Chapter 7 #2
He kisses the keyhole gap where my cleavage begins, eliciting a soft breath from me. Kisses the upper slope of my left breast. His fingers tug at the neckline of my shirt, slipping it off my shoulder, and then the other side, baring more of my chest and exposing the white fabric of my bra.
I forget that we're outside in the forest, on a very public hiking trail. I forget everything but Noah, and his whispering voice and his words.
His mouth finds mine, and he kisses me again, leaving me breathless all over again and panting and aroused. God, the man can kiss.
I throw myself into the moment, leaning into him, pressing myself against him.
Kissing him back with all I've got, giving him my tongue and my open mouth, my breath, soft whimpers at the strokes of his tongue, gasps at the way his fingers trace the low scoop of my neckline and into the edge of my bra cups, and then his hands carve against my sternum under my breasts.
"These," he growls, breaking the kiss. "Are fucking perfect, too."
I shake my head. "Noah—"
"I know you didn't show me them on purpose, but Morgan…I can't stop thinking about your tits."
"I bet I know what you were thinking," I say, unable to stop myself. "My god, they're so tiny! I've seen bigger tits on a—"
He silences me with another kiss, this one aggressive, almost angry. "Nope. Not doing that."
His mouth leaves mine again, drifts downward to my cleavage again. A bird sings a soaring song overhead. Sunlight dapples through the canopy onto my face, onto my closed eyes.
I'm panting hard, almost hyperventilating. From panic? Arousal? Some fucked-up combo of both?
Pan-arousal? Arousal-anic?
The scaredy-hots?
Scaroused?
Panic isn't fear, but close enough in this context.
"Morgan?"
I pull back—I'm shaking all over. "Jokes are a coping mechanism," I manage.
"I know."
"You make me feel a lot of things, Noah," I say. "Some of them are scary. Well…all of them are, honestly. They’re scary and make my brain run in overthinking hyper-drive."
"You're an overthinker?"
"God yes. So bad."
"Then we gotta get you out of your head."
"Easier said than done, I'm afraid."
He turns toward me—before I can react, he's lifted me onto his lap, facing him…straddling him. My exposed cleavage is in his face, and my heart is pounding, and my core is soaked, and my hands are shaking, and I can't breathe.
His hands are hot and rough on my back, on my skin under my T-shirt, skating up and raking down from my shoulders to the waist of my jeans and back up, roaming in circles over my bra strap. Part of me wants him to unhook it, but the rest is terrified of exactly that.
He doesn't.
He cups my face in both hands and brings my face to his. He doesn't kiss me, yet. "Morgan…" his lips brush mine. "You're beautiful."
It's a simple statement. Two words. But for some reason, it hits me so hard my breath catches in a silent sob. "Noah," I whimper. "Stop."
That's when he kisses me. When my throat is tight and hot, my eyes are wet, and my heart is breaking and confused and hopeful, he kisses me. "Never." It's a breath; a promise.
I can't help but kiss him back, can't help but bury my fingers in his hair and shift closer to him, feeling the hard bunch of his powerful thighs under mine. His hands find skin again, my back under my shirt, my shoulders, my waist…my belly.
I squirm when his hands touch the bunched and wrinkled skin there, whining in my throat in aversion. Instead of rushing past and continuing upward, he pulls away from the kiss. Covers my belly with his hands.
"You're beautiful, Morgan. Everywhere. Every inch. All of you. You're fucking beautiful."
"Noah," I bite out. "Not there. Please.”
His mouth touches my jawline. "You created a life there, Morgan. A whole human being. A wonderful, talented person."
"It looks gross."
"To who?" he demands. He drives his hips up against my backside, and I feel something hard and thick and long crush against me. "Does it feel like I think it's gross?"
"Maybe you're just a freak with a weird fetish," I say. "Not judging, if so."
"I'm pretty damn vanilla, actually. It's not a fetish, it's attraction. No part of you is gross." He slides my braid through his fist, searching me. "You're beautiful, Morgan."
"Been a very, very, very long time since I felt that way."
"Which is a goddamn tragedy. You're an incredible person inside and out. That bastard didn't deserve to even look at you."
"Not disagreeing with you there." I sit back, upright and away from him, resting my hands on his shoulders. I swallow hard, look away. “When I'm with you, I…I think I could feel beautiful again. The way you look at me, the way you touch me, the things you say."
"I don't want to rush you—I don't want to rush myself. But I do want to spend more time with you. Let me show you how beautiful you are to me, Morgan."
"Not here, though," I say. "I'm way too self-conscious to get my freak on for the first time in twenty years outside on a public hiking path."
"That's fair." He rights my sleeves, my neckline. His thumb grazes my lips, tugs my lower lip down. "I can kiss you again, though, right?"
I playfully nip his thumb. "I suppose."
Joke's on me—he kisses me like it's the last thing he'll do before execution—desperately, hungrily, aggressively, skillfully.
Have I ever been kissed like this? Don't think so. If I have, I don't remember, and it seems like something I'd remember.
My heart does flip-flops and my stomach falls away and my hands bunch in his shirt, find hot skin and hard muscle.
I delve my tongue into his mouth and give in to my own need.
His tongue soars against mine and searches my mouth, and his thumbs ghost over my cheekbones and his fingertips trace the shells of my ears and I feel his arousal growing under me and I see in my mind the outline of his cock straining against the thin black fabric.
I see the plump head and the groove of the glans and the long shaft, and I feel it under me, and I want him. I need him.
God, I need more.
The birdsong fades, the susurrus of wind through the leaves subsides, and there's only Noah and me and his hard, powerful body and his gentle hands on my nape, my shoulders, my back…
cupping my bottom and squeezing. I growl a soft, aroused sound at the grip of his hands on my ass, and I tip forward and sit up a little and kiss him harder.
His hands slip down the backs of my thighs, curl around and squeeze my hamstrings, slide back up to cup and caress my denim-clad ass.
Oh god.
God.
I can't breathe for the ache of arousal, the rush of wonder at being kissed like this, with such need, such ferocious hunger. Like I'm everything he's ever wanted.
God, it feels good. Better than any orgasm I've ever given myself.
Is an emotional orgasm a thing?
My palms scrape over his nipples and he growls, nips my lower lip and plunders my mouth all over again, more savagely than ever. His hands rake up my sides under my shirt, and then his hands are covering my breasts over my bra, and my nipples are tight and hard and aching.
My sex pulses, throbs. I grind on him, and he shifts me so I'm straddling one thigh and his hard quad is all I need to rub against, riding him, grinding on his leg as I dig my fingers into his pecs and whimper into his kiss and arch my back to press my tits into his hands and heat billows through me and I'm so close, right there, hovering on the cusp of climax, undulating on him, against him.
He reacts before I do—voices in the distance and quickly nearing. All at once I'm sitting on the bench beside him and gasping through kiss-swollen lips and pressing my thighs together to assuage the ache between them.
Just in time.
A tall, whipcord lean, balding man wearing Lyra shorts and an expensive long-sleeve running shirt pads past, followed immediately by a woman—short and lean and similarly attired.
They both have mud splattered on their calves, butts, and backs from running through places where the sun never shines enough to dry out the mud.
They both toss a brief, panted "hey," at us as they pass.
I'm giggling uncontrollably. "Holy shit, that was close."
Noah seems far less amused than I am. "That was close, or you were close?"
I bite my lip, look away. "Yup!"
"Morgan, we—"
I shoot up off the bench. "Oh, look, a hiking trail!" I start walking before I do something totally insane, like let him finish the job right there on the bench like some sort of exhibitionist…which, to be clear, I am not.
He chuckles and follows me, catching up in a few strides. "Hiking it is."
I expect more of a reaction. I spend the first few minutes tensed and waiting for him to say something—to complain, or pull me aside and try to start it up again.
He doesn't, which confuses me. So, I spend the next few minutes just as tense, wondering why not.
Finally, I can't take the wondering anymore.
"You're okay with just…stopping like that?"
He shrugs, nods, smiles. "Sure. I told you I'm not gonna rush or push. You specifically said that you're too self-conscious to go too far in public. And honestly, I'm not into public displays, either. I just got carried away. Kissing you is…" he trails off.
I steal a glance at him. "Is what, Noah?"
“Intoxicating. Addicting."
Butterflies flutter in my stomach. "I got carried away, too."
My back is against a tree, and his hips pin me to it, and I feel his arousal, and his breath is on my cheek. "Maybe we can get carried away again, but in private this time."
"I wouldn't hate that," I breathe. "You're a pretty okay kisser."
"Just pretty okay, huh?" he says, lips moving on mine. "Have to step up my game if that's the case."
"I was close, Noah. In public. Fully clothed. Not even touching under the clothes. I think your game is pretty well stepped up." I touch his lips. "I've never been kissed like that in my life."
His eyes scan my face from a distance of inches, brow furrowed. Eventually, he backs away, hands curling into fists at his sides. "We'd better keep hiking."
It's his turn to pivot and pace away from me without a word, obviously affected in some powerful way.
I lean against the tree for a moment as he strides away, helplessly staring at his backside, because damn, the man has a fantastic ass.
He stops and looks back at me. “Coming?”
I push away and jog to his side. "Maybe later."
"That a promise?"
I wrap my hand around his bicep and whisper in his ear. "I think that's up to you."
"Then you'll definitely be coming later."
I shiver—the question is if I'm shivering from anticipation or fear.