11. Chapter 11 #2
He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, and every thought in my head dissolves into white noise.
His tongue is hot and deliberate, circling and then sucking, and his hand comes up to palm my other breast, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
I make a sound I don't recognize — something raw and unguarded — and my hands fly to his hair, gripping the short strands.
He lavishes attention on my breasts, switching between them, his mouth and hands working in a rhythm that has me writhing against the counter. I can feel the heat building between my legs, a steady insistent pulse that matches the rhythm he's setting, and I'm suddenly desperate for more.
"Noah." My voice comes out broken. "Please."
My fingers work his belt buckle, then the button, then the zipper.
He doesn't stop me. He stands very still, his breath coming in sharp shallow bursts, as I push his trousers and boxer briefs down his hips.
His cock springs free — thick and hard, already slick at the tip — and I wrap my hand around him.
He hisses through his teeth. His hands grip the edge of the counter on either side of my hips, knuckles white.
"Julia—"
"I want to." I look up at him. "Let me."
I sink to my knees.
The marble floor is cold and unforgiving, but I barely register it. I'm focused on him — on the weight of him in my hand, the way his abdominal muscles clench as I lean forward, the bead of moisture at the tip that I catch with my tongue.
His whole body shudders.
I take him into my mouth slowly, savoring the salt-bitter taste of him, the way he fills me inch by inch. I hollow my cheeks and suck, pulling back to the head before sliding down again, setting a rhythm that makes his breath come in ragged bursts.
"Fuck." The word is torn from him, almost involuntary. One of his hands leaves the counter and comes to rest on the back of my head — not pushing, just holding, his fingers tangling in my hair. "Julia, that's—you don't have to—"
I pull back just enough to speak, my hand still working his shaft. "I want to.”
I lick a long stripe up the underside of his cock, and his hips jerk forward. "Every time you rolled your sleeves up. Every time you stood too close. I wondered what you'd feel like in my mouth."
He makes a sound that's almost a groan, and his hand tightens in my hair. I take him deeper, relaxing my throat, and he hits the back and I swallow around him and he says my name like a prayer.
I set a steady rhythm, using my hand and mouth in tandem, twisting on the upstroke, sucking hard on the down.
I can feel him getting closer — his thighs are trembling, his breath is coming in sharp gasps, and his hand in my hair is no longer just holding but guiding, his hips starting to move in counterpoint to my mouth.
"Julia—" His voice is strained. "I'm going to—you need to stop, I'm—"
I don't stop. I suck harder, and I feel him swell in my mouth, and I know he's right there, right on the edge—
He pulls me off. His hand tightens in my hair and he tugs, not gently, and I release him with a wet pop and look up. His face is strained, jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out. He's breathing like he's run a marathon.
"Not like that." His voice is rough, barely controlled. "I want to come inside you."
My whole body clenches.
He reaches down and pulls me to my feet, and then his hands are on my trousers, undoing the button, sliding the zipper down.
He shoves them over my hips along with my underwear, and I step out of them, kicking them aside.
I'm completely naked now, standing in his kitchen in the morning light, and he's looking at me like he wants to devour me.
"Here?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Here. Now." He lifts me onto the counter like I weigh nothing, and the marble is shockingly cold against my bare ass and thighs. I gasp, and he swallows the sound with his mouth, kissing me deeply as his hand slides between my legs.
His fingers find me slick and swollen, and he groans against my mouth. "You're so wet."
“Lately I’m always wet.” I manage, and he laughs — a low, dark sound — and slides two fingers inside me.
I arch off the counter, my head falling back, and he takes the opportunity to kiss my throat while his fingers work me open. His thumb finds my clit and presses, and I sob, my hands scrabbling at his shoulders.
"Noah—please—I need—"
"I know." He withdraws his fingers, and I whimper at the loss, but then he's stepping between my thighs and the head of his cock is pressing against my entrance. "Look at me."
I meet his eyes. They're dark and intent and there's something in them that looks almost like wonder.
He pushes inside.
He's thick, and the stretch is almost too much, and I gasp and grip his shoulders hard enough to bruise. He stills, letting me adjust, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath coming in sharp pants.
"Okay?" he asks.
"More."
He pulls back and thrusts deeper, and we both make sounds that aren't words. He sets a rhythm — deep, slow, deliberate — and each stroke hits something inside me that makes my vision blur.
The kitchen fills with the sounds of our bodies moving together — the slap of skin, the wet slide of him inside me, our mingled breathing harsh and urgent. The marble counter is cold against my ass, his body is hot against my front, and I'm caught between the two sensations, overwhelmed.
"Harder," I say, and he obeys, gripping my hips and thrusting deeper, faster, his control finally cracking.
I can see it in the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers dig into my skin hard enough to leave marks, the way his rhythm stutters and then steadies as he fights for control he's rapidly losing.
I'm close. I can feel it building, that tight coil of pleasure winding tighter with every thrust. I reach down to touch myself, but he bats my hand away and does it himself, his thumb pressing against my clit in tight circles.
"Come for me." His voice is rough, commanding. "Julia. Come."
And I do.
The orgasm crashes through me like a wave, and I cry out — his name, or something that isn't a word at all — and my body clamps down around him.
He thrusts through it, once, twice, three times, and then he follows me over, his hips jerking, his face buried in my neck, groaning my name against my skin.
We stay like that for a long moment, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to my shoulder.
I can feel his heart hammering against my chest, or maybe that's my heart, I can't tell anymore.
His hands are still on my hips, his fingers still digging into my skin, and I know I'll have bruises tomorrow. I find I don't mind.