Chapter 3 #2
His hands are everywhere—sliding up my ribs, cupping my breasts through the lace, thumbs brushing over my nipples until I gasp. He reaches behind me and unhooks my bra with practiced ease, and then that's gone too.
For a moment, he just looks at me. His eyes are so dark they're almost black, and the way he's staring makes me feel like the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen.
"Kyler—"
"I want to remember this," he says roughly. "Every inch of you."
Then his mouth is on my breast, tongue circling my nipple, and coherent thought becomes impossible. I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him to me as he worships first one breast, then the other, until I'm writhing beneath him.
He kisses his way down my stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of my leggings. He pauses, looking up at me for permission.
"Please," I whisper.
He pulls them down along with my underwear, and then I'm completely bare beneath him. The vulnerability should be terrifying—we barely know each other—but instead it feels right. Like this was always going to happen.
His hands slide up my thighs, spreading them gently. "So perfect," he murmurs.
And then his mouth is on me, and I cry out, hips bucking off the mattress. He holds me steady with one arm across my hips, the other hand joining his tongue in driving me absolutely insane.
He's thorough. Patient. Like he has all the time in the world to learn what makes me fall apart. When he slides two fingers inside me while his tongue circles my clit, I come with a sharp cry, my whole body tensing and then releasing in waves.
He doesn't stop until I'm gasping, oversensitive, pulling at his hair.
When he finally moves back up my body, his beard is damp and his expression is pure male satisfaction.
"Smug looks good on you," I manage breathlessly.
He grins. "Just getting started."
I reach for his jeans, popping open the button. "Then maybe you should have less clothes on."
He helps me push his pants down, taking his boxer briefs with them, and then—
Oh.
He's... impressive. Thick and hard and already leaking at the tip. I wrap my hand around him, and he groans, hips jerking forward involuntarily.
"Noel—" My name sounds like a prayer. "I need—"
"Condom?"
"Wallet. Jeans pocket."
I lean over the side of the bed and fish through his discarded jeans until I find it—a single foil packet. "Optimistic," I tease.
"More like hopeful." He takes it from me, tearing it open with his teeth. "Wasn't planning on needing it."
"Lucky for both of us you packed it anyway."
He rolls it on, and then he's settling between my thighs, the head of him pressing against my entrance. We lock eyes.
"Last chance to change your mind," he says.
I wrap my legs around his waist. "Stop talking and kiss me."
He does, claiming my mouth as he pushes inside in one slow, devastating thrust. We both groan at the sensation—he's stretching me, filling me completely, and it's almost too much and not enough all at once.
"Okay?" he asks, voice strained.
"More than okay." I rock my hips experimentally, and he groans again. "Move. Please move."
He does, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. He sets a rhythm that's slow and deep, each thrust deliberate, like he's memorizing the feel of me around him.
It's intense. Overwhelming. His eyes never leave mine, and there's something in his gaze that goes beyond physical. Something raw and honest and a little bit terrifying.
"You feel incredible," he breathes. "So tight. So perfect."
I can't form words, so I pull him down for another kiss, pouring everything I can't say into it. He responds by shifting the angle slightly, hitting a spot inside me that makes me see stars.
"There," I gasp. "Right there—"
He drives into that spot again and again, his control starting to fracture. One hand slides between us, thumb finding my clit, and the combination of sensations is too much.
"Kyler—I'm going to—"
"Let go," he growls. "I've got you."
I shatter around him, his name a broken cry on my lips. He follows seconds later, burying his face in my neck as he comes with a groan that I feel all the way to my bones.
We stay like that for a long moment, both of us trembling, hearts racing in tandem. Finally, he lifts his head to look at me.
His hair is a mess. His lips are swollen. He looks thoroughly wrecked.
And he's smiling.
"Hi," I whisper.
"Hi." He brushes a strand of hair from my face, the gesture achingly tender. "That was..."
"Yeah."
He carefully pulls out, and I wince slightly at the loss. He disposes of the condom and comes back to bed, pulling me against his chest. I curl into him, boneless and satisfied.
"I should probably feel weird about this," I say after a while.
"Do you?"
I consider. "No. Should I?"
"I don't know." His arm tightens around me. "I don't feel weird either. I feel..." He pauses. "I feel like I've been waiting for you."
My heart does skips a beat. "That's a dangerous thing to say to someone you just met."
"Probably." He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "But it's true."
I tilt my face up to look at him. "What happens when the storm ends?"
Something shifts in his expression—a flash of vulnerability quickly masked. "I don't know."
"Kyler—"
"You were never just passing through," he says quietly, fiercely. "I don't know how I know that, but I do. This isn't just... this isn't just the storm."
I should be scared. Should pull back, protect myself, remember that I came here to heal from one relationship and shouldn't immediately dive into another.
But looking at him, feeling the solid warmth of him against me, I can't bring myself to be careful.
"No," I agree softly. "It's not just the storm."
He kisses me then, slow and sweet and full of promise. And as we drift off to sleep, tangled together in the afternoon light, I let myself hope that maybe, just maybe, I didn't come here to escape Christmas after all.
Maybe I came here to find it.