13. Noelle
THIRTEEN
NOELLE
My head is spinning, but I can’t tell if it’s the wine, the champagne, the kiss, or Dash Sterling standing here like the best/worst decision I could ever make. Probably all three.
I’m not drunk, not really , and I know this because I am still upright with heels on, and I haven’t worn them since my college days.
Buzzed? Sure am. The bottle was more than half gone before I realized I’d drunk that much …
Oops . But how many glasses are really in a bottle? The answer: not enough.
That kiss, though, was mind-blowingly delicious.
It felt different than every first kiss before, and I love kissing.
Love. It. And Dash’s kiss was … elevated.
The way he didn’t fight me, claiming his mouth, and then seamlessly, maddeningly transitioning into taking control.
The way his body pressed close, but not crushing.
It was control threaded with restraint, perfection.
Except, I think I want him reckless. A taste of that One Night Dash they whisper about.
That way, if itisthe champagne, tomorrow, I’ll wake up with a headache and a little less regret for not taking full advantage of this chance to live a fantasy I’ve never let myself, Noelle Pembrooke, have.
One where the hot guy isn’t a missed red flag.
But standing here, lips swollen, heart pounding like it’s trying to climb out of my chest, all I can think is the same thing he whispered against my mouth: Worth it .
Worth the hangover, worth the regret, worth the awkward fallout the next time they drag me to Icehouse after a home game, where I will definitely?—
I cut the thought off.
Instead of leaning into the terror a kiss like that ignites, I lean into the want. Instead of being like “Paint me like one of your French girls,”I’m going to go the opposite direction and be all like,“Fuck me like one of your bunnies.”
The elevator doors close behind us, and I realize I’m still clutching his shirt like I’ll float away if I let go.
He doesn’t seem to mind, his hand warm at my back, steadying me like he’s done this a thousand times before, which I will now block all thoughts of as I fumble in my clutch for my room key like I’ve never done this at all—okay, actually I haven’t.
My fingers brush my phone, the screen lighting up with unanswered messages, and reality threatens to ruin what will surely be a good time.
This could go horribly wrong. This could wrinkle time. Or space. Perhaps both? It could send our friendship spinning into a polar vortex where it tears it all apart.
Tear it apart ? I shake my head, lips twitching at my own ridiculousness, and change it in my mind to tear me apart .
Ooo … I like that.
The thought makes me laugh under my breath, a quiet, breathless sound that doesn’t match the pounding of my heart.
He glances at me curiously, like he’s wondering what I’m thinking.
He doesn’t know that, even now, with my blood fizzing from champagne and kisses, I’m editing.
Revising. Drafting lines in my head like this is another story I can go back and fix.
And the danger—the thrill—is that I can’t edit or fix it.
It’s not a first draft. Regardless, I want to see how it plays out.
Concerns over the texts from Sofie, Nalani, and Claudia, the team, and the social fallout are quickly dismissed when he takes the key card from my shaky hand and swipes it to unlock the door.
I glance up at him to see if he has any reservations, but he looks down at me with that steady, sure expression that makes me think we’re on the same page.
God help me, even with the buzz in my head and the promise of a hangover waiting, I still want to grab his face and kiss him until I forget every single reason why this is supposed to be complicated.
Because complicated or not, messy or not, a One Night Dash feels like it will be worth it.
The door clicks open, and before I can even cross the threshold, he turns, crowding me gently back against the frame. His mouth finds mine, hot and hungry, champagne-slick. I taste sweetness, salt, and him.
He kicks the door shut behind us without breaking the kiss, without even pausing … in real life. And God, this man can kiss in a way every girl—not just the ones I write about—should be kissed. Deep, not rushed. Steady, deliberate, the perfect pace and the perfect lips.
I fist his shirt, pulling him closer, because restraint might be his thing, but it’s not mine.
I want more. The thought makes me laugh against his lips, breathless, and he swallows the sound with a low growl that goes straight through me, making me pulse between my thighs and my nipples freeze in painful, needy peaks.
We move farther into the room, still tangled, his hand sliding down my spine, guiding me backward. Then he takes my hands, pulling them away from him and turning me in a circle, stopping when my back is to him, arms encircling me, still holding my hands.
He nuzzles into my neck, inhaling me and groaning as he releases a breath, the heat of it causing goosebumps to prick my skin. He runs his tongue up my neck, then nips my earlobe and whispers, “Noelle, can you be a good girl and stay just like this if I let go of your hands?”
I freeze.
No, not freeze. I vibrate, every cell of me singing, skin heated, and it is a strange, sick delight to discover I am capable of being this responsive to a single sentence. A sentence!
He must feel it in my pulse, in the way my breath catches against his fingers where he still holds my wrists pinned gently against me because he whispers, “Good girl.”
I want to laugh, but it comes out more like a gasp, because in every conceivable context, those are words that should have me rolling my eyes.
I am not a good girl in this sense. I am an independent and intelligent loner, who is somewhat sarcastic at times, with an almost pathological need to ensure everyone is happy when I leave them, just to ensure they get a happy ending, no matter the cost to me.
God, I need this.
He releases my hands, slow and careful, but not like he expects me to bolt; more like he’s testing a theory, observing a reaction. My hands flutter down to my sides, clutch dropping to the ground, which I ignore, and lift my hands up, then back again, uncertain what to do with them.
“Don’t move.”
I stay rooted to the spot, arms trembling, muscles taut, as he slides his palm up my bare back and under the strap of my dress, tracing the line of my shoulder blade with the tip of his finger.
“I said don’t move,” he repeats, and I don’t.
Not even when he brushes my hair aside and presses his mouth to the nape of my neck, teeth scraping the vertebrae.
I am lightning-struck, paralyzed by the intensity of waiting, of wanting, of being seen as the main character to my own story again, blocking out everything that could send me “dashing” away.
He steps around to my front, gaze dropping from my face to the deep V of my neckline, and I swear my heart is beating so loud I can hear it.
I can’t decide if I want to laugh, or cry, or beg him to hurry the fuck up, but what I do is stand still, like the good girl I suddenly and inexplicably want to be.
He tucks a knuckle under my chin and lifts my head until I’m looking him in the eye. “That’s it,” he says. “Just like that.”
He releases my chin but doesn’t step away.
His thumb trails down the column of my throat, slow enough that I forget how to breathe, until it stops just above the neckline of my dress.
His eyes flicker down, and when they lift again, there’s heat in them, steady and sure, like he’s already picturing how I’ll look falling apart.
“Dash, I—” My voice catches.
“Shh.” He lightly presses the pad of his thumb against the hollow of my throat. “I wanna read your body like a book.”
I bite my lip, pulse tripping so hard it’s almost painful.
He raises his other hand, brushing over my shoulder, tugging the sleeve of my dress with deliberate slowness.
The silk slides against my skin, a whisper of fabric giving way, baring more of me than I’m ready for.
He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t have to. Every inch the dress slips free, exposing me in a way that feels… good.
And then I remember.
Oh God. Why did I choose comfort over sexy?
Plain black cotton panties that are designed for enduring a twelve-hour bookstore shift rather than seduction, or my sexy writing panties.
Not lace, not silk, not even kind of cute.
Practical, dependable, and absolutely mortifying under a dress like this.
I want to melt straight through the floor, because Dash Sterling is no doubt accustomed to a lingerie display, and what he’s about to discover are granny panties.
His mouth curves into the faintest smirk, but it isn’t cruel. He leans close, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? What you’re wearing underneath.”
My breath stutters, and I can’t answer.
His fingers trail down my arm, catching my wrist, guiding my hand to his seriously defined chest. His heart is pounding rapidly under all that muscle.
“You don’t need lace, Noelle. You don’t need to play dress-up for me. This”—his mouth skims my jaw, heat sparking everywhere he touches—“is already better than anything I’ve imagined.”
The dress slips lower as he tugs the zipper down my spine slowly until, finally, the fabric falls to my waist, leaving me exposed. My breaths are urgent, shallow bursts, and my body trembles just barely, but enough that it’s noticeable.
He pauses, drawing his hands slowly up the length of my back.
I tense, and he notices, his eyes searching mine for a signal.
I nod, or maybe I just melt a little, and he lets the sleeve slide free, brushing them down the slope of my arms with a look of appreciation and hunger that boosts my confidence back to where it was when I kissed him.