24. Noah - August
TWENTY-FOUR
Noah - August
WIND UP MISSIN’ YOU - TUCKER WETMORE
My mind was already replaying what had just happened—me propped up on my elbows, looking down at him on his knees.
It was ecstasy. Static sparking through my veins, setting a wildfire in my soul. His touch was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. The coolness of the truck bed beneath me contrasted with the heat building inside, as he kept pushing me higher.
Dorian now stood between my legs, his eyes full of desire. But before he could say or do anything, the sharp sound of footsteps on the uneven ground interrupted us.
A flash of light streaked across us, and Dorian moved instantly. His hand pressed my legs together as he moved in front of me, blocking me from view.
“Woodstone County Police,” someone called out, the words firm but not harsh. A tall figure approached; their features mostly hidden in the dim light.
Dorian stood his ground, his shoulders loose as though this were an ordinary encounter. “Oh hey, Henry,” he said, calm and unhurried.
“Dorian?” Henry stopped a few feet away. His mouth opened, then shut, before he raised an eyebrow. “What the hell is—” His head tilted slightly as he glanced down, his gaze snagging on Dorian’s pocket—where my underwear peeked out, half hanging over the edge.
Well, that’s just great.
Dorian cleared this throat. “Busy night at the bar,” he said, his tone giving away nothing.
Henry let out a short exhale through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in something between disbelief and amusement.
“Right. Busy. And I’m guessing you didn’t think to pick somewhere less obvious?”
I shifted behind Dorian, every inch of me burning under Henry’s scrutiny. “We’re sorry, sir,” I muttered.
Henry’s head turned toward me, his brows knitting together for a moment before he let out a resigned sigh.
Henry’s hands landed on his hips, and he rocked back on his heels. “Look, I’m not writing you up for anything, but maybe take it somewhere more… private. If it were anyone else patrolling…” He let the sentence hang, shaking his head.
Dorian tilted his head slightly, one hand moving to rub the back of his neck. “Noted,” he replied, his tone casual, almost too casual. “Thanks, Henry.”
Henry waved a hand dismissively, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah, yeah. It’s the least I could do. Just… keep it professional, Doctor James.”
I bit down on my lip and nodded again, unable to trust my voice.
Henry gave Dorian one last look, then turned sharply on his heel. “Have a good night,” he called over his shoulder, his tone clipped but not unkind.
“You too, Officer Reynolds.”
Reynolds?
We waited until his footsteps faded completely, the silence wrapping around us once more.
“Well,” Dorian said finally, glancing back at me, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
“Wait… was that…” I started.
“Chris’s brother?” Dorian turned back to face me. “Yeah. Good guy. Feels awful about everything. He’s been friends with Trent for a while, but we get along too.”
I swallowed, processing how his brother was the one responsible for Trent being shot and taking Dotty months ago. “I hope he’s doing okay… considering.”
It couldn’t be easy finding out your brother was responsible for something that horrific, then losing him in the process.
“Yeah, from what Trent said, he’s holding up.” Dorian brushed a curl from my face, his fingers lingering in my hair. I couldn’t meet his eyes, suddenly self-conscious.
“What’s that look?” he asked, his brow furrowing.
“It’s just… I’ve never really liked my hair.”
“I do,” he said, tugging at a curl gently, and admiring the way it sprung back to life.
My brow furrowed. “You do?”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice lowering, sending a spark through me. “It’s part of you, and every part of you is beautiful.”
A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “You’re relentless.”
“With you?” He leaned closer, his smile teasing. “Absolutely.”
Before I could respond, his mouth found mine again, slow and tentative, like he was gauging where my head was at. And honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure of that myself. But I knew one thing—I wasn’t ready to stop. His tongue gently teased mine, rekindling the fire between us.
He moved back a fraction. “Come back to my place?” he murmured against my lips. “Gracie’s with my dad.”
I hesitated, still rattled by everything that had unfolded. “I don’t know… I have to let Walker out.”
My body was ready, but my mind wasn’t sure it was all lined up just yet.
“We can pick him up on the way or go to your house,” he said. “Watch a movie, have a drink. We don’t have to do anything. I’m not ready to let you go yet,” he promised, crossing his heart in an exaggerated motion.
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “One drink.”
The drive to Dorian’s house was quiet as I followed him. He’d come with me to my place to grab Walker, making sure he wouldn’t be left alone too long. Now, we were headed to his house, the evening ahead of us.
But as I drove, that stupid truck bed stared at me. The scene flashing in my mind, one that would forever be engraved in my memory. Someday I’d be ninety years old, telling my adult grandchildren about how, when I was young and wild, I once had my pussy eaten by a handsome vet on a tailgate back in the twenties. Maybe using slightly more appropriate language.
But really, the silence was welcomed.
We’d said everything that needed to be said for the moment, letting us just be. Finally.
My thoughts kept spinning, my heart doing weird flips in my chest. Kissing Dorian felt so right—and that scared me as much as it excited me.
It felt like a betrayal, though I knew it wasn’t. I moved on without closure from John, and that nagging sensation wouldn’t let go. Months later, he still found a way to cast a shadow over my decisions, making everything harder than it should’ve been.
By the time I cut the engine, Dorian was already at my door, yanking it open before I even had a chance to unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Antsy, are ya?” I teased, raising an eyebrow.
I reached for my bag, but before I could grab it, he leaned down, his face inches from mine.
For a moment, I just watched him, letting myself take in the way his dark hair fell over his forehead, that lopsided smile of his, the way his T-shirt clung to his strong frame, outlining every inch of power beneath.
“You just going to sit there and stare?” he teased. “Or should we go inside so I can make you a drink?”
I laughed, trying to ignore the way my body reacted to the closeness of his. “It’s hard to move when you’re practically on top of me.”
He reached over me, and with a single motion, the seatbelt retracted, the click breaking the silence. His gaze stayed locked on mine as he stepped back and extended his hand. I placed my hand in his, and he guided me out of the car and into the house.
Inside, he flicked on the light, filling the space with an inviting glow. His home carried an unspoken sense of ease, a place that felt safe, as though nothing bad could reach us here.
He strode into the kitchen and opened a cabinet, revealing an assortment of liquor bottles.
“Pick your poison,” he said, his tone light, though something unspoken lingered beneath it.
I leaned against the counter, grinning. “Tequila.”
He glanced over his shoulder with a smirk. “You’ve been spending too much time with my sister.”
“What can I say? She has good taste.”
“Margarita?” he asked, grabbing a bottle.
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
He quickly made two drinks, handing me mine with a faint clink of ice against the glass. His eyes followed the slow sweep of my tongue as I licked a trace of salt from the rim.
The corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting back a comment, but he turned away, heading toward the couch.
I followed, settling in beside him as he grabbed the remote. He scrolled through the options, his movements unhurried, until a familiar title popped up—the show we watched together back in Seattle, back when life was simpler.
He glanced at me, a silent question in his expression. I nodded, and he hit play, the opening theme sparking a bittersweet pang of nostalgia for that weekend.
“Still hate him?” I teased as one of the more controversial characters appeared, his smug grin lighting up the screen.
“Hate is a strong word,” Dorian replied, settling deeper into the cushions. “But yeah, he’s the worst.”
I raised an eyebrow. “This from the guy who yelled at the TV every time he made a bad decision?”
“That was constructive criticism,” he shot back, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
“Oh, sure,” I said, feigning seriousness. “Because shouting Just jump off the cliff already is totally helpful.”
“It would’ve been faster, and less painful for the rest of us.”
We laughed, the sound mingling with the dialogue on the screen, but there was an undercurrent now, something unspoken weaving through the ease of our connection. It wasn’t the show, or the teasing, but the way we fit so naturally into each other’s lives.
In the middle of the episode, Dorian’s hand brushed mine. The touch was light, hesitant. I didn’t pull away. Instead, I looked over at him, my heart seemingly thudding louder than the dialogue on the TV.
“You know,” he started, “I’ve tried to stay away from you.” He shook his head and continued. “I mean, when we met, you were still with…”
“John,” I said. “You don’t have to be afraid to say it.”
His jaw tensed. “Just the fucking sound of his name out of your mouth pisses me off,” he growled.
The words hit me square in the chest. The TV faded into the background.
Dorian leaned closer, his breath ghosting over my cheek. “Noah… This feels…”
It felt right—terrifyingly, overwhelmingly right.
“Don’t say it,” I muttered.
Saying it aloud made it real, and I wasn’t ready for that.
I wasn’t ready to admit how deeply I wanted this.
But then his fingers brushed my cheek, and all my doubts began to dissolve.
“Okay,” he said.
But there was something about Dorian that pulled me in—the way he made me feel seen in a world that often felt dark and suffocating.
I leaned closer, the fear and thrill of the moment blurring together. His hand threaded through my curls, his touch so purposeful that it quieted the chaos in my mind.
“Noah,” he said, his gaze dropping to my lips. A silent question lingered in his eyes, waiting for me to answer.
I teetered on the edge, torn between the urge to give in and the fear of what that would mean.
This wasn’t a heated moment, fueled by desire. This was raw and real and everything we’d just agreed to stay away from.
What if this was another mistake?
But when his lips hovered closer and his brown eyes locked onto mine, it made it hard to breathe.
My heart screamed that I wanted him—needed him—more than I ever wanted anything before.
So instead of giving into the fear, I leaned in, closing the space between us. His face tilted down, and his hand slipped to the nape of my neck, threading through my hair with a certainty that sent a shiver down my spine.
His other hand found my waist, pulling me closer in a way that left no room for hesitation. I fisted the fabric of his shirt, needing something to hold on to as everything else fell away.
When his lips finally met mine, the first touch was unhurried, almost reverent. He kissed me as if he had all the time in the world, testing the waters, as if memorizing the shape of my lips against his.
I couldn’t stop the way my body responded, leaning into him as if drawn by some invisible string. My hand slid upward, grazing his jawline, feeling the roughness of his stubble beneath my fingertips. His lips pressed harder, coaxing mine to part, and I let him in, unable to resist.
His tongue swept against mine, slow and deliberate, igniting a heat that spread through me like wildfire. I matched his pace, my hand drifting to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He groaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating between us and sending my pulse racing.
It was a dance—his movements confident, almost possessive, while mine searched, explored, and gave back as much as I took. He tilted his head slightly, his fingers tightening just enough to keep me anchored in the moment. A moan rose in my throat, spilling into his mouth.
This kiss.
This damn kiss.
It was the kiss I’d only dreamed about, the kind I’d convinced myself didn’t exist outside the pages of a book or the screen of a sappy drama. It consumed me, leaving nothing untouched, pulling me closer until nothing else mattered.
Then suddenly, there was a loud knock on the door, followed by it flying open, slamming against the wall with a thud.