Chapter Eight
Juliet
Noah shifts under my hands, exhaling another quiet, satisfied sigh as I keep kneading into his back.
I let my touch linger lower.
My fingertips graze the edge of his waistband. Just enough to tease. Just enough to make him notice.
And he does.
Because his shoulders tense, just for a second, before melting all over again.
He doesn’t stop me.
But he doesn’t move, either.
I smile.
Poor boy.
Still so careful.
Still thinking too much, even now.
That’s okay.
I’ll show him.
I press closer, letting my chest skim against his back.
Soft. Subtle. Deliberate.
He stiffens.
“Juliet,” he says, voice low, uncertain. Not unwilling. Just unsure.
Like he wants this but doesn’t want to assume.
Like he thinks he needs permission.
God, I love him.
I let my lips brush the back of his neck, pressing the smallest, laziest kiss to his skin.
“Don’t think,” I murmur, dragging my mouth just a little lower. “I want you.”
Noah shudders.
And then?
He turns, slow but certain, his body shifting toward mine.
And when our eyes meet?
Oh.
Oh, he’s gone.
His pupils are wide, his breathing uneven, his lips just barely parted like he’s already imagining what they’ll feel like against mine.
I tilt my head, close the space, press my lips to his.
And Noah?
Noah kisses me like he’s been starving for this.
His hands find my waist, then my hips, then my thighs, pulling me into his lap like I belong there.
Because I do.
I straddle him, rolling my hips just slightly, just enough to feel him, and fuck, he’s already so hard.
He groans into my mouth, like he didn’t expect this, like he’s struggling to keep himself under control.
Don’t hold back, love.
Not with me.
His hands are so soft, so careful.
They glide over my sides, my back, up to my face, cradling me, holding me like something delicate.
His thumbs trace my jaw, my cheekbones, the corners of my mouth.
He kisses me like he’s learning me.
Like he’s mapping every inch of my lips, memorizing how I taste, how I sigh when his tongue slides against mine.
I press against him, grinding down just enough to make him shiver.
He moans, actually moans, against my mouth.
And I feel it.
Everywhere.
Noah’s fingers move to the hem of my top.
Slow. Waiting.
I lift my arms, giving him permission, giving him everything.
He pulls the fabric over my head, and when he looks at me…
Oh.
His eyes darken, his lips part, and I swear to god, he looks wrecked.
Like he’s never seen anything this beautiful before.
Like I’m something sacred.
He kisses my throat, my collarbone, my shoulder, soft, slow, reverent.
He moves like he’s savoring every inch of skin.
His hands slide to my back, unclasping my bra with a careful flick.
And when it falls?
He doesn’t move too fast.
He doesn’t take.
Instead, he exhales, shuddering, brushing his knuckles over my bare skin like he’s never felt anything so soft.
His thumbs graze my nipples, barely a touch, just enough to make me arch against him.
And then?
Then, his mouth replaces his hands.
I gasp as his lips close over me.
Soft. Gentle. Perfect.
His tongue flicks, teases, then soothes.
Slow, deep sucks that have my head tipping back, a moan slipping from my lips.
Oh, he’s good.
He’s so fucking good.
Every stroke, every kiss, every movement is precise, focused.
He’s savoring me.
Loving me.
Giving.
Because that’s who Noah is.
He doesn’t just take.
He gives, worships, makes me feel like I’m something to be adored.
And I am.
I grind against him, feeling how hard he is, feeling how much he needs this.
And I whisper against his ear, “Let me have you.”
And Noah?
Noah groans, his fingers flex against my hips, holding me steady, grounding himself.
His lips are hot against my skin, his mouth still trailing kisses over my chest, my ribs, the soft curve of my stomach.
Slow.
Savoring.
Because Noah?
Noah doesn’t just fuck.
Noah loves.
Even now, he’s making love to every inch of me.
And fuck, I want him inside me.
I shift, rolling my hips against him, gasping at the solid, aching heat pressing into me through his pants.
Oh.
Oh, he’s big.
The thought sends a hot rush of pleasure through me, a tightening, a pulse deep in my core.
And then?
Noah groans, like he can’t take it anymore.
He lays me down against the mattress, so fucking gentle, like I’m something breakable.
I’m not.
But I love that he thinks I am.
He leans over me, breathless, wrecked, eyes dark and wanting.
His fingers slip beneath the waistband of my shorts, tugging them down my thighs, his touch hesitant but sure, like he’s trying to pace himself.
Like he’s trying not to rush.
I arch up, giving him permission, giving him everything.
And when I’m bare beneath him, when he finally sees me?
He just stares.
Eyes tracing every inch of me, mouth slightly parted, a quiet, reverent sound slipping from his lips.
Like he can’t believe I’m real.
Like he can’t believe I’m his.
His hand slides down, over my stomach, between my thighs.
His fingers graze me, just barely, just enough to make me whimper.
“Oh,” Noah breathes. His voice is wrecked, his breath uneven. “You’re so…”
He groans, his forehead pressing against mine.
“So wet,” I finish for him, grinning against his lips.
He exhales sharply, his fingers dipping into my heat, spreading the slickness, teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves that’s already begging for him.
“Fuck, Juliet,” he whispers. Then, he slides two fingers inside me.
Slow. Deep.
I gasp.
My body clenches around him, needing more, needing him.
And he gives.
Fingers curling, stroking, moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
Like he’s learning me.
Like he’s memorizing every sound I make, adjusting, perfecting.
And oh, he is so fucking good.
I dig my nails into his back, pulling him closer, wrapping my legs around his waist.
His fingers keep moving, keep stretching, but it’s not enough.
I need more.
I need him.
I tilt my head, panting, desperate, whispering against his lips, “Noah, please.”
His breath shudders. His fingers still inside me. His lips part, like he’s going to say something, like he’s going to ask if I’m sure.
Sweet boy.
I don’t let him.
I reach down, wrapping my fingers around the hard, thick length of him through his pants, and he chokes on a sound, hips jerking into my touch.
Oh.
Oh, I love that.
I press my lips to his jaw, drag my teeth along his skin, whisper against his ear, “I need you. Now.”
And just like that?
Noah is gone.
He shoves his pants down, aligns himself, presses the thick head of his cock against my entrance.
And fuck.
I moan, arch, whimper, because he’s big, he’s stretching me already, and he hasn’t even pushed inside.
“Noah,” I whisper, tugging him down, wrapping my legs around him, pulling him closer.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
And then?
He slides inside.
Slow. Careful. Deep.
I gasp, my nails digging into his back, my body trembling around him.
He stills, breathing hard, shuddering against me.
“You feel…” His voice is hoarse, barely there. “Jesus Christ, Juliet.”
I cling to him, panting, overwhelmed, already ruined.
He fills me, stretches me, fits inside me like he was made for this.
And when he starts to move…
Oh.
He’s so slow.
So deep.
He rolls his hips, presses his forehead against mine, whispers my name like it’s a prayer.
He doesn’t thrust.
He worships.
Every movement is precise, controlled.
He takes his time.
He makes me feel every single inch of him.
And I fall apart beneath him.
I feel it in the way his breath stutters.
In the way his hips lose rhythm, his grip tightens, his jaw clenches like he’s trying to hold on just a little longer.
No.
I want him to lose control.
I press my lips to his ear, panting, teasing, completely wrecked. “Noah,” I whisper. “I want you to come inside me.”
And that’s it.
He groans, thrusts deep, buries himself inside me as he unravels completely.
I follow.
Shattering beneath him.
Falling apart.
Completely his.
Noah shifts, exhaling a deep, wrecked breath before carefully rolling us over.
I barely register it at first, still floating, still warm and drowsy from how thoroughly he just ruined me.
Then, I feel it…
His arms wrapping around me, strong and secure, pulling me against his chest.
Holding me.
I sigh against his skin, let my body melt into his.
He’s so solid, so warm, his heartbeat steady beneath my cheek.
It’s soothing. It’s grounding.
It’s mine.
His fingers skim up and down my back, light, lazy strokes, like he’s memorizing the shape of me.
Like he just wants to keep touching me, keep feeling me, even now that it’s over.
His other hand slides through my hair, slow and absentminded, untangling strands with soft, careful sweeps of his fingers.
I close my eyes, let myself sink deeper into him, sighing in complete satisfaction.
This.
This is exactly what I wanted.
For a long time, he just holds me, breathes with me.
Then, his voice rumbles against my temple, low and warm and unbearably sweet.
“That was…” He pauses, his fingertips brushing lightly over my shoulder.
“Amazing?” I tease, tracing small circles against his ribs.
His chest rises and falls with a quiet laugh.
“No,” he murmurs. “That was… perfect. Beautiful.”
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
My stomach tightens. My chest aches.
I press my lips together, trying to hold back the wild, giddy grin threatening to take over my face.
He has no idea.
No idea how long I’ve worked for this.
How carefully I planned every detail, every moment, every touch.
How much I studied him, learned him, watched him until I knew exactly how to make this perfect.
And it worked.
God, it worked.
I have him.
Completely.
Now, we can just… love each other.