Chapter I
I. Connor
I watch, mesmerized, as my cock disappears into Noah’s body, sliding in and out of him with a slick urgency that makes my brain short-circuit. The light streaming through our kitchen window catches on the sweat beading across his chest, turning his skin golden.
Noah Caldwell—my boyfriend of a year and a half, the man who somehow started as my fake date and became the center of my entire universe—is spread out across our kitchen island, one leg hooked over my hip, the other dangling off the edge, completely gone for me.
“Fuck, Connor,” he gasps, his fingers digging into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks. “Right there, don’t stop.”
As if I could. As if there’s any force in the universe that could make me stop when he’s looking at me like that—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, cheeks flushed that perfect shade of pink that still makes my stomach flip even after all this time.
I grip his thigh tighter, pushing it higher, opening him up more. The change in angle makes Noah’s back arch off the cool granite, a broken moan tearing from his throat.
God, I love that sound. Love knowing I’m the one who pulls it from him.
“Careful,” I warn him, though I sound like I’m barely holding it together myself. “Your parents will be here any minute.”
Noah laughs—a breathless, desperate sound that cuts off with a gasp when I thrust harder.
“Then maybe—ah!—maybe you shouldn’t have started this?”
I lean down, sucking his nipple into my mouth. “You bent over to get the cake out of the fridge,” I murmur against his skin. “In those jeans. What did you expect me to do?”
The jeans in question are currently crumpled on our kitchen floor, along with his T-shirt and my shirt.
I’d just gotten home from a night shift, exhausted and planning to shower before Noah’s family arrived for his birthday celebration.
But then Noah was there, beautiful and perfect in the afternoon light, and when he leaned into the fridge, the curve of his ass in those tight jeans demolished whatever resolve I had.
Now we’re here—Noah spread out on the kitchen island where we’re supposed to plate food in less than an hour, and me fucking into him like a man possessed, the slick sound of skin on skin filling our house.
If we had more time, I’d worship him properly.
Start by spreading him out on our bed, burying my face between his legs until he’s sobbing my name.
I’d take him apart with my tongue first, licking into him until he’s slick and open, until he’s begging me to fuck him.
Then I’d wrap my lips around his cock, suck him slow and deep while my fingers work him open.
Maybe I’d fuck his mouth next, watch those perfect lips stretch around me.
God, the things he can do with those lips.
But we don’t have time for any of that. Not with Noah’s parents due to arrive with presents and birthday wishes, expecting a civilized dinner, not a destroyed kitchen and their freshly fucked son.
So this has to be quick, but I refuse to let it be anything less than devastating.
It’s Noah’s birthday, after all.
I grip his hips harder, pulling him to the very edge of the counter. His heels immediately dig into the small of my back, pulling me deeper. The pressure makes me groan, low in my throat.
“I love you,” Noah pants, his hands sliding up to frame my face, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones in a gesture so tender it makes my heart ache even as my hips keep their rhythm. “Love you so fucking much.”
Something possessive surges in my chest.
Even after eighteen months, hearing those words never gets old. Never loses its power to make me feel like I’ve been knocked completely off balance.
“Mine,” I growl, leaning down to press my forehead against his. It lets me watch his face, watch every flicker of pleasure cross his features as I drive into him. “All mine.”
Noah nods frantically, his eyes locked on mine. “Yours,” he agrees, the word catching on a moan as I hit that perfect spot inside him. “Always yours.”
I need him closer. Need to feel more of him.
In one smooth motion, I wrap my arms around his back and lift him off the counter entirely, holding his weight as I keep thrusting up into him. It’s clumsy and not exactly practical, but Noah makes a surprised sound that turns into a moan as gravity pushes him down harder onto my cock.
“Connor,” he gasps, wrapping his arms around my neck for support. “Oh my God.”
I turn us around, Noah’s weight nothing in my arms, and press his back against the refrigerator. The magnets holding up Pumpkin’s vet appointment reminders and our takeout menus clatter to the floor as I fuck up into him, harder now, driven by the desperate need to make him fall apart.
“Look at you,” I murmur, watching his face twist with pleasure. “So fucking perfect.”
Noah’s eyes flutter shut, his head falling back against the fridge with a soft thud.
I can feel him tightening around me, can see the flush spreading down his neck to his chest—all the signs I’ve learned mean he’s close.
His cock is trapped between our bodies, leaking precum onto both our stomachs, but I don’t touch it.
I want him to come like this, just from my cock inside him.
“I want you to come for me,” I whisper, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Want you to paint us both while I’m buried inside you.”
Noah whimpers, nodding frantically. His hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my shoulders, sliding down to grip my biceps as I hold him up.
“That’s it,” I encourage, shifting my angle slightly to hit the spot that makes him lose his mind. “Let go, Noah. Let me see you.”
His whole body tenses in my arms, thighs squeezing my waist almost painfully tight as his orgasm hits.
He comes with a choked cry of my name, his release spurting hot between us, painting our stomachs and chests.
I don’t slow down, thrusting through it, watching in awe as pleasure rolls over his face in waves.
God, he’s beautiful like this—completely undone.
When the last aftershocks pass, Noah slumps boneless in my arms, his head falling forward to rest on my shoulder. I’m still rock hard inside him, my own release so close it’s almost painful.
“Floor,” I manage, my voice strained with the effort of holding back. “Now.”
Noah nods weakly against my neck, and I carefully lower us both, laying him down on the soft rug we bought for Pumpkin but that has proven useful for impromptu kitchen sex more times than I’d care to admit.
With Noah spread out beneath me, eyes heavy-lidded and satisfied, I finally let myself chase my own pleasure.
I hook his legs over my shoulders, folding him nearly in half as I thrust into him hard.
It’s rougher than I’d usually be after he’s already come, but Noah likes it when I’m a little rough with him.
“Fuck,” I groan, watching where we’re joined, where my cock—bare, nothing between us—disappears into his body over and over. The sight alone nearly pushes me over the edge. “You feel so fucking good, Noah. So tight. So perfect.”
Noah reaches up, his hand cupping my cheek.
It makes my heart stutter.
His eyes are clear now, focused on me with an intensity that steals my breath.
“Come inside me,” he urges, his voice wrecked. “Fill me up, Connor. Make me yours.”
Those words, combined with the tight heat of him around me, are all it takes. My orgasm crashes through me, pleasure so intense it borders on pain. I bury myself as deep as I can inside him as I come, marking him from the inside, claiming him in the most primal way possible.
At the same time, I lean down and sink my teeth into the junction of his neck and shoulder, leaving a mark there. Noah gasps, his back arching beneath me, his hands fisting in my hair.
For several long moments, I stay like that—buried inside him, my face pressed against his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin.
Eventually, my arms start to tremble from holding my weight, and I shift, carefully pulling out. I collapse onto the rug beside him, both of us breathing hard.
“You left a mark on my neck, didn’t you?” Noah says after a moment, his fingers coming up to touch the tender spot. There’s no real accusation in his voice, just resigned amusement.
I glance over, unable to keep the satisfied smile off my face at the sight of the reddening bite mark. “Maybe.”
Noah rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too. “My parents and Maya are going to see it,” he points out, only half-annoyed. “I can’t exactly wear a turtleneck in summer.”
I laugh, rolling onto my side to trace the mark with my fingertips. “I’m pretty sure your parents know we’re having sex, Noah. We’ve been living together for over a year.”
“Knowing in theory and seeing evidence are two very different things,” Noah protests, but he’s laughing too, his hand coming up to cover mine where it rests on his neck.
He’s right, of course. And in theory, I should feel bad about marking him up before a family lunch. But there’s something possessive and primitive in me that likes the idea of everyone seeing. Likes the visible proof that Noah is mine, just as much as I’m his.
“I love you,” I say instead of apologizing, leaning in to press a kiss to the mark.
Noah’s expression softens, that smile I’ve come to think of as just for me spreading across his face. “I love you too,” he says, pulling me down for a proper kiss. “Even when you’re a possessive caveman.”
“Especially then,” I correct against his lips, feeling him smile.
We lie there for another moment, basking in the afterglow, before Noah sighs and pushes himself up onto his elbows.
“We should probably shower,” he says reluctantly. “They’ll be here soon.”
I nod, but make no move to get up, too captivated by the sight of him—flushed and marked and thoroughly debauched on our kitchen floor.
His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions.
There’s a trail of faint older bruises along his collarbone, leading to the fresher bite marks on his stomach and hips.