Chapter 10 #3
He laughs—low, warm, vibrating against my sternum—and then he does exactly as I asked.
He maps my body with his lips like he's memorizing new terrain, pausing at every freckle, every curve, every place that makes me gasp.
When he reaches my hip, his teeth graze the bone, and I make a sound that would embarrass me if I could think straight.
"There?" he asks, looking up at me with dark eyes.
"There. God, right there."
His mouth moves lower, and my back arches off the bed. His hands press my hips down, not to hold me still—to anchor us both. His tongue finds its rhythm, and the world narrows to his mouth, his hands, the sounds he's pulling from me.
"I need—" I can't finish the sentence. My hand finds the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, and I feel him groan against me.
He stays until I shatter, my body bowing, his name tearing from my throat like something I've been holding in for a decade. The orgasm crashes through me in waves, and he rides every one, his mouth gentle now, easing me down.
When I can see again, he's watching me with an expression so tender it nearly breaks me.
“Come here,” I whisper, pulling him up my body. “I need you.”
“You have me.” He settles between my thighs, breath warm against my skin. “Riley, you’ve always had me.”
Something in my chest tightens at that, but I don’t let it take over. Not yet.
I slide my hand between us, wrapping around him, and he hisses, his forehead dropping to my shoulder like the contact hits deeper than he expected.
“Jesus—your hand—”
A quiet laugh slips out of me, softer than I feel. “I remember what you like.”
I move slow. Intentional.
He shudders, breath catching, fingers tightening at my hips. “You’re going to end this real fast if you keep that up,” he grits out, but there’s a break in it now—a thread of something lighter, familiar.
I feel it too. That shift. That edge of laughter that didn’t exist before.
“What? Too much?” My mouth brushes his temple, my voice dropping just enough.
His breath hitches again, then he lets out a rough, half-laugh, shaking his head against me.
“God, Riley…” His grip flexes, grounding himself. “You always did know exactly what you were doing.”
The words settle between us, charged—but different now. Not just heat. Not just control.
Recognition.
Memory.
I smile, slowly, unable to stop it as I tilt my head just enough to catch his eye.
“Funny,” I whisper. “Because I seem to remember someone giving very specific instructions.”
His eyes darken instantly, that flicker of heat sharpening into something more dangerous—but this time, it’s tempered by it. By the memory.
“Don’t start,” he warns, but there’s no real bite to it. “Stroke me.”
I don’t stop.
“Stroke,” I murmur, soft, teasing, the word sliding between us like a match strike.
He stills. Just for a second.
Then a low, incredulous laugh breaks out of him, his forehead pressing harder into my shoulder.
“You’re really going to bring that up right now?”
“You knew what you were doing,” I shoot back, breathless now, the memory rushing in with a warmth that’s equal parts heat and something softer. “Don’t even try to pretend you didn’t.”
He lifts his head, eyes locked on mine now, unguarded in a way I haven’t seen yet.
“Oh, I knew,” he admits, voice rough, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth. “Knew exactly what it sounded like.”
“And you still said it.” My pulse jumps.
His hand slides up, framing my face, thumb brushing my cheek in a way that’s almost too gentle for the tension coiled between us.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, gaze holding mine. “Because I wanted to see if it still got to you. Me telling you what to do.”
My breath catches. It does. God, it still does.
I tighten my hand just slightly, watching the way it hits him, the way his control slips for a fraction of a second, and this time I can’t help the grin that breaks free.
“Guess you got your answer.”
He catches my wrist, brings my hand to his mouth, and kisses my palm. Then he positions himself and pauses, hovering, eyes locked on mine.
"Don't look away.”
I don't.
He slides inside me slow and deep, and the sound we make is the same—a broken exhale, a decade of longing collapsing into a single point of contact. For a moment neither of us moves. We just feel it. The enormity of this. The impossibility of being here, together, after everything.
"Noah." My voice is barely there. "Move. Please."
He does. Slow at first, then deeper, finding a rhythm that builds like a tide. I match him—hips rising to meet his, my legs wrapping around him, pulling him closer because there's no such thing as close enough. Not tonight.
"Right there," I gasp. "Don't stop—right there—"
"I'm not stopping." His voice is ragged, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself together. "Not tonight. Not ever again."
I pull his mouth to mine and kiss him through it—through the building wave, through the point where pleasure crests into something almost unbearable, through the moment where he says my name like it's the only word he knows.
We break together.
His body tenses against mine, my name on his lips. I fall with him, the orgasm rolling through me deep and slow, his arms tight around me, my face buried in his neck. It's not just a release. It's catharsis. Ten years of missing each other, distilled into a single, devastating moment.
Afterward, we lie tangled in the quilt, breathing hard, slick with sweat, and completely wrecked. His thumb traces lazy circles on my hip. I press my lips to the scar on his rib.
He laughs—a real one, surprised out of him—and the sound is so warm and genuine that I feel tears prick my eyes for no reason I can name.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing." He pulls me closer. "Just—this. You. Us." He pauses. "I forgot what it felt like to be happy."
I press my face against his chest and breathe him in. Woodsmoke and soap and something underneath that's just Noah, unchanged since we were seventeen.
"Stay," he murmurs into my hair.
"I'm not going anywhere tonight."
"Good."
All night long, we reach for each other—half-asleep, slow, tender, desperate, laughing, crying, everything at once. Each time feels different. A conversation in a language only our bodies remember.
And somewhere in the small hours, wrapped around each other in the dark, I understand what we're really doing.
We’re not recovering what we lost. We’re building something new. One honest, breathless, beautiful choice at a time.
The winding road down the mountain feels narrower the next morning, the cabin growing smaller in the rearview mirror—just like the line I thought I could walk between want and reason.
Noah drives in easy silence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on my thigh. The air between us is thick with everything that happened and everything we didn't say after.
I watch him—memorizing the profile I once knew like my own reflection.
The strong line of his jaw. The way his mouth tips downward when he's thinking.
The curl of his hair at the nape of his neck is still damp from the shower.
Everything about him is more defined now.
More man. More real. And somehow, still mine in ways I can't explain.
He doesn't glance over. Just says quietly, "You're staring."
My cheeks warm. "Sorry. Just taking mental notes."
"For your article, or for something else?" He casts me a sidelong look, his voice roughened by sleep and memory.
"Both, maybe."
His hand leaves the wheel, finding mine across the console. His fingers intertwine with mine, strong and sure.
The gesture shouldn't feel like a vow, but it does.
We pass a small clearing where the morning sun slants between pines, golden light flickering across his face.
"When we're alone," he says, not looking at me, "I want you to know something."
My breath catches. The sunlight shifts, catching the stubble along his jaw.
He squeezes my hand. "This isn't nostalgia or unfinished business." His voice drops, quiet and certain. "This is me choosing you. Again. On purpose."
The words land somewhere beneath my ribs, in a place I forgot existed.
"Noah—"
"You don't have to say it back." He glances at me, and the steadiness in his expression undoes me more than any grand declaration could. "I just need you to hear it. Out loud. In daylight."
"It's not a one-time thing for me either." I lace my fingers tighter through his.
Something eases in his shoulders—a tension I hadn't noticed until it was gone. He lifts our joined hands and presses his mouth to my knuckles, brief and warm.
The silence that follows is more intimate than words.
Main Street comes into view, the town stirring to life—shopkeepers unlocking doors, coffee cups in hand, kids darting across the crosswalk in backpacks too big for their frames.
The contrast is jarring. This sleepy mountain town is carrying on like nothing seismic has shifted beneath our feet.
Noah pulls to the curb in front of Mabel's Guest House, the engine idling as the spell of last night begins to fray at the edges.
He glances at me, expression soft. "You good?"
"I'm terrified," I admit. "But the good kind."
His mouth curves. "That's the only kind worth feeling."
"Thank you," I say finally. "For the waterfall. For the rescue. For... everything."
His smile is gentle, knowing. "My pleasure. Literally."
A laugh escapes me, breaking the tension. "And they say romance is dead."
"With us?" His eyes hold mine, serious beneath the teasing. "Never."
I lean across the console to kiss him goodbye, intending something brief and casual. But his hand comes up to cup my cheek, deepening the contact into something that leaves us both breathing heavily when we part.
"Dinner tonight," he says against my mouth, thumb tracing my lower lip. "My cabin. I'll cook."
"You cook now?" I pull back enough to study him. "Since when?"
"Since I started living alone and got tired of cereal." The corner of his mouth curves. "I make a decent salmon. And I've been told my cornbread is life-changing."
"By whom?"
"Mabel. But she's biased—I fixed her porch railing."
I laugh, and the sound surprises me. Not because it's funny, but because this feels so easy. So normal. Two people making dinner plans in the front seat of a truck, still warm from last night, still slightly terrified of what comes next.
"Seven o'clock," I say. "I'll bring wine."
"Bring yourself." His eyes hold mine, and underneath the easy smile, there's something raw and serious. "That's all I need."
He kisses me once more—lingering, unhurried, his hand warm on the side of my neck—then pulls back with visible reluctance.
"See you tonight, Chief," I say, reaching for the door handle.
He catches my hand. Presses his lips to the inside of my wrist, right over the pulse point, and holds there for a beat. My heart hammers against his mouth.
"Tonight," he says, and lets me go.
I exit the truck on legs that aren't entirely steady.
As I climb the steps to Mabel's porch, I'm acutely aware of curious eyes tracking my progress—Martha Washington on her daily walk pauses to stare, and Darlene from the diner does an actual double-take from across the street.
News of my overnight "stranding" with Noah will be all over town by lunchtime, with embellishments added at each retelling.
Strangely, I don't care as much as I should. Let them talk. Let them wonder. For once, reality might be more interesting than whatever gossip they concoct.
Inside, Mabel herself awaits, poorly concealing her concern behind a veneer of casual interest. "There you are. Heard you got caught in that nasty storm up on Angel Falls trail."
"News travels fast," I observe drily.
"Small town." Her eyes take in my appearance—clothes slightly rumpled, hair definitely beyond help, a suspicious glow that no amount of professional composure can disguise. "Looks like you weathered it just fine, though."
"Better than fine," I admit, unable to suppress a smile. "Noah knew exactly where to find shelter."
"I'll bet he did." Mabel's knowing expression suggests she's filling in details I haven't provided. "Always was good at rescues, that boy."
As I climb the stairs to my room, I realize she's right.
Noah Morgan has rescued me—not just from the storm, but from the safe, controlled existence I've been calling a life.
The question now is whether I'm brave enough to accept the salvation he offers, or if I'll retreat back to the familiar comfort of professional distance and emotional isolation.
For the first time since arriving in Angel's Peak, I'm not certain what I want. Scratch that, I know what I want. I just don’t know how to make it real.