13. Noelle #2
My nipples tighten even further as he cups my breasts.
He skims his thumbs in slow, tormenting circles around my nipples until I’m sure they’ll crack under his touch if he keeps at this pace.
His mouth follows, warm and soft, and then …
insistent, drawing one aching tip between his lips and swirling his tongue until a moan escapes me—small, helpless, and impossibly loud in the quiet room.
The sound, though, it emboldens him. He slides his hand farther down, between my ribs and my belly button, as he moves from breast to breast, tasting, teasing, taunting, and it feels extraordinary .
His stubble grazes my skin and leaves a trail of tingling where his mouth has traveled, and he does this, watching my face, studying it with each new sensation he brings me.
I want to hide, I want to preen, I want to reach for him fiercely and pull him into me. I settle for letting my hands tangle in his hair, holding him there for a moment longer, until he finally pulls away.
He stands, just enough to take me in: my dress draped at my hips, my body flushed and exposed, the tremor in my thighs increasing as he takes me in.
And boy, does he take me in. He lets his gaze roam, unabashed, his desire so clear in his eyes, and in this moment, I feel both stripped bare and vulnerable, but also deeply adored.
I want to know what he sees, how he would describe me.
His hands return, trailing down my sides to the ridged bones of my hips. He traces the border between cotton and skin, thumbs tucked just beneath the elastic of my panties, and then he waits for permission.
The heat between us pulses—almost painful, almost holy. I bite my lip, giving him my answer, and he pulls the panties down in a single, slow motion, peeling them away from my body and guiding them over my knees, down my calves, stopping at my feet where he … kneels.
Dash kisses my inner thigh, one then the other, as he looks up at me, and I’m entirely naked before him.
Then he sits back on his heels and just looks at me—devours me.
I swear I am using some superhuman strength I didn’t know I had to stand here without collapsing, in heels .
I feel a strange, fierce pride rising in my chest, a sense of power in my vulnerability.
Still, my need to touch him intensifies inside of me. I want him to feel what I feel; I don’t want this to be a one-way stripping, an examination. I want to peel him open, too, and see what he looks like under all his layers. I want to give and take at the same time.
I bend down to where Dash is kneeling, my knees quivering with anticipation, and for a moment, we are eye-level in this strange, charged stillness.
I reach for the lapels of his suit jacket, and he straightens his posture, arms back, a willing subject.
I press the pads of my fingers to the rugged, thick slopes of his shoulders and slide the jacket down—slow, deliberate, just like he did.
The jacket hangs at his elbows. He lets it fall, draping behind him.
I shift to his side, circling, my hair falling over his face as I lean in close.
My nipple, bared and aching, grazes over his temple, and the sensation is electric, a single current that blazes from the point of contact up through my spine.
He shudders, and I see his throat work as he swallows.
I bite my lip, a little embarrassed at my own boldness, but also desperate to continue.
“Let me,” I say, though it comes out as barely more than a whisper.
My hands are a mess of nerves as I work at his tie.
It’s a dark red, something I’d just noticed, and now knowing we match, my fingers tremble more.
The knot is tight, too damn tight. I fumble, half-blind, fingers slipping over the silk, and finally loosen it enough to free his neck.
I want to memorize the pulse fluttering there, the skin flushed pink from the pressure.
I drape the tie over his shoulder, then set to work on his shirt, unfastening each button one at a time.
Dash lets me undress him, but he doesn’t just sit still—he’s watching me, his mouth slightly open, his eyes fixed on my face, then my hands, then my breasts. The way he looks at me makes me feel both clumsy and powerful. I can’t stop trembling.
I get the shirt unbuttoned and ease it open, exposing sculpted muscles that look carved rather than grown.
His shoulders are massive, tapering into arms that flex even when he’s still, veins running down like roadmaps I want to follow with my tongue.
Broad chest, ridged abs, skin stretched tight over years of discipline and punishment on the ice.
A body built for power, for speed, for hitting and being hit.
But, right now, it’s mine to touch, to trace, to tease.
He shrugs the shirt the rest of the way off, and I swear I forget how to breathe.
His waist narrows, cut with that sharp V every romance novel hero seems to have but never in this living, breathing, impossible way.
Every inch of him screams athlete, but the way he’s watching me—hungry, reverent, wrecked—it’s like I hold equal power.
And God help me, I never want to stop looking.
He stands when I move in front of him. We are both undressed in our own ways now—me, literally; him, by degrees, by layers.
I rest my hand against his sternum, feeling the race of his heart, and he dips his head, brushing his lips over my wrist, my palm, the tips of my fingers. I want to keep going.
Our breathing is uneven, out of sync. I can barely see straight, but I reach for his belt, unfasten it, and then hesitate, unsure if I should keep going or let him take the lead again.
He answers by sliding his hands over my back, up to my shoulder blades, and then he leans in and opens his mouth over my left nipple, tugging gently with his teeth, his tongue drawing tight, dizzying circles.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Noelle,” he says before pulling me in, lifting me up, and depositing me on the bed.
He nudges my knee aside and moves to stand between my legs as he pulls the belt from the loops. “Tag in, or do you want me to finish?”