Chapter Nine
NOAH
I swear, this staircase is going to be the death of me. First, it was moving all of Cassidy’s things all those years ago, then moving it all out again just a few weeks ago. Now, it’s my own heavy suitcase I’m lugging up three flights of stairs. This somehow feels a million times worse.
Amira follows behind, Kitch’s carrier knocking against her knee.
“You should walk ahead of me,” I puff out when we reach the second-floor landing. I don’t actually think I’m going to drop the suitcase or tumble down the stairs behind it, but I’d rather know Amira is safe just in case.
“I have a nice view from here,” Amira blurts out, followed by a squeak. The cat carrier rattles in her hands.
Dropping the suitcase to the floor, I turn to find Amira as bright as the hot pink shirt she had on at the winery last week. With her free hand, she hides her face.
“I knew it,” I say with a smirk. “My Cupcake has a thing for asses. Or is it just my ass exclusively?”
Amira whimpers a little behind her hand. “For the record, it’s all asses. Yours is not that special, try not to get excited about it.”
“Hmm.” Running a hand through my hair I lean down to check on Kitch between the grills of the small opening to the hard-cased carrier. The tabby cat is curled in a ball purring, unphased by her rough ascent to her new home. “I suppose we’ll have to tell people it’s just my ass, for now at least.”
“Fine,” Amira huffs as she storms past me. She’s three steps ahead when she turns over her shoulder to add, “Now I guess you get the view.”
I can’t help myself. “Cupcake, I’ll take this view any chance I get.”
She scoffs, trudging up the stairs. The heavy door to the third-floor hallway slams before I compose myself enough to start climbing. Clothes, as it turns out, are a hell of a lot heavier than you would expect, but I’m carrying more than just their weight. The heavy feeling of anticipation rests on my shoulders, and with each step closer to my new ‘home’ my heart has to work a little harder. The air grows a little thicker.
My body, more than my mind, knows just how impossible the next few weeks are going to be. Or months. We never established a timeline for this arrangement, and that only makes these last few steps even harder.
I’m panting by the time I trudge my way through Amira’s open door and into Cassidy’s old room. Amira is cooing at Kitch from deeper in the apartment, her musical humming sending goosebumps down my back. Hefting the suitcase onto the bed, I don’t bother to tell Amira there’s no point. I’m willing to bet my old cat is hiding in the carrier, pissed at being stirred awake and refusing to budge from her cosy bed. She’ll come out when she’s good and ready, then find the sunniest spot in the apartment and claim it as her own for the duration of our stay.
According to my grandmother’s will, Kitch came as part of the parcel when I inherited the winery and house. I think it was less to do with the properties and more to do with Kitch having nowhere else to go. Until a year or so ago, I never would have called myself a cat person, but Kitch has somehow burrowed her way into my life. We coexist comfortably, and occasionally, when she’s in a good mood, the cat offers me comfort in the form of cuddles. Occasionally.
Considering how long she took to welcome me into her life, I highly doubt she’ll warm to Amira. But as I’m unpacking clothes into the tiny wardrobe, I hear her meowing grow louder.
“I just realised something.” Amira’s voice startles me, and I fumble with the shirt I was attempting to loop onto a hanger.
She’s leaning against the doorway, with Kitch curled in her arms. Fur in shades of orange and white is scattered all over her dark jeans and faded purple jumper, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She scratches Kitch’s back, humming in tune with the cat’s purr.
My eyes widen at the sight. Kitch has never warmed to anyone this quickly. And maybe that’s partially my fault because I so rarely have anyone over for her to meet, but even so. “Did she scratch you?”
Amira glances down at the cat in her arms and back up to me. “She would never.”
“She would, she’s scratched me plenty.”
“That’s just because she is an excellent judge of character. She knows you’re a grumpy workaholic who doesn’t deserve her love.” With a satisfied purr, Kitch stretches in Amira’s arms. “See. When did you get her?”
“When I moved down from Sydney. She was my grandmother’s.” I continue putting clothes into the closet, and once the suitcase is empty I heft it onto the shelf above the hanging rack.
“Is she why you moved? Your grandmother?”
My back is to Amira, but I don’t move to face her. My life feels entirely full of lies lately, and I’m just about over it. The winery, my so-called relationship with Amira, I don’t want to add why I moved down into the mix. I’ve brushed off my reasons for coming down to Melbourne in the past, but no one has ever asked about my grandmother. Never mind the fact I never mentioned her to anyone until now.
“In a way,” I manage to choke out.
Amira doesn’t pry, and I’m thankful for the reprieve. No more lies . At least, no new ones. And I make a silent vow to start opening up more. Holding on to the secret of the winery has become too much, I don’t know if I can keep it much longer. Fuck, I was so ready to tell someone, anyone, that I almost let it spill in front of all the guys at Cassidy’s housewarming the other day. At least I managed to hold it in until it was just me and Michael, I can try to convince myself I only told him because he looked like he needed the pep talk, but in reality, I was desperate to get it off my chest.
I’m still not sure how he fits into the circle of friends, but he was a decent bloke. And with his construction company I might even be able to pull off my grand hotel plans. As long as he doesn’t let slip about the ownership of the winery.
The back of my neck begins to tingle. I turn around slowly, catching Amira eyeing me off. Her lower lip is pulled between her teeth.
“Forgot you were an ass girl, Cupcake,” I jest, trying to lighten the mood and change the subject. Like I could ever forget. “What time do you have to go pick up your cousin?”
She startles, pushing off the door frame and taking a step into the room. “Oh fuck.” In a rush, she spins in a circle and races out of the room. “I’m going to be late,” she calls from down the hall.
I follow after her, entering the living room in time to see her placing Kitch down on the couch. Amira is halfway to the door before she pauses and calls over her shoulder.
“She’s um—” she freezes and turns slowly towards me. “She’s going to need that bed.”
It takes me an age to process what she means, and Amira is gone before it actually ticks over. Maybe she waited for me to respond, backing away slowly when she realised I couldn’t. It’s just as likely that she ran as soon as the words were out, leaving me to process. Either way, I disassociated enough in the moment not to notice.
I creep, unintentionally cautious back into the spare room. Everything I’d unpacked into the wardrobe screams at me. I hadn’t thought when I trudged the suitcase in here and began to unpack. But of course, Amira’s cousin will need this room. I don’t know why I hadn’t realised it earlier.
I think, somehow, I brushed over the fact couples typically share rooms. And beds.
A vision flashes across the back of my eyelids, sending a throbbing pulse directly to my balls. Amira, in her bed. Me, climbing in next to her. Fuck. My cock thickens in my pants, aching for friction, release. But I can’t. I shouldn’t. Reaching down, I adjust my now firm length, thankful Amira has already left. A heavy sigh escapes as I roll my shoulders back and begin pulling clothes from the hanger.
Amira’s bedroom is exactly as I remember it. Tidy, save for the pile of clothes thrown over the chair in the corner. A large mirror rests on top of the dresser, surrounded by Polaroid photos. There’s almost no room in her wardrobe for my handful of shirts, but I squeeze them in. We’ll probably have to store some of her winter clothes in my suitcase for the duration of my stay, but otherwise it will have to do.
Unless she has room in the dresser. I step across to it, curious, but opt not to check the drawers. I’ll ask her, subtly of course, once she’s back. The photos catch my eye though. There are none that look to be of Amira’s family, save a few similar aged men and women, all with the same dark hair, who could be cousins. No parents in sight. Most are of Amira and Cassidy, blurry nightclub photos and happy weekend snaps. And other friends, scattered throughout. A short woman with bright red hair, arm in arm with Amira on the small balcony off the living room. One of Amira and her old work friends, taken the night of her thirtieth birthday celebration. The night that began the chain of events leading to me being here right now.
I notice it then, a photo hidden more than the others, but I’d recognise the messy mop of dark blond hair anywhere. I don’t remember it being taken, and I’m not looking at the camera. The photo is from inside the apartment, looking out to where I’m standing out in the hallway. A large box is in my arms as I step towards the open door.
She took a photo of me the day Cassidy moved in. And she’s kept it on her wall ever since. Confusion is a clown dancing in the corners of my vision. It could mean everything, but it could also mean nothing. I turn away, flustered, with the intention of getting the rest of my things but my eyes catch on the bed. Soft white sheets topped with a deep purple throw. Those same purple pillows Amira snuggled into after the wedding. And again the vision of us climbing into bed together shows starkly in my mind.
Amira, not curled against the pillows, but sprawled out on top of them. Me, not climbing in next to her, but crawling over her. Holding my weight inches above her body.
She’s pulling her lip between her teeth and I’m barely holding on. I fight to breathe, fight to control the fire racing through my veins. Stumbling, I sit on the edge of the bed, catching my breath. Again, I reach below my waist to adjust my cock, but the subtle friction through my pants does nothing to sedate the carnal need for more .
Amira taunts me from behind my eyes. I let them fall shut and give in to the fantasy. Hovering over her, I feel her chest panting beneath me. In and out, every breath grazes her breasts against my bare chest. The thin cotton of her lace pyjama tank does nothing to hide the way her nipples draw firm. For a moment, we stare into each other’s eyes, waiting to see who will cave first.
It’s me, I do. I always will. In reality, my hands race to unbuckle my pants. My cock springs free and I hiss as I wrap my hand around my thick shaft. Pre-cum spills from the tip, and I use my thumb to swipe it over my dick. I spit into my hand before grabbing firmly and stroking myself.
In my mind, I give in to temptation and drop my body onto Amira’s. I grind against her, savouring how perfectly she fits beneath me, appreciating the whimper that escapes her. I claim the sound with my mouth. She gasps at first but relaxes into the kiss when I press my firm length into her core. I can feel how wet she is through the layers of our barely there clothing, and I’m aching for more.
I pump my cock as I undress her in my mind, taking my time to peel away her thin layers and soak in every inch of her body. I kiss my way down her chest, pulling her nipple into my mouth as I line myself at her entrance. The urge to taste every part of her is overwhelming, but less so than the need to feel her pussy wrapped around my dick.
Spitting down into my hand again, I spread the moisture over myself, imagining it’s Amira gripping me so tightly. Imagining how warm and wet and fucking incredible it would feel to be deep inside her. Every part of my body is on fire with wanting and having and fuck, knowing this may never be. But I can’t control it. My release builds and I’m ferociously thrusting into my fist. Amira whimpers in my mind as I thrust into her. She feels like heaven and hell and fucking home all rolled into one.
My orgasm hits me hard and fast as I spill onto my hands. In the aftermath, I’m hit by the harsh reality of not just what I’ve done, but what it means. Amira is ingrained into my body and imagining her was never going to be enough to keep her off my mind.
Coming down from my high, guilt claws its way up my spine. I hobble quickly to the bathroom, struggling to keep the cum from dripping through my fingers.
In the mirror, I look ragged and unkempt. I tidy up, washing my hands, pulling up my pants and adjusting my still throbbing bulge inside them.
Rules. We’re going to need them.
Like number one, no more masturbating on Amira’s bed. Especially not while daydreaming of her underneath me.