Chapter Two
Noah:
I’m a fucking goner.
Ten years. Ten years of self-imposed celibacy, of telling myself I was done with relationships.
That my heart was buried with my wife, and all I needed was my cabin, my solitude, and my stories.
Ten years of keeping the world at arm’s length.
And one look at this girl, one taste of her nearness, and it all comes crumbling down like a sandcastle in a hurricane.
Her. Charlotte.
She’s sitting in my lap, a warm, trembling weight that feels more right than anything has in a decade.
And I can’t stop staring at her. At the wet patches blooming on her bikini top, two dark circles that are a goddamn siren’s call to something primal inside me.
I see her embarrassment, the way her cheeks are flushed, the way she’s trying so hard to hide herself.
But all I can see is her. All I can think about is how I’ve been fighting this insane, magnetic pull toward her ever since she showed up next door, all sunshine and smiles that I tried to convince myself I found irritating.
I was a fucking liar. I was scared. I’m still scared. But that fear is being utterly consumed by a hunger so profound it’s staggering.
For the last ten years, since my world was ripped apart in a screech of tires and shattering glass, I’ve been living like a ghost in this cabin by the lake.
Writing my stories, keeping the demons at bay by putting them on the page.
I told myself I preferred the solitude. That at the ripe old age of forty-three, I didn’t need anybody else in my life anyway.
I barely even spoke to her grandmother when she was alive, just a curt nod across the distance between our two houses.
But this girl… Charlotte. She’s called to something in me I thought was long dead.
I’ve been telling myself it’s just loneliness.
That any warm body would have woken this beast in me.
Bullshit. It’s her. It’s always been her.
Her laughter that carries on the breeze.
The way she’ll stand at the end of the dock and just look out at the water, her blonde hair catching the light like a halo.
She’s the reason my current book is a goddamn mess, why my characters feel flat, and the plot has more holes than Swiss cheese.
Because I can’t focus. All my creative energy has been hijacked, redirected into fantasizing about her.
About what it would feel like to have her under me, over me, wrapped around me.
About that soft, sweet body giving itself to me.
Now she’s here. In my lap. Her skin is like silk under my calloused fingers, and I can’t. I just can’t fight it anymore. I need to taste her. Not just the milk, though that’s a sudden, overwhelming obsession that makes my head swim. I need her lips, her breath, her everything.
I lean in, giving her a fraction of a second to pull away, but she doesn’t.
Her breath hitches, a small, sweet sound that goes straight to my cock.
I press my lips to hers, slow at first, testing.
They’re softer than I imagined, full and yielding.
Then I deepen the kiss, slanting my mouth over hers, tracing the seam of her lips with my tongue until she opens for me with a little gasp.
And fuck, the taste of her. Sweet and clean, with a hint of the coffee she must have had before leaving her house this morning.
I sweep my tongue inside, claiming her, tasting every inch of her mouth as my hand slides up the smooth plane of her back.
My fingers find the knot of her bikini top, and with a swift tug, I undo it.
The scrap of fabric falls away, and I pull back just enough to see her.
Jesus Christ. Her tits are perfect. Full and heavy, with pale pink nipples that are already beaded and pearly with a few drops of her milk.
My cock twitches against the soft curve of her ass, hardening so fast and so completely it’s almost painful.
I put my hands on her waist, guiding her, turning her in my lap until she’s straddling my thighs.
Her knees bracket my hips, and her bare breasts are right there, right in front of my face.
Her breath is coming in ragged little pants, her blue eyes wide and dark with a mixture of apprehension and desire.
She’s never done this before, I can tell. She’s all new, all mine.
I lean forward, not to kiss her, but to capture a single, perfect bead of milk from her left nipple with the tip of my tongue.
The taste is incredible, sweeter and richer than I could have ever imagined.
The moan she lets out is pure fucking music, a desperate, needy sound that shatters the last of my control.
I wrap my lips around her nipple and latch on.
For a second, nothing. Then, with another soft cry from her, the milk lets down.
A warm, sweet rush floods my mouth, and I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.
This is it. This is what I’ve been craving without even knowing it.
I swallow, greedy, wanting more. The sun is warm on my back, the grass is soft beneath us, and we’re completely exposed to anyone who might happen to walk by.
Let them. I dare them. There is nothing on this earth that could make me stop right now. Not when she tastes this good.
She starts to squirm in my lap, her movements unintentionally causing her to grind down against my straining cock.
I groan against her skin, the vibration making her whimper.
Her fingers are tangled in my hair, her nails scraping deliciously against my scalp as she holds me to her.
I bring one hand up to the breast I’m nursing from, cupping its heavy weight.
I give it a firm squeeze, a rough, possessive gesture, and am rewarded with a fresh gush of milk into my mouth.
I gulp it down, the taste of her, the feel of her, everything combining together into a burning, all-consuming need.
I don’t stop until the flow slows to a trickle, until I’ve drained her completely. I pull back, my lips glistening. She’s panting above me, her skin flushed a beautiful pink, her pupils blown wide with lust.
Before I give her a chance to think, before I let that embarrassment I see warring with her desire win out, I lean up and capture her lips in a fierce, demanding kiss. I let her taste herself on my tongue, a dirty, intimate sharing that makes her moan into my mouth.
“Is it helping?” I ask, my voice a rough rasp against her lips. I need to hear it. I need her to tell me this is as good for her as it is for me.
Her answer is a breathy whisper, her eyes fluttering closed. “So good, Noah. It feels so, so good.”
“Good,” I growl, and then I’m moving to her other breast, latching on with no preamble, no teasing.
This time, as I begin to nurse from her, my hands go to her ass.
I grip the firm globes through her shorts, pulling her flush against me.
I rock my hips up, grinding my hard length against her core, showing her exactly what she’s doing to me.
Her answering gasp is everything. Her hips begin to move in tandem with mine, a desperate, inexperienced rhythm that’s driving me insane.
I’m ravenous, nursing from her like I’m starving, like I can draw her very essence into my body and make it a part of me.
Each pull of my mouth, each greedy swallow, is met with a whimper from her, with the drag of her clothed pussy against my cock.
I can feel her heat through the layers of our clothes, and I know she’s soaked.
I can smell her arousal, a sweet, musky scent that mingles with the perfume of her milk.
It’s the most intoxicating combination I’ve ever experienced.
I lose all track of time, lost in the taste of her, the feel of her in my arms, the way she’s moving against me.
I only stop when the second breast is drained, when I’ve taken everything she has to give.
I release her nipple with a soft pop, my chest heaving, my mind buzzing with a heady mix of satisfaction and a renewed, even more desperate need.
I look up at her, ready to finally claim her mouth again, to tell her all the filthy things I’m going to do to her right here on this grass.
But the girl in my lap is not the one who was writhing with pleasure just moments ago.
Her eyes, which were glazed with desire, are now wide with something that looks a hell of a lot like panic.
A deep blush spreads from her cheeks all the way down to the tops of her breasts.
She scrambles off my lap so fast she nearly falls, her movements clumsy and frantic.
She snatches her discarded bikini top from the grass and clutches it to her chest, using one arm to cover herself, as if trying to erase what just happened.
“I... I should go,” she stammers, not meeting my eyes. “Thank you for... for helping. With... you know.” She waves a vague hand at her chest, her gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder. “I have to... go. Thanks, Noah.”
And then she turns and practically flees, walking away so quickly it’s almost a jog, her bare feet moving over the grass as if it’s on fire. I watch her go, my brain still foggy with lust and the taste of her.
What the fuck just happened? One minute she was grinding against me, and the next she’s running away like I’m the goddamn bogeyman.
I’m left sitting there on the grass, my cock still rock hard and pressing insistently against my shorts, my lips still tingling with the sweet, lingering taste of her milk.
The ghost of her warmth is still on my skin, the scent of her arousal still in the air.
I’m confused. No, I’m more than confused.
I’m... fucking frustrated. And not just in the physical sense, though that’s a big part of it.
I’m frustrated because for the first time in a decade, I broke my own rules. I let myself feel. I let myself want.
And she ran.
Now I have to find out why so I can fix it, because God knows I’m not walking away from her after what just happened between us.