Chapter 7
Brian
I wake in darkness to find my arm asleep beneath Noa's curves. We must have dozed off after we both came so hard that we extinguished her candles. I should shake my arm awake, but I can't bring myself to move.
The storm still rattles the windows, but the howling has lessened somewhat. My phone remains in the living room, likely flooded with messages from Rachel and my mother. I know they’re worried, but I’m so warm here in this bed that I can’t bear to get up.
Noa stirs, and her eyes flutter open. "Hey," she murmurs, voice husky from sleep—and other activities. The sound goes straight to my groin.
"Hey yourself," I reply, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "You okay?"
She stretches, catlike, and I'm treated to the sight of her breasts as the sheet falls away. "Starving, actually. What time is it?"
I glance toward the window, where the darkness gives me no clues. "No idea. Does it matter?"
Her laugh feels warm against my skin. "I guess not. Want some more donuts? I don't have enough energy to make an actual meal."
Suddenly, the bedside lamp flickers before steadily illuminating the room and casting a soft yellow glow across Noa's skin.
"Power's back," she says, blinking in the sudden light.
I reach over and dim the lamp to a softer setting. "I liked the candlelight, but this has its advantages too." I can see her clearly now—hair tousled, lips still swollen from my kisses, sheet draped carelessly across her hips. "I can finally see all of you properly."
She blushes under my gaze. "Ugh, I need to find us some food."
"Let me see what I can do," I say, sliding out of bed. "You rest."
She raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "You cook?"
"I'm a man of hidden talents," I tell her with a wink, pulling on my boxers. "Wait here."
Her small kitchen is remarkably well-organized, with everything in its place.
I open the cabinets quietly, familiarizing myself with the layout.
I spot a hand-written label identifying a foil package of mini cranberry brie bites in her freezer—perfect for a quick snack.
While the oven preheats, I notice flour, sugar, and a packet of yeast in her pantry, which sparks an idea.
My phone buzzes from the living room. Now that the power is restored, notifications are probably flooding in. I ignore it.
I slide the pastries into the preheated oven and set the timer for ten minutes. While they warm, I decide to surprise Noa with something more ambitious for tomorrow morning.
It's been years since I've made bread with my mom, but the process is meditative—something I rarely allow myself in my hyper-scheduled life. Something about this woman, this apartment, has me wanting to slow down. Reconnect.
I spot an apron hanging on a hook—green with "So Many Books, So Little Thyme" emblazoned across the front. Tying it around my waist, I get to work gathering ingredients for challah.
Mixing the dough is therapeutic; the repetitive motion of kneading allows my mind to be quiet.
For once, I'm not thinking about contracts, endorsements, or flight schedules.
There's just the smooth counter beneath my palms, the elastic resistance of the transforming flour, and the lingering memory of Noa's body against mine.
I'm so absorbed in the process, punching down the dough with perhaps more force than necessary, that I don't hear her approach.
"What are you doing?"
I look up to see Noa leaning against the doorframe, wrapped in a silky robe, her hair tousled from sleep and sex. Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of me—clad only in boxers and her apron, with flour dusting my forearms.
"Making bread for the morning," I answer, returning to my kneading. "If that's okay. Your brie bites should be warm in about five minutes."
"You bake bread?" She moves closer, watches my hands work the dough with evident fascination.
"My mother taught me. Said I need to be self-sufficient." I flip the dough, press the heels of my hands into it. "I haven't made it in years, but it's like riding a bicycle."
She's silent for a long moment, and when I glance up, her gaze is fixed on my hands, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. The hunger in her eyes has nothing to do with bread.
"Does watching me bake turn you on, Noa?" I ask, deliberately slowing my movements.
A flush spreads across her cheeks. "It's the forearms," she admits. "And your hands. The way they... work things."
I smile as I continue to knead. "These hands can work all sorts of things."
Her breath catches audibly, and I suppress a grin.
The domesticity of the moment should feel strange—I've never made breakfast for a woman before, never lingered in someone else's kitchen wearing nothing but underwear and an apron.
Yet with Noa, it feels natural, as if I've been doing this for years instead of just hours.
"Patience," I tell her, both about the bread and the clear desire in her eyes. "Good things come to those who wait."
She slips behind me, wraps her arms around my waist, and presses her cheek between my shoulder blades. "I think I've established I'm not very patient."
I laugh, covering her hands with my flour-dusted ones. "Fair point."
For a moment, we stand connected and still, the dough forgotten on the counter. Then my phone buzzes insistently from the living room, breaking the spell.
"Ignore it," she murmurs against my skin.
"Wouldn't dream of touching it." I gently extract myself from her embrace, slide the dough into a bowl, and cover it with a kitchen towel to let it rise. The timer on her oven dings, and Noa points out a blue potholder decorated with snowflakes.
I grab the pastries from the oven and arrange them on a plate, gesturing down the hall with my free hand. "Get back in there. Naked."
Noa giggles as she rushes down the hall. I love playing with her this way. I feel so comfortable, so incredibly turned on.
She slips beneath the covers, providing me with a perfect view of her backside as she removes the robe.
I climb into bed beside her and sit against the headboard, not caring that my erection is obvious. Even after our intense session, my body already wants her again. At forty-five, I haven't reacted this way to a woman in years. Maybe never.
"My favorite late-night snack," she says, reaching over me for the plate. Her nipples brush against my legs, already hard. She wants me again, too.
I pick up a pastry, bite into the soft dough. Sweet cranberry sauce fills my mouth, and crumbs dust my chest. "Your dad made these, too?"
She nods and selects one for herself. "The more anxious he gets, the more delicious the results."
"He must be ready to stroke out," I tell her, wolfing down one of the pastries. "What's he stressed about?"
She shrugs, a small smile on her lips. "Probably worried I'll never find a man and settle down..." She takes a bite, and a dot of bright red filling clings to her lower lip.
My body responds instantly and hardens completely at the sight, even though I should be scared right the hell off by her mention of settling down. I lean forward and catch her chin between my fingers. "You've got a little..."
Her eyes widen as I close the distance, my tongue capturing the sticky sweetness from her lip. She tastes of butter, fruit, and sex, a combination that makes me groan against her mouth.
"Brian," she whispers as I pull back, her pupils dilated.
"I think I need to be more thorough," I tell her, taking the pastry from her hand. Deliberately, I smear a streak of filling across her collarbone and watch her breath catch. "You're getting messy."
I lower my head, trail my tongue along the sticky path, and savor the contrast between sweet sauce and salty skin. Her hands find my hair, fingers threading through the strands.
"More," she demands, voice shaky.
I take another bite of the pastry, letting sauce collect on my fingers. With deliberate slowness, I push the blankets away, exposing her breasts. I draw a sticky line down the slope of one mound and circle her nipple.
"Look at that," I murmur, my voice thick. "You're such a mess, Noa."
I lean down to clean her skin with long, slow strokes of my tongue. Her nipple hardens further against my mouth, and I suck the peak between my lips, drawing a moan from deep in her throat.
"The sheets," she protests weakly, even as she arches into my touch.
"I'll buy you new ones." I switch to her other breast and give it the same treatment. The plate of pastries tips precariously at the edge of the bed, but neither of us moves to save it.
My hands push down her body, finding her already wet. "Is that for me?" Her cheeks pink up as she nods and bites her lower lip.
She lifts her hips and lets me drag a hand down her legs. I've barely enjoyed the soft expanse of skin before she's reaching for me, pulling my mouth back to hers for a desperate kiss.
I reach for the nightstand, grab another condom, and roll it on with practiced ease. She watches, her breathing quickened, hands roaming my chest.
I slide into her in one fluid motion, both of us gasping at the sensation. There's no teasing this time, no slow build. The need is too urgent, too raw. I set a punishing pace, my hands gripping her hips as she meets each thrust.
"Brian," she chants, a litany of my name mixed with curses and pleas. "God, yes, right there."
I snake a hand between us, find the spot that makes her cry out. Her nails rake down my back, spurring me on. The headboard slams rhythmically against the wall, but I couldn't care less who might hear.
"I'm close," she warns, her inner muscles already beginning to tighten around me.
"Together," I grit out, feeling my release building. "Come with me, Noa."
Her body arches off the bed as she peaks, drags me over the edge with her. I bury my face in her neck, her name a hoarse shout against her skin as I pour myself into her heat.
As we lie there heaving, tangled in sticky flannel, the soft light from the bedside lamp illuminates jam-stained sheets, scattered crumbs, and Noa's flushed face.
“Hey,” I whisper into her neck, pausing to kiss her throat. “Let me get you cleaned up.”
Noa murmurs an affirmative sound and I carry her to the bathroom, cranking on the shower. “Where are the fresh sheets?” I help her step into the warm spray, allowing myself a firm squeeze of her backside as she gestures sleepily, contentedly toward the hall closet.
I quickly change the bedding and hurry to the bathroom to wrap Noa in a fluffy towel as she steps out of the shower. Then we fall into her bed together. Her breathing quickly slows and I love knowing I helped tire her out so thoroughly.
I should get up. Check my phone. Call the car service. Figure out how I'm going to get to New Jersey for at least part of the holidays. My family is expecting me. Rachel will be worried sick.
Instead, I reach over and switch off the lamp, plunge us back into darkness save for the glow of streetlights now shining through the blinds.
I nestle against Noa’s back, and her curves fit perfectly against me.
The world outside—my responsibilities, my perpetual motion, my carefully constructed solitude—can all wait.
For tonight, I'm exactly where I should be.