Chapter Four
Juliet
I knew Noah was a romantic.
But the pink roses?
The soft, careful choice of them?
That was proof.
Most men wouldn’t notice what I wear. Wouldn’t care about the details. Wouldn’t look at a pale pink slip dress and think, ‘Yes, that’s her. That’s what I should get for her.’
But Noah did.
Because Noah is different.
And different men require different approaches.
The movie is playing, but I haven’t processed a single second of it.
Because Noah is beside me.
Close.
His arm rests on the back of the couch, not touching me, but near. So near. Close enough that I can feel his body heat, close enough that if I shifted, just a little, our shoulders would brush.
If I tilted my head back, it would land against his arm.
Would he let me stay there? Would he pull me closer?
My stomach tightens.
I want to be in his space. I want to be in his lap.
I could do it. Right now.
Just crawl into his arms, kiss him, press my body to his.
My breath catches. I swallow hard, my fingers digging into the hem of my skirt, fisting the fabric, grounding myself.
Not yet.
Noah isn’t the kind of man you rush.
Noah isn’t like other men.
Other men are thoughtless. Greedy. They take, they touch, they whisper soft lies in your ear just to get what they want.
Noah isn’t like that.
Noah would mean it.
If I want him forever, I have to be patient. I have to do it right.
Because I don’t want a man who uses me and walks away.
I want a man who worships me.
And that takes time.
So I exhale, keeping my hands in my lap, and pretend to watch the movie.
But I don’t blink.
I don’t breathe properly.
Because I feel him shift, just slightly.
A small adjustment.
His fingers twitch against the couch, and my pulse pounds.
I imagine them curling, reaching for me.
His leg moves, just barely, his knee tilting toward mine.
I imagine him turning his head, his lips brushing my temple, his breath warm against my skin.
I imagine it so vividly I can almost feel it.
Almost.
My fingers press deeper into my lap, nails biting into my thighs.
Wait.
Be patient.
Because when he finally does touch me, when he finally realizes what this is, he’ll never stop.
The movie drags on.
Popcorn is gone. Pizza annihilated. Soda half-empty.
And Noah?
Still not touching me.
The flickering light from the screen casts soft shadows across his face, painting him in warm gold and dusky blue. He looks so beautiful like this. Relaxed, unguarded. His jawline sharp in the glow, his lips parted slightly, the soft rise and fall of his breathing too steady, too unaware.
He doesn’t realize what tonight is supposed to be.
But I do.
I watch him from the corner of my eye. The way his fingers tap against his thigh, a restless little habit, like he’s keeping himself in check.
He wants something but won’t take it. He’s waiting. Because he respects me and that’s part of why I love him.
I exhale slowly, pressing my nails into my palm.
Remind myself what this is.
Noah is too sweet.
Too polite.
He wouldn’t want to push too fast. Wouldn’t want to ruin whatever delicate, pretty thing he thinks this is.
How noble of him.
How utterly frustrating.
Because this isn’t delicate.
This isn’t fragile.
This is inevitable.
My fingers curl slightly, a sharp little pulse of need tightening low in my stomach.
If he isn’t going to take advantage of the night, I will.
I stand, smoothing my skirt.
Noah’s eyes flicker to me immediately. Attentive. Curious.
I feel his gaze drag over me. Not in a crude way, not in a way that’s immediately obvious. But it’s there.
The briefest flicker of awareness.
Of want.
See?
I knew it.
I knew he wanted me.
He just doesn’t know what to do with it yet.
I smile. Soft. Sweet. Deceptive.
“Let me get you a refill,” I murmur, lifting his cup from the table.
His lips curve, easy and unguarded. Completely unsuspecting. “Thanks, Juliet.”
Oh, Noah.
You’re making this too easy.
Alone in the kitchen, I pour the soda first.
The liquid fizzes, rising in delicate, crackling bubbles before settling into an obedient stillness.
I take a breath. Slow. Even. Steady.
Then, with practiced hands, I reach for the spice cabinet. Where I keep the cinnamon and vanilla, the nutmeg and sugar, the little glass vials of extracts and oils.
I pluck the vial from its place, rolling it between my fingers, feeling the cool glass press into my skin.
A few drops.
No taste. No scent.
Just a smooth, easy descent into sleep.
I swirl the cup gently, watching the liquid settle.
It’s not dangerous.
I’d never hurt him.
Never.
I just need him out, just for a little while.
Just long enough to… get what I need.
I let my fingers trail over the rim of the cup, exhaling slowly.
This isn’t wrong.
If he knew, if he understood, he’d let me.
He’d want me to.
Because love takes time. Love requires trust.
And soon, Noah will trust me completely.
I hand him the drink, and sit back down, watching him in the corner of my eye.
It doesn’t take long. Fifteen minutes, maybe.
The first signs are subtle. His blinks slowing, his fingers going slack against his thigh, the gradual sinking of his body into the cushions.
Then his breathing evens out.
His head tips back.
His body goes still.
I wait.
I watch.
And when I’m sure, when I’m certain, I touch.
Not his body, not yet.
His phone.
I lift it gently, holding it near his relaxed, sleeping face.
It unlocks.
My pulse pounds.
So easy.
I skim through his Notes app first. Nothing interesting, just lists, reminders, a few unfinished song lyrics.
Cute.
I move on.
Emails. Bank account. Socials. I memorize his passwords, save them in my own notes, tucked under fake entries.
Just in case.
Just in case he ever tries to keep something from me.
His phone is handled.
I should stop.
I should sit back. Watch the movie. Wait for him to wake up.
But he’s right here.
Solid. Still. Mine.
I exhale slowly.
Then I touch.
A fingertip, tracing along his forearm.
His skin is so warm.
I let my hand glide higher.
His bicep. Firm. Tensed in sleep, like his body holds strength even when he’s unaware.
His shoulder.
His chest.
Beneath the sweater, he’s solid.
I press my palm flat against him.
Feel him.
Want him.
I shift closer, slipping into his lap, legs bracketing his thighs, settling against the warm, steady rise and fall of his breathing.
My hands wander.
I trace the shape of him, the slow curve of his waist, the faint dip between his ribs, the hardness of muscle beneath soft fabric.
He’s firm in all the places I imagined.
Stronger than I thought.
I clench my thighs.
I shouldn’t.
But who’s going to stop me?
He makes a sleepy, barely-there sound, and my breath catches.
I freeze.
Wait.
But he doesn’t wake.
Doesn’t even stir.
I exhale, trembling.
Then I lean in.
Breathe him in.
Soap. Warmth. Something clean, something comforting.
Something safe.
I close my eyes.
Press my lips to his throat.
Soft. Barely-there.
But I feel him swallow in his sleep.
God.
A quiet, helpless shiver runs through me.
I press closer, feeling the heat of his body.
I could stay here forever. I could have all of him if I wanted.
Right now.
I trail my fingers back down his chest, just because I can.
Because he’s mine.
Because this is just the beginning.
I let my touch linger, savoring it, indulging in it, before finally, reluctantly, slipping off his lap.
I tuck his phone beside him.
Smooth my dress.
Sit back.
Press play on the movie.
And wait.
Noah stirs beside me, shifting against the cushions, his breathing changing.
His lashes flutter.
Then, soft brown eyes blink up at me.
Sleepy. Adorable.
He blinks again, realization settling in. “Oh, shit,” he mutters, sitting up too fast, running a hand through his hair. “I fell asleep?”
God.
He looks so embarrassed.
It’s painfully endearing.
I smile, soft and understanding. “You must’ve been tired.”
He rubs his face, groaning. “I swear I wasn’t trying to pass out on you.”
I giggle, shaking my head. “It’s okay.” I reach for his arm, squeezing just a little. “You were comfortable,” I murmur. “I didn’t mind.”
His lips part, like he doesn’t know what to say to that.
His blush is everything.
He glances at the time, sighing. “I should probably get going.”
I don’t want him to.
But we take our time with a man like Noah.
So I nod, pushing to my feet. “I’ll walk you out.”
The night air is cool when I open the door.
Noah steps onto the porch, hands in his pockets, lingering.
Neither of us moves to say goodbye.
Because he doesn’t want to leave.
And I don’t want him to go.
He looks at me, really looks at me. His eyes soft, warm.
Then, he lifts his hand.
His fingers skim my jaw.
Gentle. Deliberate.
My breath catches.
And then, he kisses me.
It’s not hesitant.
Not uncertain.
It’s confident. Natural. Like he already knows me. Like I already belong to him.
Oh. Oh, I could die from this.
His hands frame my face, his touch soft but firm. He’s gentle, but not like he’s scared, like he wants to savor me.
I sink into him, my hands grasping his sweater, pulling him closer. I want more. I want to pull him inside. I want to feel him against me. I want him to want me the way I want him.
But not yet.
So I just kiss him back, deep and slow, until I feel his fingers tremble slightly against my skin.
When he pulls away, he exhales like he’s lightheaded.
His forehead rests against mine. He smiles. “Damn.”
I laugh breathlessly. “Yeah.”
He steps back, still smiling. “We should do this again,” he says.
Not if.
We should.
I glow.
He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe dinner?”
I tilt my head, so soft, so eager. “Tell me what you like,” I say, voice low, teasing. I step toward him, running my fingers lightly over his forearm. “I’ll cook.”
He looks at me like he wasn’t expecting that. Like I’ve just offered him the world.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it.
I smile. “I want to.”
Because every woman knows that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
Or his bed.
And I plan to have both.