6. Noah #2
She tilts her head and meets me with everything she’s got, no hesitation, no filter, just pure, aching want. Her tongue brushes mine, tentative at first, then bolder, and I swear my knees almost give out.
I groan into her mouth, low and rough and entirely involuntary.
She answers with a soft whimper, her body arching into mine like she needs more. Like this kiss isn’t enough, and god, she’s right. It’s not.
I need more.
I break the kiss for half a second, enough to see her. Her eyes are half-lidded, her lips swollen, and her breath ragged. Her hair’s a mess, rain-slick strands stuck to her cheek, and her cheeks are flushed pink from the cold and me.
She’s beautiful and breathtakingly so.
I run my hand down her spine, slow and deliberate, to feel the way she shivers for me. Not from cold anymore.
From want.
And that same need is pulsing through me like a drumbeat in my veins. I want to kiss her again. I want to back her against the couch and feel her sigh into my mouth. I want to press my hands under what remains of her clothes and feel the heat of her skin rising against mine.
She looks up, her hazel eyes meeting mine in the dim light. Her lips part, her breath coming faster now, and I can see the desire written plainly across her face.
“Noah,” she whispers, her voice soft and husky, and that’s all it takes.
I cup her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing over her cheeks, and lean down to capture her lips with mine for the second time. The kiss is hungrier, tinged with desperation, our mouths moving against each other with an urgency that surprised even me.
Her hands clutch my shoulders, nails biting into my skin as she presses closer, her body molding to mine without a sliver of space. I feel the hard peaks of her breasts against me, and I groan into her mouth, my hands sliding to her waist to pull her in tighter.
The fabric is still damp and clinging, and without thinking, I reach down, tugging down her arms. I’m desperate to see her, to see the perfection, and I’m not disappointed.
Her skin is pale and smooth, her breasts full and heavy; she has enough to fill each palm and spill over, her nipples tight buds of desire.
I break the kiss, trailing my lips down her neck, my hands cupping her breasts, my thumbs brushing over her nipples. She gasps, her head falling back, her hands tangling in my hair as she arches into my touch.
“Noah,” she moans, her voice a plea, and I raise my head, meeting her eyes. The desire there is raw and unguarded, and it sent a jolt of heat straight to my groin. I'm hard, achingly so, my cock throbbing against the fly of my jeans.
I want her. Need her. But I hesitate, my hands pausing on her skin.
“Kate,” I murmur, my voice rough.
Her hands slide up my chest, fingertips trembling against the damp fabric of my T-shirt. Then they’re at my shoulders. Then, the back of my neck. Pulling me down as if she’s afraid I’ll stop.
And perhaps I should. Reasonably, I should stop.
But then she sighs into my mouth, barely a sound, more breath than voice, and something inside me unravels. Comes completely undone.
I lean her back on the couch without even thinking, my body following hers in a tangle of limbs and soaked fabric. We’re all fingertips and open mouths and reckless warmth now.
My hand slides up to cup her breast, fingers teasing over soft, heated skin. She’s warm and damp, goosebumps rising beneath my palm. Her breath hitches, and she arches into my touch—just enough to press closer—and, fuck, it feels like the whole world tilts.
She’s burning up beneath my hands, her body arching into mine, her knees on either side of me now, legs trembling as if they’re struggling to hold back the same storm crashing through me.
I kiss the corner of her mouth. Then, her jaw. Then lower.
Her skin tastes like rain and heat and something I can’t name but never want to forget.
She lets her head fall back with a soft, helpless noise, and my lips brush the hollow of her throat, lingering there, pulse fluttering wild beneath my mouth. My hand finds the small of her back and pulls her closer. Flush against me.
She gasps, and her hips shift, enough for me to feel her, warm and insistent through my soaked clothes. The press of her curves. The thrum of want I shouldn’t be entertaining, but can’t ignore. Her hands fist the back of my shirt again, this time harder.
I want to feel her completely against me. I want her legs wrapped around my waist, her hands pulling me in deeper, my name on her lips like a prayer and a promise.
But then her breath hitches.
And not from pleasure this time; it’s like she’s realizing exactly what is happening and what we are doing.
“I think we should stop,” She says. It’s like being doused with cold water.
I freeze as the unbidden thought arises. What the hell am I doing? Her son and Blaze are sleeping in the next room. I offered her a place to stay safe from the storm, and now I’m trying to get down with her in the same house I thought I would live in with Josie.
I observe her, her lips are swollen from the kisses. Her eyes a little glassy. Her skin is still a bit too cool. Damp and recovering from the storm that brought her to my arms in the first place.
And suddenly, the part of me that’s been so desperate to feel her, so drunk on this kiss, on her, wakes up to the truth of the moment.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I ease my hands back, slow, like they weigh too much to move.
She blinks up at me, still panting. Still flushed. And God help me, she looks like sin and sanctuary and everything I didn’t know I was missing.
I brush the wet hair from her face and repeat the apology. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”
But my gaze goes back to her. She’s lying there, bare from the waist up, and the sight is enough to make me strain achingly against the fly; I may burst at any moment.
Her skin flushed from heat and chill, her chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. She doesn’t try to cover herself right away. She just watches me, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m about to bolt… or lose control completely.
And God help me, I almost do.
My fingers twitch at my sides, aching to touch her again. To map the shape of her in this dim, storm-washed room. To pull her back to me and forget everything that’s ever made me hesitate.
But I don’t move; instead, I force a breath through my nose. It’s shaky as hell.
“Here,” I manage, turning enough to grab the folded shirt I left near the hearth. One of mine. Faded blue cotton. Washed a hundred times.
I pass it to her without a word, and she takes it. Never breaking eye contact, fingers brushing mine for a second longer than necessary. Then she slips it over her head, the hem falling mid-thigh, swallowing her frame.
It smells like me. That much, I know.
Somehow, that makes this even harder.
She wraps her arms around herself, not out of shame, but like she’s gathering what’s left of her restraint, too. Her hair’s still damp, clinging to her shoulders, framing her flushed cheeks.
I scrub a hand over my jaw. My heart’s still pounding, fast and hard, like it’s trying to climb out of my chest.
“You can take my bedroom,” I say. My voice is rough. I probably won’t be getting much sleep anyway.
Her eyes narrow slightly as though she hears the layers in that sentence. The things I’m not saying. The things I want to say but don’t trust myself to.
“I’ll stay here; the couch is big enough,” she says softly, already turning away. “I would prefer to stay close to Parker.”
“You both can take my bed. It's bigger than the guest room.”
“No, thank you. You’ve done enough.”