Chapter I #2
I look lower and see my release starting to leak out of him, onto the rug beneath us.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Noah warns, though his pupils dilate slightly. “We don’t have time for round two.”
“I wasn’t—” I start to protest, but Noah raises an eyebrow, and I laugh. “Okay, I was. But I was also thinking how lucky I am.”
Noah’s expression softens again. He pushes himself up fully, then holds out a hand to help me up.
“Sap,” he accuses, but his voice is fond.
I let him pull me to my feet, using the momentum to bring him close for another kiss.
“Your sap,” I remind him.
“Mm,” Noah hums against my lips. “Always.”
***
We pause at the bedroom door, peering inside to check on Pumpkin.
She’s curled up in a perfect orange-and-white spiral on our bed, one paw twitching slightly as she dreams. Noah took her for a long walk earlier—part of his Sunday morning routine—and she’s completely wiped out, snoring softly against my pillow, where she definitely isn’t supposed to be drooling.
But I can’t bring myself to care. Not when she looks so peaceful. Not when Noah is looking at her with that soft expression that makes my chest ache.
“We should really train her to sleep in her own bed,” I whisper, not meaning it for a second.
Noah gives me a sidelong glance, lips quirking up. “Sure, Dr. O’Reilly. You’re the one who lets her sleep on your chest during movie nights.”
I can’t argue with that. From the moment we brought Pumpkin home—the day after we signed the lease on this house, before we’d even moved all our furniture in—she’s had me wrapped around her little paw.
“Come on,” Noah says, tugging my hand. “She’s out cold. We really need that shower.”
He’s right. We’re both still sticky with sweat and…other things. I let him lead me to our bathroom.
Noah turns on the shower, adjusting the temperature until steam begins to fill the room. He steps in first, sighing as the hot water hits his skin. I follow, closing the glass door behind us. Our shower isn’t huge, but we’ve perfected the choreography of two grown men sharing the space.
“Turn around,” I say, reaching for the shampoo. “Let me wash your hair.”
Noah obeys, tilting his head back as I work the shampoo into his dark curls.
His eyes flutter closed, a small smile playing on his lips as my fingers massage his scalp.
It’s such a simple thing, washing his hair, but somehow it feels almost unbearably intimate.
More intimate, even, than what we just did in the kitchen.
“That feels amazing,” he murmurs, leaning back against my chest. “Your hands should be registered as lethal weapons.”
I laugh, continuing to work the lather through his hair. “Pretty sure that’s not what lethal weapons means, but I’ll take the compliment.”
Water runs down his back as I rinse the shampoo out, my hands following the flow to push the suds away from his face. When I’m done, Noah turns to face me, reaching for the body wash.
“My turn,” he says, squeezing a generous amount onto a loofah.
He starts with my shoulders, working the soap in small circles across my chest and down my arms. There’s still something almost reverent in the way he touches me, even after all this time. When he reaches my stomach, his movements slow, the loofah tracing the lines of muscle there.
“You know,” he says conversationally, “I still can’t believe you’re mine sometimes.”
The simple admission catches me off guard, my breath hitching. “Baby…”
“I mean it,” he continues, eyes fixed on the path of the loofah. “Every morning I wake up next to you and think, how the hell did I get so lucky?”
I swallow hard, emotion threatening to choke me. “I’m the lucky one,” I say, lifting his chin so he has to meet my eyes. “So shut up.”
Noah giggles before leaning in to kiss me. His soap-slick hands slide up my chest to curl around my neck. The kiss is gentle, unhurried, nothing like the desperate urgency of earlier.
When we pull apart, his eyes are slightly unfocused, his lips parted. He shakes his head as if clearing it, then moves the loofah lower, kneeling in front of me to wash my thighs and calves, carefully avoiding the one area that’s starting to show definite interest.
I can’t help it. The combination of hot water, Noah’s hands, and the lingering endorphins from our kitchen activities has me hardening again, my cock twitching to life between us.
Noah glances up, one eyebrow lifting when he notices. “Seriously?”
I feel heat that has nothing to do with the shower creeping up my neck. “Sorry. Occupational hazard of showering with you.”
“We don’t have time, Connor,” he says, though his eyes stay fixed on my growing erection, the loofah now forgotten on the shower floor.
“I know,” I say, making no move to do anything about it. I’m not a teenager. I can control myself. We have guests coming. “Just ignore it. It’ll go away.”
But Noah isn’t ignoring it. He’s staring, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, which does absolutely nothing to help my situation. His pupils are dilated, only a thin ring of brown visible around the edges.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious under his intense scrutiny.
Noah doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans forward, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh.
“Noah,” I warn, my voice embarrassingly rough. “We really don’t have time.”
He looks up at me through wet lashes, water streaming down his face.
“I’ll be quick,” he promises, his breath hot against my skin, and my resolve crumbles.
Before I can protest further—not that I want to—Noah’s mouth is on me, pressing open-mouthed kisses along my shaft. I curse, one hand flying to the shower wall for support, the other sliding into his wet hair.
When he skips the teasing and takes me fully into his mouth, I nearly lose my footing.
The hot, wet suction is almost too much after everything we’ve already done today.
I try not to thrust, try to let him set the pace, but it’s a losing battle when Noah starts swallowing me down like he’s starving for it.
“Fuck,” I hiss as the head of my cock hits the back of his throat. “Noah, you’re going to kill me.”