Chapter Twelve Noelle
Kissing Hoxton is like tasting forbidden fruit – sweet and intoxicating.
For a moment, nothing else exists but the sensation of his lips moving against mine, the warmth of his body pressing close to me. His lips are warm and soft, the taste of strawberry lingering on his tongue as he pushes against me.
My every thought goes cloudy as a rush of desire courses through me. Hoxton’s hands find their way to the small of my back as I thread my fingers through his hair, pulling him even closer.
His touch is somehow gentle, urgent and electric at the same time, his fingers dipping under the hem of my borrowed sweater to trace aimless patterns on my skin.
I feel his hands roam over my back, drawing me impossibly nearer to him.
Our bodies mould together perfectly, fitting like two pieces of a puzzle that were always meant to be joined.
How did we get here? My mind replays the events of today, trying to find a logical link as to how I went from loathing my client to clinging onto him like he’s my sole life source.
Has this been building up since last night and our impromptu cuddling session?
Is this the result of a day spent in casual companionship with each other? Is this cabin fever?
I don’t know.
But I do know that I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, echoing the rhythm of Hoxton’s breath against my skin.
I try to ground myself and focus on the sensation of his hands, hot and steady against my back, but it’s hard when the only thing I want to do right now is give in to the fire that’s flooded my bloodstream.
I pull back slightly to catch my breath. Hoxton’s eyes meet mine, dark with desire and something… something deeper that I can’t quite place. His gaze is intense and searching, as if he’s trying to unravel the very essence of me.
Without a word, he leans in again, capturing my lips with his in a fervent kiss that steals the breath from my lungs.
Has kissing ever felt this good before?
I try to remember a time my body felt this alive, but I keep coming up blank.
Never, I decide. It’s never felt this good.
I let out a soft, impatient moan as Hoxton pulls away from my lips, but he doesn’t go far. He peppers hot, frantic kisses along my neck, one hand coming up to gently curl through my braids and keep them out of the way.
His lips burn a fiery path down my neck, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps and heightened sensitivity. Every touch of his tongue, every brush of his lips sends shivers down my spine, and I can’t help but arch my body into his, desperate for more.
If this ever ends, it’ll be too soon.
His mouth reaches the hollow of my throat, and he gently sucks, pulling at the delicate skin there. The sound that comes out of my mouth is almost feral, coming from the deepest depths of my chest.
I feel him smirk against my skin and I tug at his hair a little tighter, my actions a silent demand.
Do that again.
Hoxton, I learn very quickly, doesn’t need to be told twice.
I feel the hardness of his body against mine, and it only makes me want him more. My hands trace over the fabric of his sweatshirt, feeling the sweat that’s forming there as we continue to kiss. He groans softly into my neck, and his hips start to grind gently against my own.
His lips move back to mine in a frenzied kiss, as if he’s trying to consume me whole.
I’d gladly let him.
I drop my hands from his hair and fist the collar of his sweatshirt, pulling him in as close as he’s going to get. His hands come down to cup my ass and I don’t hesitate hooking a leg over his waist and grinding into him, matching the pace he set earlier.
A groan rumbles from his throat and I feel it vibrate through him and right into me.
‘Alex.’ His name falls from my lips like a desperate hiss. ‘God, Alex—’
Hoxton pulls away abruptly, leaving me gasping for air and panting heavily.
Our eyes lock, each other’s breath swirling in the hazy air between us.
I’m not sure if it’s shock or something else that’s caused the abrupt halt, but my heart races and my mind scrambles to catch up to this new sensory onslaught.
He stares at me, eyes wide, lips swollen and red.
He shakes his head, visibly trying to gather his thoughts. ‘Noelle,’ he says finally, his voice a mix of urgency and vulnerability.
My heart stutters in my chest.
‘We shouldn’t… I mean, I shouldn’t…’
I stand frozen, the taste of strawberry cream still lingering on my lips, which just seconds ago were happily pressed against his and it felt like every Christmas light in the universe had suddenly sparked to life inside me.
Hoxton takes a step back, a crease of regret – or is it panic? – etching his brow.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mutters, a deep flush spreading under the tanned skin of his cheeks.
‘It’s fine,’ I manage to stutter out, my heart rate slowing down just a bit. ‘You didn’t… I mean, I wanted to, so…’
But he’s already retreating, all wide-eyed and ready to bolt.
A small part of me finds it a little endearing – the whole deer-in-headlights look he’s got going on right now, but then he twists away from me and starts making frantic strides towards the door.
A wave of hurt slams into me but I push through it and fix what I hope is a nonchalant expression onto my face.
‘Hold up,’ I call out, snatching a wooden spoon from the countertop with more flair than necessary.
Hoxton ignores me, one hand on the door.
Hurt makes way for a flash of panic and I raise my voice ever so slightly, praying that he mistakes the crack in my tone for something else entirely.
‘You think you can just waltz in here, turn my kitchen upside down, kiss me senseless, and then what?’ I force a dry laugh, like I’m not actively fighting the feeling of rejection that’s currently seeping into my very bones right now.
‘Sprint to safety and leave me to clean everything up? Not on my watch.’
He stops, hesitating in the doorway. He turns to face me, a kaleidoscope of emotions flashing over his face. ‘I don’t want to make—’
‘Make things awkward?’ I finish for him, a brow raised, hands on my hips. The picture of indifference. ‘Too late for that.’
He winces, but I ignore it and turn away so he can’t see the hurt that must surely be written across my face.
‘Fine,’ he relents. ‘But only because I’m partly responsible for… this.’
I’m not entirely sure if he means the flour-dusted counters, the splatters of icing here and there, or the crackling tension between us. Whatever the answer is, he’s not wrong.
My heart is still racing. I can still feel the heat of Hoxton’s body lingering on mine. Can still remember exactly how he tasted as his tongue slid against mine.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves and focus on the task at hand. We can’t both have mini panic attacks now, can we? One of us has to keep their head and it seems like Hoxton’s unilaterally handed that role over to me.
Rude.
His movements are deliberate, almost robotic, as he wipes down the counters and sweeps up the mess of flour that spilled everywhere.
He keeps a deliberate distance between us, never getting close enough for our fingers to accidentally brush as we work.
It’s hard to believe that just five minutes ago we were wrapped in an embrace so tight, we could put a pretzel to shame.
As we work, I steal glances at Hoxton out of the corner of my eye.
His face is flushed, practically the same colour as the strawberries we’d been working with earlier.
His eyes are downcast, focused on his task, but I can see the tension in his jaw and the way his hands grip the dishrag tightly as he methodically runs it along the counter.
I can’t decide how I’m feeling right now. Relief that our brief moment of intimacy has passed.
Longing for it to return.
Frustration at the interruption.
Annoyed that Hoxton has decided to retreat into himself instead of using his words like a grown man.
And curious, so damn curious, about what might have happened if he hadn’t pulled away.
Eve answers on the first ring. It’s my first nugget of human contact in hours bar Hoxton and just the sight of her grinning face makes some of the tension I’m feeling evaporate.
The man in question has been dodging me since our baking session-turned-clash-of-lips earlier, and I can’t pretend like it’s not getting to me.
It’s ridiculous how one kiss – or rather, the abrupt end to one – can make this huge house feel so empty.
The lack of human contact, or any noise aside from the violent whooshing of the wind outside, has been gnawing at me for hours.
Even if Hoxton wasn’t stubbornly freezing himself to death just to avoid me, I’m not sure he’d cut it in the human contact department right now anyway.
I need to talk to someone who doesn’t short circuit at the first sign of anything vaguely emotional.
Luckily, I have a twin.
Eve answers the call wearing a Santa hat and I’m pretty sure that’s gold tinsel wrapped around her neck in lieu of a scarf. I can hear the sound of raucous laughter in the background and Christmas tunes playing softly in a nearby room.
A pang of longing hits me. I should be there – with my sister, with my family, enjoying Christmas the only way the Joneses know how. Not cooped up in a glorified cell with only the company of a man whose two emotional extremes seem to jump from passionate kissing to passionate ignoring.
‘Noelle!’ Eve coos, and the slight slur to her voice is unmistakable. I’d bet any money that someone – probably Uncle Lloyd – has broken out the Christmas rum, and Eve has definitely had her fair share.
Urgh. I’m so jealous.
‘Looks like you’re having fun,’ I laugh, trying and failing to keep the bitterness out of my tone, as Eve uses her free hand to take another swig from something in a mug. Definitely the Christmas rum, then.