6. Melody #3
It’s barely bigger than my hotel room, tucked down an alley that smells like jasmine and motor oil.
The walls are covered in photographs - generations of the same family, smiling from behind woks and cutting boards and steaming pots.
The grandmother who runs the place takes one look at Noah and bursts into a stream of Thai that sounds like scolding and welcome all at once.
“She says I’ve been gone too long,” Noah translates. “And that I’m too skinny.”
“Are you too skinny?”
“She thinks everyone’s too skinny.”
The grandmother turns her attention to me, eyes narrowing. She says something else, shorter this time, and Noah laughs.
“What did she say?”
“She said you’re pretty. And that I better not mess this up.”
My cheeks heat. “Tell her I’m not - we’re not-”
“I’m not telling her anything. She’ll just argue.” He steers me toward a tiny table in the corner, our knees bumping underneath. “Trust me, it’s easier to let her think what she wants.”
The food comes in waves. Pad thai and green curry and some kind of fish I can’t identify but can’t stop eating. Noah orders everything in Thai, and I watch the language pour out of him with a fluency that surprises me.
“How many languages do you speak?”
“Fluently? Four. Passably? Maybe two more.”
“That’s absurd.”
“It’s useful. For business.”
There it is again. That vague reference to business. To a life outside this bubble that he’s not ready to share.
“What exactly do you do?” I ask. “You’ve never actually said.”
He sets down his chopsticks. For a moment, I think he’s going to deflect again. But then he meets my eyes, and I see him make a decision.
“I manage properties,” he says. “Hotels. Resorts. The kind of places people go when they want to disappear for a while.”
“Like the one we’re staying at?”
“Similar.”
“How many?”
A pause. “A few.”
“Noah.”
“We can talk about this later. Right now I just want to enjoy dinner with a beautiful woman who has curry on her chin.”
“I do not-” I swipe at my face, find nothing, and realize he’s messing with me.
He grins, and I forget what I was asking. The grandmother appears with dessert - some kind of coconut sticky rice that melts on my tongue - and Noah leans back in his chair, watching me eat with an expression I can’t quite read.
“What?” I ask around a mouthful of rice.
“Nothing. I just like watching you enjoy things.”
“That’s creepy.”
“It’s not creepy. It’s-” He searches for the word. “You light up. When something makes you happy. Your whole face changes.”
“I have a very boring face.”
“You have the least boring face I’ve ever seen.”
I look down at my plate, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. The compliment lands too close to something vulnerable. Something I’ve kept protected for too long.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit quietly. “The flirting. The... whatever this is. I’ve been with one person for four years. I don’t remember how dating works.”
“Who says this is dating?”
“What would you call it?”
“Two people who like each other, eating dinner. Lowkey, it’s better than dating.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “We don’t have to call it anything. We don’t have to define it. We can just... be. And figure it out as we go.”
“What if I screw it up?”
“What if you don’t?”
The simplicity of it cuts through all my complicated fears. What if you don’t. Four words that make everything seem possible.
“Okay,” I say. “Okay. We’ll figure it out as we go.”
“Good.” He squeezes my hand. “Now finish your dessert. I have plans for you tonight.”
“What kind of plans?”
His smile turns wicked. “The kind that require privacy.”
***
We’re halfway back to the resort, walking through the night market that lines the road, when Noah pulls me into the shadow between two stalls.
“What are you-”
His mouth stops the question.
He kisses me like we haven’t been kissing all day. Like he’s been counting the minutes until he could get me alone. His body presses mine against the rough wooden wall, and I can feel every inch of him through his thin shirt.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for hours,” he murmurs against my lips.
“We literally kissed twenty minutes ago.”
“Too long.”
His hands slide under my shirt, palms hot against my bare back. I arch into him without meaning to, a soft sound escaping my throat.
“Not here,” I manage. “Someone might-”
“No one’s watching.”
“We’re in public.”
“Barely.” His mouth finds my neck, that spot just below my ear that makes my brain short-circuit. “I can stop if you want.”
I don’t want. That’s the problem. I don’t want him to stop, and I don’t care that we’re in an alley behind a night market where anyone could walk by. I want his hands on me. I want his mouth on me. I want everything he’s offering and more.
“The hotel,” I breathe. “Take me back to the hotel.”
He draws back just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there’s a tension in his jaw that tells me he’s holding himself back by a thread.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Because once we go back there, I’m not going to be able to stop. I’m going to want all of you. Every part. And I need to know you’re ready for that.”
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. This is fast. This is reckless. This is everything I told myself I wouldn’t do.
But I’m so tired of being careful. So tired of making the smart choice and ending up broken anyway.
“I’m ready,” I say. “Take me back.”
The walk to the resort takes forever. Or maybe it takes no time at all. I’m too focused on his hand in mine, the electric awareness of what’s about to happen, the anticipation building in my stomach like a coil being wound tighter and tighter.
We make it through the lobby without looking at anyone. Into the elevator. The doors close, and his mouth is on mine before they’re fully shut.
The elevator opens on his floor. He pulls me down the hallway, fumbling with his key card, cursing when it doesn’t read on the first swipe.
“Come on,” he mutters. “Come on-”
The light turns green. The door swings open. And then we’re inside, and he’s pressing me against the wall, and his hands are everywhere at once - my hair, my hips, the zipper at the back of my dress.
“Wait.” The word comes out strangled. “Wait, I need to tell you something first.”
He stops immediately. Steps back. His chest is heaving, but he gives me space.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just-” I take a breath. “I haven’t done this in a while. Been with someone new. And I need you to know that I’m not - this isn’t-”
“Hey.” He cups my face in his hands. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. We can slow down. We can stop. Whatever you need.”
“I don’t want to stop.” I grip the front of his shirt. “I just want you to know that this matters to me. You matter to me. This isn’t just... scratching an itch, or getting revenge, or whatever. I’m here because I want to be here. With you.”
His expression softens. He presses his forehead to mine.
“I know,” he says. “I know it matters. It matters to me, too.” He kisses me gently. “Now tell me what you want.”
“I want you to stop talking and take me to bed.”
He laughs, low and warm. “Oh, okay, ma’am! If you say so.”
He sweeps me up like I weigh nothing, carrying me through the suite to the bedroom. The view through the windows is spectacular - ocean and stars and the distant glow of the resort - but I barely notice. All I can see is him.
I yelp in surprise, grabbing onto his shoulders. “Noah! Put me down, I’m too heavy for-”
He sets me down on the edge of the bed and kneels in front of me. Takes my sandals off one at a time, pressing a kiss to each ankle. His hands slide up my calves, my thighs, pushing my dress higher.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking my time.”
He lifts my right foot and removes my sandal, his fingers lingering on my ankle. Then he presses a kiss to the spot where my pulse flutters beneath my skin.
My breath catches.
He does the same with my left foot. Sandal off. Fingers tracing the delicate bones. Lips brushing against my ankle, soft and warm.
“Noah...”
“Shh. Let me.”
His hands slide up my calves, slowly, reverently. Over my knees. Along my thighs. The fabric of my dress bunches as he goes, rising higher and higher until it’s pooled around my hips.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “Every single inch of you.”
“You haven’t seen every inch yet.”
“I’m working on it.” He looks up at me from his position on the floor, and the heat in his eyes makes my stomach flip. “Arms up.”
I raise my arms. He pulls my dress over my head in one smooth motion, leaving me in nothing but my underwear, the nice set I put on earlier, black lace, like some part of me knew this was coming.
His breath catches.
“Jesus, Melody.” His hands frame my waist, thumbs tracing the edge of my bra. “You’re - I don’t have words. I actually don’t have words, and I always have words.”
“The great Noah Carter, speechless? I should take a picture.”
“Later.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to my stomach, just above my belly button. “Right now I’m busy.”
His mouth moves lower. Across my ribs. Along the edge of my bra. Down to my hip, where he bites gently at the jut of bone. I gasp. My hands find his hair without my permission, fingers threading through the dark strands.
“Like that?” he murmurs against my skin.
“Yes.”
“Good.” Another bite, this time on the other hip. “I’m going to find every place that makes you make that sound.”
“What sound?”
“That little gasp. Like you can’t quite believe what’s happening.” He looks up at me, grinning. He reaches behind me and unclasps my bra with one hand - a move so smooth it has to be practiced, but I don’t care, not when the lace falls away and his eyes go dark with want.
“Lie back,” he says.
I lie back.
What follows is the slowest, sweetest torture I’ve ever experienced.