33. Queenie
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘THE ALCHEMY’ BY TAYLOR SWIFT
Noah drives like a demon, taking the winding turns liberally fast. My hair whips over the helmet and onto the visor. I grip his shoulder and chest in a death grip, sliding low on the seat so I’m plastered over him.
He keeps a careful hand over mine as he maneuvers the bike one-handed.
That he can do that, while wearing a Tom Ford suit with fucking lavender accents, makes me hornier than ever.
I admit to myself I want him. I want Noah Calvin Dumaine. I’ve wanted him since the second I kissed him. I wanted him more when I saw his PGSOFS face. And I wanted him through every second of fighting and bantering with him.
I. Want. Noah. Dumaine.
If this were a neuroscience theory, I’d make an argument for neurons firing repeatedly to create a pathway of a long-term memory becoming ingrained in my body. It’s physiological and physical and chemical.
But the simple truth is I just want him. Period.
And I’m going to have him now.
Because he wants me back. Enough to drive a terrifying vehicle at ungodly speeds. The rain adding splendid drama to the urgency driving him.
I lay my cheek on his strong back and nuzzle in. His hand tightens on my hands.
It takes him mere minutes to reach Clanbray. And he roars at close to two hundred miles to the cottage. Taking the bends on a low-arch, so my dress flips the asphalt and almost catches on a stray stone.
I laugh. Free and unfettered. I don’t know what else to do.
We drive through the driveway. The rain battering our heads and bodies. He stops the bike on the driveway, under the portico.
He kicks the stand and straddles the bike on his legs.
I unclasp my death grip from his chest and remove the helmet. “My hair’s a freaking mess, Aussie boy. And it’s your fault.”
“Your hair’s perfect.” The words are muffled under the helmet. But he removes the thing in the next instant and throws it on the ground. “I love your hair.”
He drags me forward by the waist and kisses me hard, twisting half his body to do so.
I gasp into his mouth, tasting rain and Noah. This is perfect , I think hazily.
In the next moment, he scoots me forward even more, so I’m kind of half over him.
“Throw your legs over me, desi girl,” he orders.
I do what he says, unconvinced of the acrobatics. But the man is an athlete. And he proves it when he pulls me forward and around him by simply lifting my butt.
I lose my breath by the time he settles me in front of him. Then he brushes his callused thumb over my wet, plump, gloss-less lips.
“Perfect,” he breathes again. Then he kisses me again. Sweet and long.
I crush myself closer to his chest, his thighs, as I kiss him back. Loudly and messily.
The dress slides up and down between us, slick and wet.
“Wait, wait.” I manage to say.
“You’re killing me,” he groans. But he pulls back an inch. His chest heaves from the force of our kiss and exertions.
“I…” I swallow at the red splotches on his face. He’s incredibly, insanely aroused. And it arouses me in turn. But I still need to know. This. “Why me?” I ask finally.
I touch his wet shirt. The jacket’s splayed open and the tie’s askew. His skin’s hot, burning hot, under the wet fabric.
“What?” Noah kisses the side of my neck. Unable to stop touching me.
“Why me, Noah? You’re like, ridiculously handsome. And filthy rich. And you are a cricket god.”
“Go on.” He kisses the pulse beating on the side of my neck and sucks on it. “I love hearing you compliment me.”
“Why do you want me?” I ask helplessly. Needing to know the answer. And half-afraid of it. Maybe I’m just a fat girl fetish for him. Or an item to be checked off his list. And I’m okay if that is all this is. I really am. But I want to know before I get any more involved with him.
“You’re asking me that when I’m about to come in my pants for you?” He runs feverish hands up my thighs. And squeezes them.
I squirm against him and the bike wobbles.
“Ye-yes.” I sigh and try to keep from losing my mind.
“You want words? Like declarative sentences?” He sucks on my collarbone and drifts down to my cleavage.
“Ten words will do.” Noah sucks on the fleshy part of my breast. “ Five.” I strangle out. Press him closer to me. The combination of warm breaths and cold rain is insanely pleasurable. And painful.
He holds up ten fingers while still kissing my neck, the tops of my breasts. So, when he speaks, his words are latticed on my skin, piercing my flesh, living in my blood and bones.
“I.” He downs one finger. “Can’t.” He downs another. “Help.” A third. “Myself.” A fourth. “And.” A fifth. “I can’t tell you why.”
“You can’t tell me why?”
“I just do, Queenie.” Noah nuzzles against my cleavage. “I just fucking do. It’s like cricket. I don’t know why it’s this sport, but it is.”
“You compared me to cricket,” I whisper tearily. I cup his face and kiss his philtrum, the space between his nose and lips. “You really want me.”
“I really fucking do.”
He sweeps the dress up so the garter’s visible. And then he bends down and takes the lace between his teeth.
I strangle on a groan and a laugh.
“Maybe because you wear my uniform colors. And a garter under it. Or your hair makes me hard whenever I see it. There’s a thousand reasons and none, Queenie.” He kisses the garter and my thigh around it. Wet plopping kisses and soft, soothing kisses.
“You look really good in a cricket uniform,” I say between gasps. Playing with his wet hair. “And you have these eyes…” I groan again when he stretches the elastic of the garter. “Your eyes on me make me hot.”
“Where?” Noah kisses my hand. “Show me.”
“Here?”
“There’s no one here but us.” His words are intimate. A command. “Show me.” He kisses the tips of my fingers.
I shake and my lips part shakily. But I point to them. “Here.” I whisper. I touch my cheeks. “Here.” My fingers drift down, taking his with me. I touch my neck. “Here.” Down to my collarbone. “Here.” I touch my nipple. And cup my flesh. “Here.”
I drift down, our hands intertwined, one. His breaths mingle with mine. The rain shrouds us in a bubble as much as the heat enveloping us. “Here.” I touch my navel. I travel down to my thigh, “Here,” I whisper.
And then I finally, finally, take him to my wet, needy core. I press his hand against mine. “Here. So much here.”
He rubs his hand over mine and my core contracts at the sensation.
I move closer to him and the bike wobbles again. My stomach swoops down. On the excitement and illicit thrill of this outdoor adventure.
“I’ll fall,” I warn him, clutching the back of his neck with my nails.
“I’ll catch you.” He rubs me again, as he kisses my neck, end to end. “Promise.”
Noah slides me closer, jerking one thigh open over his leg so the dress slides down to the ground. It makes a wet squelching sound.
He chuckles. “Satin. My downfall.”
Then he rubs me in earnest, using the weight of my hand and his. As he kisses me and teases my lips, my nose, my cheeks, my neck. Murmurs nonsense in my ears. Except I can’t hear anything except his harsh, rough breaths. I can’t feel anything but the stress of his knuckles on my clit. Where the rain adds even more force, wet and insistent and relentless.
And I am dying, dying…
The orgasm shoots up on me before I’m prepared for it. I gasp out loud, a long, breathy moan.
And he captures the sound in his mouth and sucks on my tongue. While he uses his thumb on my clit, hard and fast and ruthless. I come apart in his arms. On the front seat of a bike. With the handlebars digging on my back.