Chapter 8 Lennox
LENNOX
I’d tried everything to quiet my mind—breathing exercises, a book, even stretches—but nothing worked. My father’s voice tangled with thoughts of Naima, her soft tone, the way she carried calm like it was her birthright. Together, they made a storm I couldn’t sleep through.
The moon hung fat and low when I wandered into the kitchen.
I thought maybe a glass of warm milk might help—a trick my mom swore by when my mind refused to settle.
The air smelled like cinnamon and herbs drying by the window.
The fridge hummed, steady, the only sound until I heard light footsteps behind me.
Naima stood in the doorway, wrapped in a nightgown thin enough to make a man forget every virtue he’d ever held. The fabric clung to her curves, translucent in the kitchen light. Her thick curly hair was loose, and her eyes were heavy with sleep—or something far more dangerous.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” I asked, my voice a low rasp, rougher than I intended.
She shook her head, stepping closer. “Thought I’d make some warm milk and cinnamon. It usually helps.”
I nodded, swallowing hard at the thought that we had the same idea. I grabbed a glass from the cupboard, needing something to do with my hands. She reached for the spice jar, but on the way down, her hand trembled, and the canister slipped from her hand, spilling the powder across the tile floor.
“Shit,” she whispered, dropping to her knees to clean up.
I wet a towel and moved beside her to help, our hands brushing against each other as we cleaned up the cinnamon.
When she stood, her strap had slipped down her shoulder, exposing the dark, pebbled skin of her nipple.
My breath caught, a guttural sound escaping before I could bite it back.
I couldn’t look away. Any second, she'd cover herself, and this sliver of temptation would be gone.
But she didn’t. Didn’t move. Her lips parted, a soft exhale slipping free. My pulse thundered, heat coiling tight in my belly.
“May I help you with that?” My voice was thick, laced with need.
“Please,” she breathed, her eyes locked on mine, a storm brewing in those dark pools.
I closed the space between us, capturing her lips in a kiss that burned away the chill of the night.
She tasted of mint and warmth, her mouth soft and willing beneath mine.
My hand slid up, cupping the weight of her exposed breast, and she gasped into my mouth, her fingers threading into my locs, pulling me closer.
My hips pressed against her, my arousal evident, throbbing against the thin fabric that separated us.
I broke away from her mouth, my breath heavy, my lips tracing a path down her jaw, over the delicate curve of her neck. She shivered, arching into me as if her body couldn’t get close enough. Her nightgown hung precariously, the strap slipping further, baring more of her to me.
I brought my mouth to her exposed breast, my lips closing around the hard, pebbled tip.
I sucked, slow and deliberate, letting my tongue lave over her, swirling around the sensitive bud.
She moaned, her back arching, pressing more of herself into my mouth.
Her fingers tightened in my locs, and I let her guide me, let her pull me deeper into the soft heat of her skin.
I pulled on her nipple, my teeth grazing just enough to make her cry out, the sound vibrating through me, sparking every nerve. I switched to the other breast, my hands sliding up to cradle her, to hold her still as I worshiped her with my mouth.
Her breaths came in sharp, uneven pulls, her chest heaving as I sucked, kissed, and nipped at her. Each pull of my mouth sent a ripple of pleasure through her, her body responding, her hips rolling, seeking friction.
Her head fell back, exposing the elegant curve of her throat, and I couldn’t resist—my mouth moved up, my tongue tracing the line of her collarbone, my teeth grazing over the pulse that thrummed wildly beneath her skin.
“Lennox…” she whimpered, her voice a soft, desperate plea.
I pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, her lips swollen, her eyes hooded with need. “Tell me what you need, Naima,” I whispered, my fingers rolling her nipple, keeping the sweet ache alive.
“More,” she panted, her hips grinding against me. “I need more.”
And God, I was going to give her everything.
“Bend over the counter,” I ordered.
She turned, her palms pressed flat against the cool marble, her back arching, offering herself to me. The thin gown rode up, revealing the curve of her ass, the delicate strip of fabric between her thighs already damp.
“Do you want this?” I asked, my hand sliding up her thigh, pausing just shy of where I knew she needed me.
“Yes,” she moaned, her voice a breathy plea. “I want it. I want you.”
That was all I needed. I spread her legs wider, running my fingers through her wetness, teasing her entrance before pressing a finger inside. She clenched around me, her body greedy, pulling me deeper. I added another, curling them, hitting that spot that made her thighs tremble.
“Fuck, Naima,” I whispered, my breath hot against the nape of her neck.
“You’ve been driving me crazy since the day I got here.
Those tight little yoga outfits, showing off this perfect ass.
The way you move around the retreat, soft and sweet, but I knew—” I thrust my fingers deeper, her moan a melody I needed on repeat. “I knew you were trouble.”
Her answer was another breathless moan, her hips rolling against my hand, seeking more.
I turned her around, pressing her back against the counter before I dropped to my knees, my hands sliding up her thighs, parting them.
She was wet, her slick pussy pressing against my fingers as I kissed the inside of her thigh, tasting the salt and sweetness of her skin.
I took my time, savoring the journey, until I reached the soft, sensitive folds of her.
I flattened my tongue, dragging it through her wetness, slow and deliberate.
She trembled, her hands gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles white.
I gripped her thighs, holding her open, holding her to me.
When I wrapped my lips around her clit, sucking gently, she cried out, the sound filling the kitchen, wrapping around us.
Her legs draped over my shoulders, and I feasted on her, my mouth and fingers working in harmony, drawing her higher, making her fall apart. My other hand slipped into my sweats, stroking my dick, slow and tight, matching the rhythm of my tongue against her clit.
She was close, her thighs quivering, her breathing erratic. I sucked harder, slid my fingers deeper, and she shattered. Her body clenched, her voice a hoarse, breathy whisper of my name, and I held her through it, lapping up every drop, dragging out every pulse of her orgasm.
When her breathing steadied, when the trembling ebbed, she turned, her eyes glazed with satisfaction and need. She reached for me, her hand sliding over the hard length of my dick, and I bit back a groan.
“Let me take care of you,” she whispered.
But I stepped back, pulling her nightgown back into place, my thumb brushing over her swollen lips. “I got my milk and cinnamon,” I murmured. “You get to sleep now.”
Her brows knitted, confusion blending with lingering desire, but I just pressed a soft kiss to her forehead and turned away. As I grabbed a towel to clean up the spilled spice, I felt her eyes on me, a promise hanging between us—this was only the beginning.
And as she padded down the hall, hips swaying, I knew I’d be wide awake for the rest of the night, the taste of her still on my tongue, my desire a slow burn I’d nurse until she was ready for more.