungs. This. This. This.
I kiss him—deep drives of my tongue that mirror the effect he’s having on my insides, and I can feel him near his own orgasm.
When he does slow and still inside me, and shudder, he releases a long groan into my mouth before thrusting through his climax, and I move with him.
Hold him in my arms as he shakes. My chest is tight with exhaustion and emotion and overwhelm.
He pulls up and out of my embrace and I whimper.
He kisses me softly on the mouth. ‘Give me a sec.’
I ogle his arse shamelessly as he heads into the bathroom to deal with the condom, my head propped up on one elbow.
He strolls back in, grinning, before hopping back on the bed and folding me into his arms. He wraps his top leg around me. His hand is on the back of my head; my nose against his chest. I inhale him as my breathing slows. If that was just sex, we’re both in trouble.