CHAPTER 10. Connor #3
He follows somewhere behind me, close enough for me to hear his footsteps, far enough that the distance feels intentional.
The cottage comes into view, dark against the star-filled sky. I let myself in and climb the stairs to our room, each step taking more focus than it should. The alcohol has made my body clumsy, but I’m still painfully aware of Noah following me up the stairs.
I push into the bedroom and flip on the overhead light. A few seconds later, Noah follows me in and closes the door behind us.
The quiet click of the latch sounds far too final, shutting us into a room that suddenly feels too small. For a moment, I consider going straight to the bathroom and locking myself in there until I trust myself not to say anything stupid.
Then I turn around.
Noah is standing by the door, pale and miserable, and the whiskey gets there before common sense does.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I ask, angrier than I mean to.
Noah blinks at me. “Doing what?”
“This.” I gesture between us. “You haven’t spoken to me all night.”
Okay. That comes out more pathetic than I intended. More dramatic too, which is unfortunate, since I was aiming for calm but apparently came out sounding wounded.
He stares at me, eyes wide, like he wasn’t expecting this from me at all. Then he says carefully, “Connor, you’re drunk.”
Shit. I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.
“Yes,” I say, because there’s no point denying it. “I’m drunk. But you still avoided me all night. After the lake, after the hot tub, after everything that happened today, you just shut me out.” I drag a hand through my hair, the honesty making my chest burn. “Like none of it mattered.”
The second I say it, I wish I could shove the words back into my mouth. Because there it is. I didn’t just want Noah to stop ignoring me. I wanted him to admit that something had changed today. That the kisses hadn’t been only for show.
That’s why his silence bothered me so much. He had every right to be angry, but the second he was, it felt like I got demoted right back to a stranger. Not even a friend. Just the guy he’d brought along for the weekend, now doing a shit job of pretending to be his boyfriend.
Which is unfortunate, because that is literally what I am right now. Just some guy who let one day of kissing and fake-dating make him want something real.
God. This is ridiculous even in my own head.
Noah stares at me, surprise flickering across his face.
Yeah. He definitely didn’t expect me to get this embarrassingly needy in front of him tonight.
“I wasn’t—” he starts, then stops. His face changes before he finds the words. The fight drains out of it, replaced by regret so clear it cuts through the last of my anger. “I…I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I was just frustrated about…everything.” He holds my gaze for a beat. “I’m sorry, Connor.”
For a second, I just stare at him. Then I nod, because he apologizes without pushing back, and suddenly my little emotional breakdown feels ridiculous.
Jesus, I feel like a total idiot.
Noah steps closer, stopping a few feet in front of me. He has to tip his face up to look at me, and God, he looks wrecked. His eyes are glassy, catching the light. His cheeks are flushed, his mouth stained a dark burgundy from the wine.
“Sorry,” he says again.
Then he lifts his hand and pokes one finger into my abs.
I look down at him.
His face stays completely serious.
Before I can ask what the hell he’s doing, he pokes me again. Then again. A ridiculous little touch, like he’s trying to pull some kind of reaction out of me because the silence is too much.
And for some reason, that undoes me.
I catch his wrist before he can do it again.
Noah freezes.
I pull his hand up and press it flat against my chest, right over my heart, where it’s beating so hard there’s no way he can’t feel it.
For a second, neither of us moves.
He looks at his hand against me. Then he looks up at my face, and whatever I was still trying to hold back slips out of my reach.
I lean in and kiss him.
Noah goes still for half a second, like the kiss catches him off guard, and panic slices through me.
For one awful beat, I’m sure I’ve misread him completely.
I start to pull back, already bracing myself to apologize, let go of his wrist, and pretend this never happened.
But his fingers curl into my shirt, stopping me before I can pull away.
He kisses me back, careful at first, almost like he’s waiting for me to catch up.
Relief hits so hard I freeze, my lips still against his.
He must notice, because he smiles into the kiss before pulling back a little.
“Are you going to kiss me or what?”
Oh God.
My cheeks burn. This guy is making me feel flustered, awkward, inexperienced—like it’s my first kiss. I snap out of it and pull him closer, my hands finding his waist. Then I kiss him again.
This time, I don’t freeze. I can still taste the wine on him, sweet at first, then faintly bitter, and when he lets out a shaky breath against me, I part my lips and deepen the kiss.
His mouth opens against mine. His breath comes faster as I pull him closer, and all I can think is that I want him. I want to kiss him until he forgets why he was angry in the first place. Until all he can think about is us, and this moment, and how good it feels to give in.
My hands slide to his waist, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt. I want to touch more of him.
I turn us, backing him toward the bed without breaking the kiss. Noah’s breath catches when his legs hit the edge of the mattress, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers tighten in my shirt, and he drags me with him as he sinks down onto the bed.
When I settle between his legs, our hips press together, and I feel him through his jeans.
He’s already hard.
So am I.
I kiss him again, deeper this time, my tongue sliding against his. His arms wrap around my neck, keeping me there as I press my hips forward and let him feel exactly how much I want him.
Noah makes a soft, desperate sound against my mouth, and it goes straight through me. We’re both still fully clothed, but I already want more. I need more.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I tell him, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Noah’s eyes meet mine, surprise flickering across his face. Then his mouth curves into a shy little smile that makes my heart kick hard against my ribs.
“Oh God,” he says, and pulls my face back down to his.
I’m losing my mind with how much I want him. The taste of him, the heat of his body under mine, the sounds he keeps making—it’s all driving me crazy. I roll my hips, grinding against him again, and he moans right into my mouth.
That sound. Fuck. I could listen to it all night.
All my life, actually, but that is probably not an appropriate thought to have right now.
I kiss down his jaw to his throat, feeling his pulse jump beneath my mouth as I drag my lips over his neck.
I want to mark him. I want to leave something he can look at tomorrow and know this was real.
But I don’t. I only kiss him there, open-mouthed, careful not to suck too hard, because I don’t get to leave proof on his skin without asking first.
Noah makes another sound, his hips jerking up to meet mine.
I pull back just enough to find his mouth again, and he kisses me harder this time, like that tiny pause has only made him more impatient.
His hands slide over my shoulders, down my chest, then lower, tugging at my shirt before landing on my belt.
For a second, he just holds there, breathing against my mouth.
Then his fingers move, fumbling with the buckle until he gets it open. He goes straight for the button of my jeans after that, and I help him by lifting my hips. Then I do the same for him.
“Fuck, Connor,” he says, the words shaky as we yank at zippers and push our jeans off.
Then we’re finally touching through nothing but our underwear. The heat of his cock presses against mine through the fabric as he rubs up against me. I curse under my breath, and Noah groans, his eyes falling shut.
I press my mouth to his again, kissing him hard as I push my hips forward. Noah moans into the kiss, and we grind against each other, the friction of my cock against his making me feel like I could come right there.
We move together, getting more frantic with every second. The front of Noah’s boxer briefs is wet now, dark from how much he’s leaking, and the sight of it nearly makes me lose it.
“Can I touch you?” I ask, my voice rough.
Noah looks up at me, his eyes dazed.
“Please,” he says, like he’s been waiting for me to ask.
I slide my hand between us and push his boxer briefs down just enough to get my hand around him, precum smearing all over my fingers before I even manage a stroke. His breath catches, his hips jerking forward into my grip.
“Fuck, Connor,” he gasps, his head falling back against the mattress.
I move my hand, giving him one slow stroke from base to tip. Noah makes a broken sound, his hand shooting out to grab my wrist. Not to push me away. Just to hold me there.
“Not good?” I ask, anxiety cutting through the haze.
“No,” he breathes. “Too good.”
I smirk and do it again, slower, watching his face as his mouth falls open and his eyes lose focus. He’s so beautiful like this, completely undone by my touch, and I want to see more.
I give him another stroke, loving how responsive he is.
“Connor,” Noah gasps again, his voice breaking.
But just as I start to move my hand faster, Noah’s palm presses flat against my chest, stopping me.
“Are you okay?” I ask, trying to read his expression. Did I hurt him? Move too fast?
Noah stares up at me, his chest rising and falling with each quick breath. His eyes are wide, serious, his cheeks flushed deep red.
Then he says, “Exactly how drunk are you?”
The question catches me off guard.
“A bit,” I say, still trying to catch my breath. Then I understand what he’s really asking. “Don’t worry,” I add. “I know what I’m doing, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”