CHAPTER 11. Noah #5
The closest I got to an explanation was probably some half-formed idea that maybe he was straight but curious.
Or maybe he just needed to get off and I happened to be there, which doesn’t really hold up, considering he had his mouth on me for a truly heroic amount of time.
But then he put me on my stomach and rutted against me like an animal—which was, yeah, kind of hot—and my brain apparently decided that supported the theory.
Anyway, it’s just strange to realize that Connor O’Reilly—my neighbor, who I’ve been sort of fantasizing about for months while assuming he was hopelessly straight—is actually gay.
Has been this whole time.
I blink, just staring at him.
Connor watches me carefully, his expression growing more uncertain with each second of my stunned silence. I should say something. Anything. But my thoughts are a jumbled mess, spinning like clothes in a dryer, impossible to grab onto.
“Sorry if it’s weird to find out now,” Connor says, clearing his throat.
“It’s not, it’s just—” I start, then immediately stop, not even sure what I’m trying to say. “I just— I had no idea.”
“I got that,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching up, though the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Are you…okay with that?”
“Of course!” I say, too loudly. “I mean, obviously. I’m gay too. So that would be pretty hypocritical of me if I wasn’t.”
Connor’s shoulders relax slightly, and I realize he was actually worried about my reaction. As if I’d somehow be upset that the guy I spent last night with is attracted to men.
“Good,” he says. “That’s good.”
We fall into silence again, and I’m painfully aware of how awkward I’m making this, because now that the initial shock is wearing off, my brain has decided to pick up the next available crisis.
If Connor is gay, and apparently has been this whole time, what did last night mean to him?
Was it just sex after a bad day? Was it a one-time thing? Or could it have meant something?
I stop myself mid-thought.
No. Absolutely not. Connor doesn’t do relationships, and even if he did, why would he want one with me? It’s not like I’m anything special. And he’s basically a Greek god. Not literally, obviously, but with that personality, that body, and that face card, he could get anyone he wanted.
Which means I need to stop doing this. Stop taking every touch, every look, every moment that felt a little too good and turning it into proof that I wasn’t the only one feeling things. Stop building a whole future in my head from scraps, then acting shocked when reality comes in swinging.
I need to pull myself together and let Connor know I get it. That I’m not expecting anything from him. That he doesn’t need to start avoiding me after this. Or worse, move out just to escape the weird neighbor he almost fucked once who apparently mistook two orgasms for a love story.
“Look,” I say, setting down my wine glass. “Just because you’re gay too doesn’t mean I expect anything from you.”
Okay. Great start.
I let out a sigh.
“There’s no need to define this…thing.” I wave my hand vaguely.
Connor’s eyebrows pull together.
“This thing?” he repeats.
“Yeah, like…” I search for the right words and somehow find only the worst possible ones. “No need to put a label on the sex. Or make it into something it’s not. It can just be sex. Casual.”
The second I say it, I want to physically remove myself from the conversation. Ideally by launching myself directly into the lake.
Connor doesn’t say anything, which is obviously a terrible sign, so I keep talking. Because apparently my survival instinct has left the property.
“It was fun, right? That’s all that matters. And we both wanted it. Well, at least I did. I mean, I hope you did too.”
Oh my God. I can actually hear myself spiraling in real time.
“Noah—” Connor says, leaning a little closer.
“What?”
His expression changes, going serious, and my stomach drops. His jaw tightens, that little muscle twitching again. He looks like he’s about to say something I’m not going to like, and my brain takes that as a personal threat.
I look away, my eyes stinging.
Jesus. What do I do? How do I unwind this fucking mess? Should I just leave?
“Noah,” he says again. “Look at me.”
But instead of looking at him like a person with a functioning frontal lobe, I finish my wine in one go, set the glass back down, and kiss him before I can talk myself out of it.
For a second, he freezes.
Shit.
Why am I kissing him? The guy is probably disgusted by me right now, and I’m throwing myself at him like a pathetic loser with a deeply concerning attachment style.
I’m about to pull back and bail, but then he responds. His lips part under mine, and his hand comes up to curl around the back of my neck.
Okay, so he’s not disgusted by me. I think.
The kiss deepens, and I try to put everything I’m too afraid to say into it. How much I want him. How scared I am of wanting him. How I’d take whatever he was willing to give me.
He makes a soft sound against my mouth, and my heart races. A beat later, he’s pushing me down onto the blanket, his body covering mine. My brain scrambles to keep up.
He’s on top of me, kissing me like he actually wants this, his hand sliding under my shirt to touch bare skin. He’s so big above me, pinning me to the blanket as his tongue traces the seam of my lips.
And then I feel it—the hard press of his erection against my hip.
Oh.
He’s already turned on. Did kissing me do that?
The thought sends a jolt of want through me so sharp my cock stirs in response, my hips lifting before I can stop them.
Connor groans into my mouth, and the sound hits low in my stomach. His hand tightens on my waist, holding me close as he rocks against me, subtle at first, then not subtle at all when I make another embarrassing sound against his lips.
“Fuck…”
He kisses me harder, his tongue sliding against mine, and for a second I forget we’re outside. In broad daylight. By a lake. Where my family, or any of the guests here for this deeply cursed birthday weekend, could walk by and see us.
But I don’t give a shit.
My hands slip under his shirt, finding warm skin and hard muscle, and God, he feels good. Too good. Like every part of him was designed specifically to ruin me.
He shifts his weight, pressing his thigh between my legs, and I gasp at the sudden pressure against my cock. My hips move on instinct, chasing more of it, and Connor answers by grinding down harder.
We’re making out like teenagers, grinding against each other through our clothes with no plan and even less dignity, and the worst part is how much I want to keep going.
How good it feels to have him on top of me, his body heavy over mine, his hand on my hip, his mouth moving from my lips to my jaw to the side of my neck.
Like this is already too much, and somehow not nearly enough.
His teeth graze the skin just below my ear, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning too loudly. His hand slides down my side, over my hip, fingers digging in as he rocks against me.
“Fuck,” I breathe again.
Connor stills for half a second.
“We should probably stop,” he whispers, even as my body arches into his. “Before someone comes by and gets an eyeful.”
I try not to groan with disappointment.
“You’re right,” I say.
He doesn’t move away.
Instead, he nips at my earlobe, and my whole body betrays me by pressing up harder against him.
“Connor,” I warn, though it comes out way too close to a plea.
“Sorry,” he says, sounding not sorry at all.
Then he kisses me one last time and lingers just long enough to make me hate him a little when he pulls back. Finally, he pushes himself up to sit beside me.
I stay flat on my back for a moment, trying to catch my breath, staring up at the blue sky like it might have answers. It doesn’t. Obviously. It’s just blue and useless while my body aches for everything we’re not doing.
When I finally push myself up too, I tug my shirt back into place, even though Connor’s hands have rumpled it beyond salvation.
He’s looking at me.
My mouth feels wrecked. My hair is probably a disaster. And my jeans are doing absolutely nothing to hide how much that makeout session affected me.
We’re both breathing hard, faces flushed. Connor’s pupils are blown so wide there’s only a thin ring of blue left around them.
“Noah,” he says, my name coming out rough enough to make me shiver.
“Yeah?” I whisper, hoping the next thing out of his mouth isn’t a rejection.
But he doesn’t get a chance to say anything.
My phone buzzes loudly in my back pocket.
The sound cuts through the moment, yanking me out of whatever dangerous little world we’ve created. I pull out my phone and glance at the screen out of habit, then freeze when I see a text from an unknown number.
I swipe it open.
Hey, where are you? Do you have time to talk? Rick
I frown at the screen.
I’m pretty sure I blocked him six months ago, so either this is a new number or he’s texting me from his fiancée’s phone, which is a level of unhinged I do not have the emotional bandwidth to unpack right now.
Also, we already talked yesterday in the forest. What the hell does he want from me now?
“Everything okay?” Connor asks.
“It’s Rick,” I say, looking up at him. “He says he wants to talk again.”
Connor’s expression shifts, but he doesn’t say anything.
Before I can decide what to do, the phone buzzes in my hand again.
Another message from Rick.
I need to talk to you.
And then another.
Please, baby.
I stare at the screen.
What the actual fuck?