Chapter 13 – Noa #2
I hum around him, letting the vibration carry through him.
His whole body tightens in response, and I feel a thrill of power ripple through me.
My hands brace on his thighs, firm and steady, anchoring myself as I find a rhythm—a slow, deep pull followed by the tease of my tongue as I draw back.
His head falls back slightly, a guttural moan escaping his lips.
The sound sends heat shooting through me, wetness pooling between my thighs.
He thrusts once, shallow and restrained, but I feel the raw edge beneath the control. He’s trying not to lose himself, trying to hold back the tide that’s rising fast. I adjust, taking him deeper, letting my lips slide to the base as my throat contracts around him. The grip in my hair tightens.
His curses come low and fast now, breathless mutterings of praise and disbelief. "So fucking good," he groans. "God, your mouth..."
I flick my eyes up to him, watching the tension in his face, the way his muscles strain beneath his shirt, the flush rising along his neck.
I suck harder, faster, building the rhythm as his breathing turns ragged, hips twitching beneath the weight of restraint.
He’s so close. I can feel it in the way he throbs in my mouth, in the way he starts to lose control.
But just before he can tip over, he jerks me back.
"Stop," he pants, voice sharp, guttural, raw with urgency.
I blink up at him, dazed and breathless, lips slick, mouth tingling with heat. He’s flushed, sweat beading along his temple, his cock still hard and glistening, twitching in the open air.
His chest heaves, muscles still drawn tight as he struggles to catch his breath. "Not yet," he mutters, almost to himself.
His hands grip my arms and pull me upright in one swift motion, lifting me effortlessly to stand between his legs.
His fingers are already at the button of my jeans, undoing them with frantic precision, tugging them down my hips and tossing them aside.
The fabric hits the floor with a soft whisper, forgotten.
Next thing I know, I'm tucked into his lap.
His mouth crashes into mine, hungry and rough, a kiss that devours all the distance I tried to leave between us.
His hands slide up my thighs, pulling me close, guiding me into position. I brace my hands on his shoulders, straddling him, my breath ragged as he lines himself up beneath me. And then he pulls me down onto him.
I gasp, the breath punched from my lungs as he fills me in one swift, stunning thrust. The stretch is intense, the fullness overwhelming.
My fingers dig into his shoulders, my forehead dropping to his as I try to breathe through the jolt of sensation.
He groans against my mouth, head falling back slightly, eyes fluttering shut.
"Fuck, baby," he growls, reverent, his hands gripping my hips as if anchoring himself to this moment.
I begin to move with him, taking up the rhythm decided by hands that slot at the hinges of my hips, savoring the feeling of being connected this way—raw and real and unbearably intimate.
His hands glide up my sides, bunching the hem of my shirt between his fingers before peeling it over my head.
My skin prickles at the shift in air, my breath catching as his hands skim over the curve of my waist, up to the lace of my bra.
He cups my breasts through the fabric, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they harden beneath his touch.
I moan at the sensations throbbing in my clit, responsive to his every titillation, hips grinding deeper against him as his hands move with purpose, slipping beneath the lace to tease bare skin.
He palms me fully, his fingers brushing, circling, tugging gently at my sensitive peaks until I’m gasping, shivering, pressing closer.
"You’re so fucking perfect," he whispers roughly, mouth grazing my collarbone, his lips trailing lower, teeth catching at my skin. My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him there, and he groans against my chest as my hips roll harder into his.
Then his hand drifts down, sliding between our bodies, fingers finding the slick heat of me. He circles my clit slowly, precisely, with maddening control, drawing delicate spirals that send shockwaves through my core.
My breath falters, spine arching as the sensation builds, a spring that winds tighter and tighter and tighter, my body trembling from the unyielding onslaught of pleasure.
His fingers never falter, his gaze locked to mine as he watches me unravel.
I whimper, my rhythm faltering, pulse thundering in my ears.
When I come, it slams into me with searing intensity, my body clenching around him, my head thrown back, a cry bursting from my throat. He holds me through it, hand still working me until I go boneless in his lap, panting, flushed, completely wrecked.
The moment my body begins to relax, I feel him move beneath me—one strong thrust, then another, deeper, harder.
My climax pushes him over the edge. His hands tighten around me, hips snapping up into mine as he buries himself deep and groans, long and low, body shuddering as he follows me into release.
We collapse together, tangled in warmth and sweat and breath. He leans back slightly, brushing the damp hair from my face, his eyes flickering over every inch of me like he’s trying to memorize the moment.
I press my mouth to his shoulder, then to the curve of his neck. My lips trail to the marred line of his scar, the one that marks the path of his survival. I kiss it softly. Once. Twice. Again.
"Be good to me, please," I whisper, between kisses. "I want to be good to you. I want us to be good to each other."
His hands settle at my waist again, holding me steady, but it’s his breath that catches now, not mine.
My body was still humming with the warmth of our closeness when I settled into our bed later, feeling greedy and wanting to keep the scent of sex and sweat on my skin.
Keeping the memory of his arms wrapped around me, his breath fanning against my skin, his voice a hushed promise in the dark.
I’m not sure how long I manage to sleep, but it’s long enough for my body to grow feverish and restless.
A relentless pounding carves its way through my skull before I’m even fully awake.
It radiates behind my eyes, a cloudy pain that pounds with every erratic beat of my heart.
The exhaustion is a haze that seeps into me like a paralytic, and I can barely drag my arms up from where they rest against the sheets.
I blink against the bleak dregs of daylight filtering through the heavy curtains, my vision struggling to adjust. My mouth is parched, my tongue sour. Smothering warmth pushes at me from all sides. Sheets that had felt divinely cool against me before now stick to my sweat-soaked body.
I try to sit up, and the world tilts violently.
An acute lurch twists in my stomach, sudden and brutal, flipping my insides in a way that has no patience for denial.
A rush of nausea claws up my throat, and I clamp my lips shut instinctively, swallowing hard against the surging burn.
The effort is futile. My fingers grip at the mattress, curling into the fabric like an anchor as the wave of sickness crashes over me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing through my nose, forcing strained inhales and exhales. It will pass. It’s just stress. Just—
Another violent twist, and I’m moving before I can think, legs tangling in the sheets as I stagger toward the bathroom. I only narrowly miss falling flat on my face. My vision swims, the walls bending and stretching as I sway forward, my knees hitting tile just as I reach the toilet.
My stomach clenches, heaving violently, and bile scorches up my throat.
I gag, fingers digging into the porcelain as my body expels whatever is in my stomach.
Acidic bitterness floods out my mouth, stinging its way through my sinuses.
My arms tremble to hold myself up, sweat trickling down my spine.
My forehead presses against the cold seat as another shudder wracks my body.
I gasp for breath between heaves, my ribs strained, my skin clammy.
The nausea ebbs in weak, rolling waves, and leaves behind an inflamed pit in my belly—and a foul taste in my mouth.
And I kneel there, wrought by it, for what feels like an eternity, forehead resting against my forearm, eyes shut tight against the dizzying spin of the room.
My breaths come in shallow pants, each one struggling to steady me.
Once I finally do reach for the sink, using it to haul myself up on unsteady legs, the feverish chill lingering beneath my skin makes my fingers tremble. When I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, I feel sick for another reason.
The woman I see it wan and pale. Too pale. My lips are dry, my hair damp against my temples, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. All of Renata’s concerns no longer feel as inflated. I see that I look like a ghost, like someone unraveling at the seams.
I grip the edge of the porcelain sink. My breath remains ragged, uneven, still burning from the acid that clawed its way up my throat. The bathroom spins slightly around me, the dim light too sharp, too harsh against my overworked senses.
“It’s going to be okay,” I promise myself, voice shaking.
And then, in the mirror—
A face that isn’t mine.