Chapter 31 Nora #2
He steps into my bedroom and shuts the door behind us with a soft click, then lowers me onto the bed like I’m something precious and breakable.
But there’s nothing fragile about the way he looks at me—dark eyes hungry as he unbuttons my jeans and drags them and my panties down my legs, discarding his shirt and joining me on the mattress.
“Why am I the only naked one?” I ask, reaching for his belt, undoing it with trembling fingers.
“Because I’m obsessed with touching you,” he murmurs, helping me shove his trousers and boxers down in one impatient motion.
“Well, I have to admit I feel the same way about you. Fair’s fair.” He’s glorious, all hard lines and heated skin, and when I wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly, he drops his forehead to mine with a ragged exhale.
“Nora,” he whispers as I drag my hand up and down his length. “I want to taste you.”
“No,” I say, almost giddy with the sense of power, “not this time.” And before he can process that, I push him back onto the pillows, sliding down his body slow enough to turn anticipation into taut expectation.
His muscles tense under my slow descent, his eyes never leaving my face, hands braced at his sides as if he needs the anchor.
I kiss down his chest, tracing the trail of hair to his stomach, pausing to let my tongue swirl at the dip where hip meets thigh. He makes a sound—a hoarse, helpless exhale that goes straight to my center—then tries to sit up, but I pin him lightly with both hands on his hips.
“Shhh,” I say. “I want this.”
Truthfully, I want everything. But right now, I want this.
To undo him, to show him what it’s like to be ruined, to give him back even a fraction of the care, the reckless tenderness, the feverish attention he’s lavished on me.
I want to watch the logic leave his face, to see what’s left when the rules come off.
I take him in my hand, stroking once, twice, feeling the thickness and heat, the way he throbs at just this much. I look up to see his mouth part in a silent curse.
“Jesus, Nora—”
I smile, then take him into my mouth, slow at first, savoring the weight of him, the raw shock of intimacy.
He tastes like salt, heat, and him—a clean, masculine edge that makes my pulse spike as I slide my tongue along the underside, taking him deeper.
His hips buck once, involuntary, and I hear his sharp intake of breath, feel his fingers flex against the sheets like he’s fighting not to grab my hair.
I love that—the restraint cracking, the way he’s letting me lead even as his body begs for more.
I hollow my cheeks and suck gently, then harder, setting a rhythm that has him groaning low in his throat, the sound vibrating through me.
My hands brace on his thighs, feeling the muscles tense and release, and I glance up to meet his gaze—dark, intense, utterly fixed on me, filled with raw need. Heat pools between my legs.
“Nora,” he rasps, his voice breaking on the second syllable. One hand finally lifts, threading carefully into my hair like he needs the connection. “God, that feels—”
I hum around him, and whatever he was going to say dissolves into a curse, his head falling back against the pillows.
I take him as deep as I can, swirling my tongue, then pull back slowly, teasing the tip before diving down again.
His breathing turns ragged, hips lifting to meet me, and I feel him getting closer, the tension coiling tighter under my touch.
“Fuck, Nora. I don’t want to come in your mouth.”
He places his hands on my shoulders to steady me. So I slow, easing off with one last lick that makes him shudder, and crawl back up his body, straddling him again. His hands find my hips immediately, gripping like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.
“You’re going to kill me,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded and gleaming with amusement under the haze of want.
I lean down to kiss him, slow and deep, letting him taste himself on my lips. “Not before I get what I want.”
His chuckle is rough, but it turns into a groan when I position myself over him, sinking down inch by inch until he’s buried deep, filling me completely.
We both go still for a beat, adjusting, savoring—the stretch, the heat, the perfect pressure that makes stars burst behind my eyelids.
Then I start to move, rolling my hips in a slow grind that has us both gasping.
David’s hands roam—up my sides, over my breasts, thumbs circling until I’m arching into his touch.
He sits up, wrapping his arms around me, changing the angle so every thrust hits deeper, and his mouth claims mine in a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation.
I ride him harder, faster, the friction building into something white-hot and inevitable, our bodies slick with sweat, breaths mingling in short, urgent bursts.
He breaks the kiss to trail his lips along my neck, murmuring my name over and over, and when his hand slips between us, fingers finding that perfect spot, I shatter—pleasure crashing over me in waves that pull him under too.
He thrusts up once, twice, then stills, holding me tight as we ride it out together, trembling and spent.
We collapse back onto the bed, tangled and breathless, his arms around me like he’ll never let go. For a long moment, we just lie there, hearts pounding in sync, the room quiet except for our slowing breaths.
“That wasn’t in the rules,” I murmur after a while, my voice sleepy and sated.
He chuckles softly, the sound rumbling under my ear. His grip on my hip loosens, then tightens again like a reflex. “Maybe we need to amend the rules,” he says, lazy and happy in a way I never thought I’d see on his face.
“We’re both terrible at them,” I say, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
“For a lawyer and a principal, we’re spectacularly bad at following protocol.”
I snort, then burrow closer, my cheek against the overheated skin just above his heart. I hear it still hammering, fast and strong, and for a second I let myself imagine this isn’t borrowed time.
That it’s just time.
Ours.
“She’ll want pancakes for breakfast,” I mumble.
His hand slides up my back, tracing circles. “She always does after a hard day.”
I know this.
It’s another small thing, but it makes something in my chest go warm and painful—how I’ve memorized the contour of their lives, and he doesn’t mind. He seems to want me to know. Maybe he wants me woven in, even just a little, in a way neither of us can articulate without making ourselves look away.
“Do you want to stay tonight?” I say.
He hesitates, just for a heartbeat. “Yes,” he answers, low and certain.
“But you don’t have to.” I look up at him.
“I’d like to.” He kisses my forehead—such a careful, unguarded gesture that my throat stings. “I’ll set an alarm so I’m awake before Michaela. But I want to sleep next to you. Just once.”