Chapter 12 #2
“You don’t always have to be strong, you know,” he says.
I swallow hard. “Why do you say that?”
He takes a slow step closer. “Because I sense your daughter isn’t the only thespian in the house.”
Steam curls from the kettle. I ignore it, because his nearness rattles my thought processes.
“I’m not fine,” I admit, defensively. “Not all the time.”
“Good,” he murmurs. “Then you’re human after all. And putting on a show.”
His hand lifts toward my face and pauses—just for a second—before he brushes the damp strand from my cheek.
I don’t stop him. Although, I should. His touch is careful, reverent. My lips part on an unsteady breath. “This is a terrible idea.”
He whispers back, “Maybe. But it feels like a good one.”
And then he kisses me—unhurried at first, like he's giving me every chance to pull away. I don’t. The past week, the exhaustion, the loneliness—all of it blurs into warmth and want. My hands find his shoulders, his chest, the solid reality of him.
He pulls me closer, the kiss deepening, hungry now, as if we’ve been slowly approaching an edge and now the restrictions are lifted and we’ve hit a full run.
He breaks the kiss, but we’re still close, no space between us.
His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel his breath—unsteady, matching my own. My hands are still on his chest, and beneath my palms, his heart is racing.
I should step back. I should laugh this off, blame the champagne, blame the stress of the week. But his thumb is tracing small circles on my jaw, and the tenderness of it undoes every careful wall I’ve built.
“Alicia.” Just my name, but the way he says it sends a shiver straight through me.
This is reckless. I don’t do reckless. I plan. I strategize. I maintain control. But standing here in Noah’s arms, I realize control is the last thing I want. I want to stop thinking. Stop managing. Stop being the woman who has to hold everything together.
His hands frame my face. They’re warm, slightly rough from calluses. When his thumb brushes my lower lip, it becomes harder to breathe. The simple gesture feels impossibly intimate.
For a long, suspended moment, we just look at each other. There’s the faint tap of rain against the windows, the hush that always follows a violent storm, and the pulse in my throat that feels louder than both.
Christine’s teasing still echoes in my head—Who says you can’t play?—and I realize I’ve been so careful for so long that I’ve forgotten what it feels like not to be.
We’re not discussing a commitment. This is play. Adult play.
I move first. My fingers graze his hand, testing, and when he doesn’t pull away, I link my fingers through his. His eyes darken—just barely—and that’s all the encouragement I need.
“Come upstairs,” I whisper.
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes and remind him. “Stella won’t be home until tomorrow.”
He knows what I’m offering. What I’m suggesting.
“Are you sure?” His voice is low. Rough. Strained.
I’m not sure. I’m terrified. But I nod anyway. “I’m sure.”
He squeezes my hand gently. Not pushing. Just...present.
That’s what gets me. Not the attraction, not the champagne haze—but the simple fact that he’s here, and he’s letting me choose.
I lead him toward the stairs, my heart pounding as his footsteps follow. Halfway up, I glance back at him, and the look in his eyes—the restraint, the want—makes me ache.
“I’ve been trying not to want this,” he says quietly.
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
In the doorway of my bedroom, I pause. The rain has lifted, the gray light soft through the curtains. “This may be a bad idea, but no regrets,” I say, voice barely audible.
He gives a faint, crooked smile. “None whatsoever.”
“I need this.” What I’m not saying is, I want to stop thinking.
My declaration is all it takes. His fingers thread my hair, and his mouth finds mine—slow at first, then deeper, needier, until thought itself disappears.
When he lifts me, I don’t resist. When he lays me down, the outside world fades completely—the storm, the loss, the guardedness.
The bedroom is cool, rain-dimmed light filtering through the curtains.
I’m aware of everything—the soft cotton of the duvet beneath me, the scent of his cologne mixing with the rain on his skin, the sound of our breathing in the quiet house.
When I reach for the hem of his shirt, his stomach muscles tense beneath my fingers. I feel powerful and terrified all at once. His skin is warm, smooth over hard muscle, and when I press my palm flat against his abdomen, I feel him inhale sharply.
For a second, I freeze. It’s been so long. What if I’ve forgotten how to do this? What if—
“Hey.” Noah’s voice is soft, his hand finding mine. “We don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I whisper. And I do. God, I do.
When his hands slide beneath my sweater, I gasp. His palms are warm against my ribs, and every nerve ending ignites. I arch into the touch, surprised by how hungry I am for this—for him—for feeling something other than fear and control.
He undresses me slowly, his hands unhurried, and I do the same for him—fumbling slightly with buttons because my fingers aren’t steady, hyperaware of every inch of skin as it’s revealed.
His shirt drops to the floor and I press my palms flat against his chest, feeling the heat of him, the definition of muscle beneath skin, the way he goes very still when I touch him like he’s fighting to let me set the pace.
When there’s nothing left between us, he draws back just enough to look at me.
I resist the urge to cover myself—the vulnerability of being seen is almost too much, the old familiar inventory of imperfection threatening to crowd out everything else.
But the way he’s looking at me stops that thought cold.
Not assessment. Not performance. Something quieter and more devastating.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, and the reverence in his voice makes my throat tighten. I don’t feel beautiful—I feel exposed, vulnerable, over forty, and imperfect—but the way he’s looking at me makes me believe him.
He settles beside me, one hand tracing down my side, learning the curve of my hip, my waist. When his mouth finds mine again, it’s slower, deeper, a claiming that makes me forget every reason this isn’t recommended.
His lips trace a path down my throat, across my collarbone, lower. When he reaches my breast, I arch into him, my fingers curling into the duvet. His mouth is warm, insistent, and when he draws my nipple between his lips, I cry out—shocked by the intensity of sensation.
“That’s new information,” he murmurs against my skin, and despite everything, I laugh breathlessly.
His hand slides lower, fingers tracing the inside of my thigh, and I tense for just a second—anticipation mixed with nerves. It’s been so long.
“Relax,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”
And when his fingers find me—warm, sure, devastating—I surrender completely.
He takes his time, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me moan, what makes my hips lift helplessly into his touch. When his mouth follows the path his fingers blazed, I forget all thoughts.
I’ve spent years perfecting the art of restraint, but here, now, with Noah’s mouth doing impossibly wicked things and his fingers working magic, control shatters. My hands fist on the comforter. My back arches off the bed. I hear myself making sounds I don’t recognize—desperate, needy, honest.
When I shatter, it’s with his name on my lips.
He kisses his way back up my body, and I’m still trembling, still catching my breath, when I reach for him. His length is hard against my hip, and I want to give him what he just gave me—want to make him feel what I just felt.
I wrap my hand around him, and the sound he makes—low, strangled—thrills. He’s velvet over steel, and when I stroke him slowly, his hips jerk involuntarily.
“Alicia—” A plea? A warning? Both.
He’s breathing hard, restraint written in every tense muscle. For a second, I think about what comes next—what I want to come next—and the question tumbles out before I can second-guess it.
“Do you have a condom?”
The words land like cold water. His eyes close briefly, jaw clenching. “Fuck. No.”
My stomach drops with disappointment so intense it surprises me. “I don’t either.”
We’re both quiet for a beat, the weight of that settling between us. His hand covers mine where I’m still touching him, stilling my movement.
“We don’t have to—” he starts.
“I want to,” I interrupt. “I just want more of you.”
His gaze locks on mine, darkening with heat and frustration and something tender that makes my chest ache. “There are other ways I can make you feel good.”
“Other ways we can make each other feel good,” I correct, and I’m rewarded with that crooked smile.
I shift, pressing him onto his back against the pillows. When I lean down and take him in my mouth, his hand flies to the duvet, gripping hard.
I’m unpracticed, tentative at first, but the way he responds—the ragged breathing, the barely restrained sounds, the way his fingers flex against the fabric—emboldens me.
“God,” he breathes, one hand gentle in my hair, not pushing, just present. Grounding.
After a moment, he tugs me up carefully, repositioning us with surprising coordination. “Come here,” he murmurs, guiding me into a straddling position, facing away from him. “Let me taste you again.”
The position registers—intimate, mutual, generous—and heat floods through me. When I feel his breath against my inner thigh, I lean forward, taking him back into my mouth as his hands grip my hips, pulling me down to meet his tongue.
The dual sensation hits immediately and I lose coherent thought.
His mouth is warm and deliberate, his tongue finding the exact place that makes my thighs clench, while I take him deeper, learning him by sound—the sharp exhale when I change pressure, the low groan that vibrates against me when I find what he can’t control.
We move together, finding a rhythm that keeps shifting as we each chase the other’s response, and the intimacy of it—giving and receiving at once, each of us trying to take the other apart—is unlike anything I’ve experienced.
I can’t perform. Can’t manage. Can only feel.
His fingers join his mouth, and I lose the rhythm entirely.
I feel myself building again, impossibly fast, and I break first—pulling back, gasping his name, my whole body shuddering through it.
The vibration and my response seem to tip him over the edge.
His hips jerk upward and I taste him—salt and heat—as he finds his release.
When we finally break apart—both of us wrecked, sated, undone—it’s with shaking hands and racing hearts.
He pulls me against him, and I settle into the curve of his body, my head on his chest. His heartbeat is still elevated, matching my own.
“That was…” He exhales, like he’s steadying himself. “I’ve been thinking about that all week.” He presses his lips to my hair. “Next time, I want all of you.”
“That was…more than I expected,” I murmur against his chest.
“In a good way?”
“Oh, yes.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder. “Good. Because I’m not planning to stop there.”
His arm tightens around me, and the room goes quiet.
For a long moment, we don’t speak. Maybe there’s nothing to say.
Maybe this exists outside of words and plans and careful control.
I should feel regret. Guilt. The familiar urge to analyze every decision.
Instead, I feel...quiet. Like something wound too tight has finally released.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand—twice, then three times. Work. Always work. I ignore it. Tomorrow I’ll worry about what this means. Tonight, I’m letting myself have this rare and terrifying gift of surrender.