Chapter 30
Bea
The word sends a thrill through my body that I probably shouldn’t be excited about. Everything about this situation screams that I should extract myself, put distance between us, and go back to maintaining professional boundaries.
So, naturally, in my best fashion, I find myself leaning slightly closer.
“Maybe I like dangerous,” I admit, surprised by my own boldness.
His deep intake of breath is audible in the quiet room. “Bea.”
There’s a warning in the way he says my name, but also something else—want, maybe, or need. His hand releases mine only to slide up my arm, his fingers trailing fire along my skin until his palm cups my face.
“This is a bad idea,” he murmurs, but even as he says it, his thumb traces lines across my cheekbone.
“Terrible idea,” I agree, my pulse racing as I lean into his touch.
“We’ll regret it in the morning.”
“Probably.” But I don’t move away. If anything, I shift closer, drawn by the heat in his eyes and the gentle pressure of his hand against my face.
For a moment, we just stare at each other in the dim light, suspended in this fragile space between what we want and what we know is right. His thumb traces the curve of my cheek, leaving a trail of heat that makes it nearly impossible to breathe.
“Tell me to stop,” Noah whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “Tell me this is a mistake. Tell me, or I won’t be able to stop.”
But I can’t. “I don’t want you to stop.”
His breath catches, a muscle working in his jaw as he fights some internal battle. Then his hand slides to the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair, and he pulls me closer with agonizing slowness.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, his lips a breath away from mine. “Say no, and we’ll blame this on the concussion in the morning and go back to our regular lives.”
Instead of answering, I close the distance between us, pressing my lips to his. For one heart-stopping moment, he’s completely still. Then something breaks loose inside him, and he’s kissing me back.
His lips are softer than I imagined, moving against mine with a gentleness that contrasts the firm grip of his hand on my neck.
It’s nothing like I expected—not rough or demanding, but careful, almost reverent.
Like he’s afraid I might shatter if he presses too hard.
The man in the ring was raw and uncontrolled.
This man is soft, deliberate, and I’m okay with that.
I reach up, my fingers grazing the stubble along his jaw, careful to avoid the bruises blooming there. He makes a sound deep in his throat—part groan, part sigh—and deepens the kiss as his tongue traces the seam of my lips in a silent question. Who knew Noah King could be so gentle?
I open for him without hesitation, and the first touch of his tongue against mine sends heat spiraling through me. Like a jolt of lightning that shoots electricity straight through my core.
The kiss shifts from careful to hungry in an instant, his hand tightening in my hair as he angles my head to get closer. Deeper. I can feel the man from the ring returning with strength radiating from him. I taste the faint mint of toothpaste and something I’ve never had before.
Home. Noah King tastes like home.
My heart is hammering so loud it’s probably audible over the traffic outside, or maybe it’s just that every other sense has narrowed to this: Noah’s breath on my lips, the heat of his bruised chest under my palm, the way his hand is cradling my neck like I’m something fragile and precious.
I flatten my hand against his bare chest, feeling the ragged rhythm of his heart, the uneven rise and fall of his ribs under my palm.
The skin on his chest is surprisingly warm and smooth, a contrast to the stubble on his jaw. I feel a crazy urge to map every inch of him, to find every tender spot and soothe it, to see if I can learn the blueprint of him by touch alone.
I want to treat him like he treats his designs—so careful of the details, spending unrestrained hours researching each area before starting to draw, and pouring his whole soul into it.
He is a work of art too that nature has created.
The perfection of every ridge and groove of his scarred body.
And even with dark bruises over his chest and face, he looks like another world wonder.
I’ve never been attracted to brute force before, but Noah is shifting my perspective of reality, it seems. Seeing him bloodied after a battle has called to something primal in me, and the primal in me has responded.
Noah breaks away from the kiss first. His forehead drops to mine, his breaths come in short, pained bursts. He’s trembling, or maybe I am. Our noses brush and our lips are barely a whisper apart, but we are not doing any more of that wonderful thing we were just doing. Why? Why aren’t we?
I can feel his restraint, the way he’s holding himself back, with every muscle in his body strung tight.
“Fuck, Bea,” he rasps, and his voice breaks somewhere between a want and a warning. His hand tightens in my hair but doesn’t pull me closer or push me away, just anchors me exactly where he wants me. For now. He’s clearly at war with himself, and for once, I want him to lose that war.
“We really shouldn’t,” he mumbles, but it comes out more like a plea than a command.
“I know,” I agree, but my actions contradict my words as I lean in to kiss him again, unable to stop now that I’ve started.
The rational part of my brain is screaming that this is a mistake—he’s my boss slash brother-in-law’s brother slash someone who-has-not-been-nice-to-me; he’s injured, and we’re both emotionally raw—but my body wants what feels good.
His hand slides from my hair to my waist, pulling me closer until I’m half on top of him, every point of contact between us electric.
“Your ribs,” I murmur against his lips, bracing myself with one hand on the mattress even as my body screams for more contact.
“Don’t care,” he growls, sliding his hand under the hem of my sleep shirt, letting his fingers splay across the bare skin of my lower back. The touch sends shivers racing up my spine.
His lips leave mine to trail along my jaw, down the column of my throat, and I tilt my head to give him better access.
My eyes flutter closed as he finds a sensitive spot just below my ear, his teeth grazing the skin before soothing it with his warm tongue.
A soft moan escapes me before I can stop it.
“God, the sounds you make,” he whispers against my neck, his voice is husky with desire. “Been wondering about them for weeks.”
The confession sends heat pooling low in my belly. “You have?”
“Mmm.” His hand keeps sliding higher under my shirt, tracing the ridges of my spine. “Especially when you get that little crease between your eyebrows when you’re concentrating. Makes me want to know what other expressions I can force you to make.”
I pull back to look at him, feeling heat flooding my cheeks at his admission. His eyes are dark with want, and I can feel the tension coiled in his body beneath my hands.
“What kind of expressions?” I whisper, empowered by the desire I see written across his face.
Noah’s hand tightens on my waist, his thumb tracing circles on my skin that make me shiver. “The kind you’re making right now,” he murmurs. “Looking all flushed and breathless.”
I lean down to kiss him again, unable to resist his words.
His lips move against mine with increasing urgency, his hand sliding higher still under my shirt until his palm covers my ribs and his thumb brushes just beneath my breast, making me arch into his touch instinctively.
His thumb brushes across my nipple, and I gasp against his mouth at the sensation.
My body feels electric, hypersensitive to every touch, to every brush of his skin against mine.
“Noah,” I whisper, his name is a plea for something his body might not be ready for.
He groans in response, the sound vibrating through his chest against my palm.
His kiss deepens, growing more urgent as his hand kneads my breast gently, thumb circling my nipple until it hardens beneath his touch.
I press myself into him, forgetting about his injuries for a moment, and he winces slightly. It’s barely there, but I notice it.
“Sorry,” I murmur, pulling back immediately. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Noah’s eyes are dark, intense as they lock with mine. “I’ve had worse. Don’t stop.”
But the reminder of his injuries breaks through the haze of want clouding my judgment. I sit back slightly, my hand still resting on his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my palm.
“We should slow down,” I say, even as my body screams in protest. “You’re hurt, and I’m—”
“Mine. You are mine.”