Chapter Seven
Juliet
He’s still moving like he’s stunned, like his mind hasn’t fully caught up with what happened tonight.
Of course he hasn’t.
It’s a lot to deal with, losing everything, feeling like his whole life just got ripped apart. He doesn’t know yet that it’s already being taken care of.
By me.
I guide him inside, turning on a lamp, letting the warm glow spill across my living room. He blinks around the space, like he’s seeing it for the first time. Maybe he is. Maybe, now that he knows he’s staying here, it feels different.
More like home.
He doesn’t realize yet how easy this is going to be.
His lease is month-to-month, reckless, really. He should have had something more stable. A year-long contract. Something that actually gave him security.
But right now?
That works perfectly for me.
I’ve already checked his bank statements. He pays rent on the first of the month, which means we have plenty of time to break the lease, clean the place up, get his deposit back. I’ll handle all of it. He won’t have to worry about a thing.
Because he doesn’t need to.
I’ll always take care of him.
“I just don’t understand why anyone would do that to me.” His voice is quiet, hoarse.
Like he’s still trying to process it, still trying to make sense of something senseless.
Oh, baby.
He doesn’t get it.
Doesn’t get how special he is. How easily people could want to take him, ruin him, keep him for themselves.
He’s too modest. Too soft.
I shake my head, sighing as I slip past him toward the kitchen.
“People are insane,” I say simply, setting my bag down.
I don’t let the words settle too long.
I redirect, soothe, move forward. “Why don’t you get a shower, and I’ll start dinner?”
“God,” he exhales, rubbing his hands down his face. “You’re being great. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Oh.
Oh.
I feel it in my chest, a warmth, a pull, a sense of rightness.
He’s already thinking of me that way.
Already leaning into me, depending on me, needing me.
I just smile. Soft. Carefree. “It’s nothing.”
It’s everything.
“You like shepherd’s pie?” I ask as I start moving through the kitchen, opening cabinets, pulling ingredients.
I already know the answer.
I read the note he sent his sister, the one where he said he missed his mom’s shepherd’s pie. That he liked how she burnt the crust a little.
So I’ll do that too.
“Love it,” he says.
I glance up, and suddenly, he’s right there.
He steps around the counter, closing the space between us, gently taking my hands in his.
“Thank you. Really.” His voice is so soft, so warm. “I’ll make this up to you.”
Oh, love.
You already are.
Because this? This moment? This is everything.
He’s holding me. Touching me. Looking at me like I’m something precious.
And it’s so natural. So easy. Like he already knows I belong to him.
I tilt my head, smiling, brushing my thumbs over his fingers. “Clean up,” I murmur.
His gaze flicks over me, slow, thoughtful. “Shit,” he mutters, squeezing my hands. “You’re still in your gym clothes. You want to hit the shower first?”
It’s adorable.
Even now, he’s thinking about me.
I shake my head, stepping back toward the stove. “No. I’m cooking. We’ll eat, and then I’ll shower.” I glance at him, smile just enough. “Use all the hot water. Relax.”
He exhales, nodding, giving me one last look before he heads toward the bathroom.
And I watch him go.
I let my eyes trail over him, over the way he moves, the way his body already looks so at home here.
Because this is where he belongs.
And after tonight?
He’ll never leave.
The food is good.
Perfect, actually. Just the way he likes it. The crust on the shepherd’s pie is just slightly burnt, golden and crisp, the way his mother used to make it.
He made a sound when he took his first bite. A deep, satisfied groan.
And now?
Now, I can’t stop watching him.
He eats with slow, deliberate bites, the kind that make my stomach tighten in a completely different way.
His lips wrap around the fork, dragging the bite into his mouth, tongue just barely flicking over his lower lip before he chews.
And fuck.
I shift in my chair, my fingers flexing against my thigh.
Because now, all I can think about is that mouth on me.
That tongue, soft and wet, teasing my nipple.
Those lips, sucking, pulling, dragging pleasure out of me in slow, aching strokes.
I press my knees together under the table.
He has no idea.
No idea how filthy I’m being right now, sitting across from him, smiling like a sweet, devoted girlfriend, when really?
Really, I’m imagining him between my legs.
Imagining that mouth on my clit.
Sucking me the way he’s sucking every last bit of mashed potato off his fork.
I barely hear what he’s saying anymore.
I nod at the right moments. I smile when I should. But I’m gone.
Already in my head, picturing him.
Would he be soft at first? Careful? Would he let me guide him?
Or would he pin me down, grip my thighs, bury his face in me like he’s starving?
God, I hope it’s the second one.
Because I am so fucking tired of waiting.
After we’re done eating, he stretches as he stands, running a hand through his hair. His sweater lifts just slightly, and my eyes catch on the sliver of warm, toned stomach that peeks out.
God, I want to rake my nails down his skin, feel the muscle flex under my touch, hear that breathy sound I just know he’d make if I dragged my teeth over his hip.
But not yet.
I smile, leading him down the hall.
I show him the guest room, because I’m supposed to.
Because I need him to think this is his choice.
And then, I leave him there.
For now.
I need a shower.
Hot water streams down my skin, scalding, perfect, just the way I like it.
I let my head tip back, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting as the heat rolls over me.
And then, I think about him.
Noah.
One room away.
Lying in a bed that isn’t mine.
I drag the washcloth over my chest, slow, teasing, like his hands could be the ones holding it.
I squeeze my breast, thumb flicking over my nipple, breath hitching when I think about his lips closing over it instead.
How he’d kiss it, suck it, roll it between his teeth.
I drag the cloth lower. Over my stomach. Between my thighs.
I can’t stop imagining.
Can’t stop seeing it.
Noah’s fingers.
Sliding into me, stretching me open, moving slow at first, then deeper, firmer, curling just right.
His mouth.
Sucking at my clit, tongue flicking, teasing, relentless.
His voice, groaning against me, telling me how good I taste, how wet I am, how much he needs to be inside me.
I moan.
My legs weaken, my stomach tightens.
I brace myself against the tile, shivering despite the heat.
I can’t take much more of this.
I shut off the water.
Towel off.
Pull on something light, soft, easy to slip off.
And then, I step into the hallway, pad toward his room.
Because I’m done waiting.
And if he won’t come to me?
I’ll go to him.
Along the way to his room, I notice the dishes are gone. The kitchen is spotless.
He cleaned up after dinner.
That’s so damn sweet.
He didn’t have to do that. I would’ve handled it.
But he did it anyway.
Because he’s good. Thoughtful. The kind of man who doesn’t expect to be taken care of, even when he desperately needs it.
I stop in the doorway, fingers lightly tapping against the frame.
He’s sitting on the bed, hunched forward slightly, forearms resting on his thighs, head bowed like his mind is still back at the wreckage of his apartment.
When he glances up at me, my breath catches.
He looks so vulnerable. So tired.
And I’m going to take full advantage of him.
I soften my expression, let my voice go gentle, warm, inviting. “I thought you might be restless,” I murmur. Not quite innocent, not quite seductive. Somewhere in between.
I might have missed the mark.
But he’s not wearing a shirt.
And, fuck.
Just lounge pants.
And he wears them well.
“This is a pretty shitty way for our second date to go,” he says, voice rough, tinged with something tired and bitter.
No, love.
“Don’t think like that,” I say, stepping inside.
I move slowly, closing the space between us.
Then, at the last second, I circle behind him, climbing onto the bed, settling against the pillows.
Like this is casual. Like I’m not aching to touch him.
I reach forward, fingers ghosting over his bare shoulder, warm and firm beneath my touch.
“Come here,” I murmur. “I’ll rub your back.”
Because I just need to get my damn hands on him.
Noah leans into my touch immediately.
His breath leaves him in a quiet, exhausted sigh, his shoulders sinking, his body giving in.
Oh, baby.
That’s right.
Let me take care of you.
My hands press into his muscles, fingers kneading into the warm, solid tension of him.
He’s so firm under my touch.
So broad. Strong.
I press my thumbs down the curve of his shoulders, rubbing deep, and he groans.
Low. Soft. Fucking perfect.
His head dips forward slightly, exposing the long stretch of his neck.
I want to sink my teeth into it.
I want to kiss him there.
Bite him. Mark him. Make him mine in every way.
But not yet.
For now, I just watch the way he unravels under me.
The way he breathes deeper. The way he lets go.
He’s not thinking about his apartment anymore.
Not thinking about anything but my hands.
I trail my fingers down, down, down.
From his shoulders to his back, following the deep curve of his spine.
His muscles shift, flexing slightly beneath my palms.
So perfectly built.
It’s unfair, really.
Men like him shouldn’t exist.
Men like him shouldn’t be this good.
I want to press my lips between his shoulder blades, trail my tongue lower, trace every line of him.
I imagine it…
The way his skin would taste against my tongue.
The way he’d shiver if I kissed down his back, if I followed the dip of his spine with my lips.
How easy it would be to drag my mouth lower.
To pull those lounge pants down.
To slip my hands over his hips, wrap my fingers around his cock.
Fuck.
I have to bite back a sound, pressing my thighs together, heat coiling low and tight in my stomach.
I want him so badly.
I move my hands lower, just a little.
Fingertips grazing the curve of his waist, drifting dangerously close to the hem of his pants.
He doesn’t stop me.
I keep touching him.
Long, deep strokes, letting myself feel every inch of him.
His breath deepens.
I imagine how he’d feel between my legs.
His body caging me in, pressing me into the bed, his weight pinning me down.
How he’d feel inside me.
How he’d sound.
Would he be soft at first? Careful? Would he hold back?
Or would he snap?
Would he finally let go and give me what I need?
God, I want to find out.
And I think…
I think it’s time.