Chapter 55
GABE
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but black briefs and a massive smile.
I need to get dressed soon, we’re all meeting at Velour tonight.
But I can’t stop staring at the engagement ring.
It’s only been on my hand for a few days, but I can’t imagine ever being without it.
I turn my hand side to side, watching it glimmer.
My eyes catch on the special edition of The Wayfarer’s Star on the shelf, lush plants framing where it proudly lives. I got it for Noah for his birthday last month. Apparently, we’re never to read it, avoid touching it, and only look lovingly at it. I chuckle remembering him saying that.
Then my eyes cut to the collage Noah made me for my birthday in November. So many pictures of us and our friends, Post-it notes, and hand-drawn Oreos. The colors are… truly hideous. It’s a monstrosity, really. And somehow, it’s the best thing anyone has ever given me. Well… after the ring.
I hear the bathroom door open, and my head snaps up.
Noah’s bare-chested, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, skin flushed from the shower.
Grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, leaving little to the imagination, the sharp V of muscle dipping beneath the waistband like an invitation.
His body is all effortless power and heat, and my mouth goes dry instantly.
And—of course—he notices. He always does.
The corner of his mouth lifts as his gaze sweeps over me. “You’re looking at me like you’re starving,” he says, deep voice laced with amusement.
I try to sound casual, failing miserably. “Maybe.”
He stalks across the room, every muscle in his body shifting under his skin. When he stops, he’s standing right between my spread thighs, all I can see is the sharp line of his stomach, the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, and the smooth rise of his chest.
He brushes his knuckles lightly along my cheekbone, tracing the curve of my scar. My skin tingles under the touch. Then he leans down, his breath hot against my ear.
“Can I kiss you?”
He asks most nights, like a little bedtime ritual. I love him for it—the patience, the sweetness—but tonight, something inside me is on fire.
I want to play.
I hum low in my throat, pretending to think about it. “Hmm. I dunno.”
He stills, pulling back to look at me. One eyebrow lifts, that crooked smile threatening at the corner of his mouth. Then he dips his head, letting the tip of his nose graze along my neck, beneath my jaw.
“Do I need to beg?” he murmurs, voice dark and velvety against my skin.
I wasn’t expecting that. And I shouldn’t like the sound of it as much as I do. But suddenly, my mind is flooded with the image of Noah on his knees, pleading, his mouth open and soft, and my cock twitches hard against my briefs.
“That depends,” I say, gaze locking with his. “Will you be on your knees when you do?”
Something flashes in his eyes—sharp, hungry, heat sparking under the blue. He straightens for a moment, eyes locked on mine, then, without a word, he sinks down onto his knees between my legs.
My breath catches.
Noah kneels between my legs like it’s where he belongs, hands resting on my upper thighs, thumbs stroking idle circles through the thin cotton of my briefs. His face is tipped up, watching me, and that look—I’ll never get over the way he looks at me.
He leans forward, lips brushing my right knee, not quite kissing. “Can I kiss my fiancé here?” He rasps. Fiancé. I feel like I could combust from that word alone.
“Yeah.”
The softest kiss. A press of lips, fleeting and electric. Then he shifts to the other knee, hovering, breath skating over bare skin.
“Please,” he whispers.
The word raises goosebumps along my skin. “Yes,” I manage breathlessly.
He presses another light kiss, hands sliding higher on my thighs, heat bleeding through my skin, making every inch of me ache.
It’s slow. Torturous. He alternates between knees, up along the inside of my thighs, pausing before each new kiss, begging softly each time, waiting for me to give him permission.
By the fifth or sixth kiss, I’m trembling with need, hands twisted into the sheets.
Then his hands move, brushing the edge of my briefs. I can feel his breath when he leans in, hovering over where I’m straining against damp fabric.
“Can I kiss you here?” he murmurs, voice so low I almost miss it.
I swallow hard, wanting to say yes instantly, but something wicked sparks inside me, and I hold back. “I don’t know,” I breathe, just to see what he’ll do.
His fingers flex subtly against my thighs. His head dips lower, lips ghosting just over the damp cotton, the tempting warmth of his breath searing me.
Then he whispers, broken and pleading, “Please, Gabe. Please let me kiss you.”
I groan, my head tipping back, heart hammering so hard it hurts. “Yes,” I rasp. “Please.”
Damn. I was not supposed to be the one begging. The sound he makes is half a laugh, half a growl, then he leans in and mouths at my cock—right over the material of my briefs. My hips jerk helplessly.
His fingers keep flexing against my thighs like he’s fighting the urge to just take. But he doesn’t. He waits, like he’s savoring this as much as I am.
His hands move to the waistband of my briefs. He hooks his thumbs there, his knuckles brushing my hips, and I whimper. He looks up at me as he peels them down.
“Fuck, I love you,” he says so softly I don’t think he even realizes he said it out loud.
Cool air hits my skin. His fingers travel up my thighs, over the dark hair there, stopping shy of where I need him most. He’s taking his time, dragging this out like he knows it’s driving me insane—like he wants me falling apart before his mouth even touches me.
When he finally leans in, his breath washes over me, hot and damp, and I have to clench my fists in the sheets to fight against rocking forward.
His lips brush against the inside of my thigh, he lingers there, kissing, breathing me in.
Then the other thigh. Every press of his lips sends sparks racing under my skin.
He looks up at me, lashes low, voice husky, “Can I taste you, Gabe?”
Every inch of me is burning up. I want to scream yes, but I hold myself back.
“Ask nicely,” I whisper.
His eyes flutter closed as his mouth drops open before an almost anguished plea falls from his lips. “Please, baby. I need to taste you. Please.”
I can’t even form words at first. I manage a jerky nod, but he doesn’t move until I rasp, “Yeah.”
Noah smiles, wicked and adoring all at once, and finally dips his head.
The first touch of his mouth on me fills me with relief. My head tips back, eyes shutting on instinct, trying to hold onto the feeling of him, warm and wet around me, his tongue dragging along the underside, popping off before he takes me in again.
“So good, Blue,” I manage on a broken breath.
Noah makes a sound of agreement around me, the vibration shooting straight up my spine, and I feel his smile against my skin.
He takes me deeper, and when I glance down, his eyes are open—dark and blown wide, locked on mine like he’s daring me to look away.
I couldn’t even if I want to, and I definitely don’t want to.
I thread my fingers through his damp hair, grounding myself in golden strands. I don’t guide him. I don’t have to. Noah knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows my body, loves my body.
He pulls back to the tip, lips shiny, tongue teasing a lazy circle, then sinks down again, taking me to the back of his throat. My entire body tenses, thighs trembling under his palms, and I have to bite my lip to keep from coming right then.
“Noah,” I breathe.
He makes a deep, pleased sound, and I can feel the edges of my control fraying.
It’s too much. Not enough. I want him like this forever, but I need more.
Need all of him. I tug lightly at his hair, coaxing him to look at me, and his eyes flick up to mine, questioning.
My chest heaves, the words tumbling out sounding desperate.
“Get up here.”
His lips leave my cock with one last, lingering suck, and then he’s rising, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Noah braces his palms on my thighs, leaning forward, close enough that his breath fans across my damp lips.
“You sure you wanna stop?” he teases.
I nod, pulling him in until our foreheads press together, both of us breathing hard, bodies taut with burning desire.
“I wanna fuck you,” I whisper. “Get on your stomach.” I brush my nose against his.
A deep groan leaves him. I’m not usually so demanding, but lust is fueling my mouth. And the way Noah looks at me—like I’ve just handed him the world—makes me dizzy. He likes the demand in my voice.
He lies on his stomach, sprawled out beneath me, sweatpants kicked off in a hurry.
He’s still catching his breath when I run my hand up his spine, following the ridges of muscle until I reach the back of his neck, my hand resting over his tattoo.
I brush my fingers over the little N, and he shivers.
He turns his head slightly, cheek pressed to the pillow, and his hazy eyes meet mine.
“Up,” I murmur and give his hip a squeeze.
He chuckles and shifts instantly, rising onto his elbows and knees, a sultry grin on his face as he wiggles his ass, making me laugh. I give it a little tap for good measure. All those squats really pay off.
I move into position behind him, palms smoothing his firm ass before resting on his hips. I press my chest to his back as I brush my lips between his shoulder blades.
“I want to make you feel good,” I whisper against his skin.
“It’s you,” he says, glancing back again with that lazy half-smile that melts me. “Everything feels good with you.”
I reach for the lube and coat my fingers.
With my free hand, I knead his ass cheeks, thumb dipping lightly into his crease. I do it again, and again, and again. Until Noah is rocking back, seeking friction that isn’t there.