Chapter 20
CHAPTER
TWENTY
CADE
The restaurant was a good place to get to know one another. But we’re not done. I know we’ll continue learning about one another as time goes on, but it feels good to know that Noah knows a little more about me. About my mom, and everything else.
After running into my dad, and promising him a conversation down the line, only after chastising him about unintentionally hurting Juliette, we decided to come back to my place.
Where his overnight bag rests in my bedroom, where the scent of us lingers on the sheets, and clings to the air.
Just us in my space, changing forever what this place represents, giving life to my house, infusing my life with so much more than I’ve ever experienced.
As soon as the door is locked, Noah’s lips are on mine, and before we know it, I’m giving my second blowjob ever, and then receiving my second blowjob from Noah.
It still makes my head spin to think how good I feel with him, to think that this feeling has been inside me all this time, I just needed the person with the key. Noah is my key.
In my bed, where we end up, I trace lazy circles over his bare chest, my fingertips catching on the faint sheen of sweat still cooling between us.
The room is dim, lit only by the lamp on the nightstand and the San Francisco glow sneaking through the half-closed blinds.
The sheets are wrecked beneath us—twisted and damp—and the air smells like sweat and release, my cologne, and him.
I can’t stop touching him. I press my palm over his heart, feeling it thudding strong and steady, and something tight and hot unfurls in my chest.
I swallow, nerves twisting low in my stomach, stretching through my veins. “Does your family know?” I ask, my voice a little husky. “That you’re bisexual?” I shared with Noah that my family likely thinks I am asexual, but that my sister helped me reach the discovery of my pansexuality.
Noah shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look down at me. His hair is a disaster from my fingers, lips swollen, a fresh mark blooming on his collarbone that I blissfully put there with my teeth. His expression softens. “Yeah. They’ve known since I was nineteen.”
I nod my head. “How many serious relationships have you had?” I don’t specify gender, because it doesn’t matter. I just want to know if he’s connected deeply with anyone before, or how many people for that matter.
He drags his thumb over the freckle on my throat, and his voice is raw and raspy when he answers.
“Two. Evan was my first real relationship. I met his parents, he met mine, we said the three big words… but we didn’t have much of a future after college because he was always planning to go to med school and neither of us wanted to do long-distance. ”
I let my eyes flutter closed as the rough pad of his thumb traces the spot on my throat, over and over. “Not… serious enough to do long-distance?” I manage the question despite the fact his tender touch and low voice are making me hard right now.
“He… couldn’t handle long-distance. He was affectionate, physical.
He needed physical contact to feel loved.
He was just that kind of person.” Noah kisses me, then says, “And a couple years after Evan, I had my second serious relationship. It lasted just one year but… at the time, I thought it might be, you know, it,” he says, the admission sticking in his throat a little, even though he never takes his eyes off of me.
“But it wasn’t?” I ask, realizing the obviousness in my question. Noah sees the subtext hiding in my words, and strokes a finger down the arm of my glasses before tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
He shakes his head. “He cheated with someone we were both close with. I walked in on it. That was the end.” His voice stays level, but I catch the flicker of old hurt in his jaw. “That’s pretty much the fastest way to ruin things.”
I nod, absorbing it. Jealousy flares hot and ugly in my veins—not just at the years he had with those other guys, but at the pain someone caused him. I want to erase every trace of pain those men left behind, and I want to be the last man who ever gets to touch him.
Silence stretches between us, and I think he’s letting me process, and he too is processing what he’s shared. We’re adjusting to knowing more about one another, when I decide to tell him about my dating history.
“Aside from three months with another grad student, I never really dated. Not like that,” I admit.
Noah’s hand keeps stroking. “Tell me about things with Rhiannon.”
I close my eyes. The words spill out of me, urgent and raw, and I didn’t know how badly I wanted to share until now.
“We had a lot of classes together, went to study at the library at the same time. It felt like the universe wanted us to be together, you know? So we started to date.” I scratch the back of my head, remembering Rhiannon’s sweet smile and teasing nature. “She was great but…”
I couldn’t get it up.
When I could, I couldn’t finish.
When I couldn’t finish, I felt relieved.
Instead, I say, “I didn’t feel connected to her enough to work for more.
I wasn’t able to make love to her, you know, the way she expected.
” I laugh at that but Noah listens without interrupting, his body a solid anchor against mine.
“The way anyone expects.” I look up. “And there was no one after that. I’ve really never felt connected or comfortable to or with… anyone.”
“And now?” he asks when I fall quiet, voice low and careful, like he’s afraid of the answer.
I lift my head so I can meet his eyes. My heart bumps against my ribs.
“Now I know I was so focused on digesting my asexuality that I missed parts of myself entirely. For me, I’ve learned, it’s not about gender but it’s about the connection.
I need it—mentally, emotionally, physically.
All of it. I need to feel seen. Known. Safe enough to fall apart and still be wanted. ”
Noah’s expression shifts. That slow, devastating smile breaks across his face, the one that wrecks me every single time. Warmth floods his eyes, chasing away any leftover shadows from his past.
“And that’s me,” he says, soft but certain. Like it’s the truest thing he’s ever spoken. Like he’s proud of being that person for me, proud of me for knowing it.
I nod, throat tight with everything I’m not ready to say. “That’s you.”
I kiss him because not kissing him isn’t an option.
Our mouths meet slowly at first—tender, tasting, breathing each other in.
His hand tightens in my hair, tugging me just right, and I groan into his mouth, rolling us so I’m half on top.
Skin slides against skin. His cock, already thick again, digs in against my hip. It feels so good.
I deepen the kiss, tongue curving against his, eating up his moans, enjoying all of his filthy noises.
He arches his back up with a low, needy whimper that lands straight in my groin.
My hands coast down his sides, over the sharp cut of his hips, gripping the firm muscle of his ass to pull him harder against me.
We’re both fully hard now, leaking, grinding, slow and filthy.
“Fuck, Cade,” he breathes against my lips when we break for air. “The way you’ve opened up to me, the way you’ve taken all of this so seriously now… ” He kisses me again. “Fuck, just… how you look at me now.”
“How do I look at you?” I question quietly, following the curve of his jaw with my mouth, sucking a fresh bruise into the side of his throat. I want it to be visible tomorrow.
And that’s the boldest thing I’ve ever wanted.
“Like I’m everything you didn’t know you were starving for.”
He’s right. I am starving. Years of numbness, of convincing myself I didn’t need this, that I wasn’t built for this—and now? I can’t get enough.
I kiss lower, tongue flicking over one nipple until it pebbles. I bite gently, then harder when he gasps and bucks. His hands fist the sheets as I work the other nipple with my fingers, rolling and pinching while my mouth leaves a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses down his abs.
When I settle between his spread thighs, his cock stands thick and flushed, the head shiny with precum. I look up at him through my lashes, holding his gaze as I drag my tongue up the underside of his cock, his perfectly thick, deliciously long, all for me, cock.
I take my time, lapping at the slit, swirling my tongue around the slick cap of his head, then sealing my lips around him and bobbing down until he nudges the back of my throat.
I swallow around him, hollowing my cheeks, working him as best as I can, as much as I know how.
His hand finds my hair again, not pushing or guiding but merely holding me, like even amidst me taking him he needs to touch me, feel me. I love it.
I bob faster, one hand stroking what my mouth can’t reach, the other slipping lower to tease his balls, then further back to circle his hole.
I’ve never touched anyone there but myself.
And I only have ever done it when my body can no longer hold back its biological needs.
Still, I know that this is how we will give each other pleasure—one of the many ways, at least—and I want to experience it.
“Shit—yes, like that,” he groans, voice gutted and raw.
I pull off with a filthy pop, replacing my mouth with my fist while I grab the lube from the nightstand.
I slick my fingers, watching his face as I press one finger inside him.
Our eyes catch. “A little more,” he urges, and I work him open some more, groaning at the tight heat I’m exploring.
I move in and pull out, and continue that cadence as his eyes flutter closed, his cock weeping in my free hand as I stroke him.
After a few minutes, he opens one whiskey eye and aims it at me.
“Now up and curl,” he guides softly, and I take his cue, and slide my finger back inside him, deep, curling at the softest, spongiest place.