Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Morgan
I hear him swallow, feel the emotional turmoil radiating off of him like heat waves from blacktop.
"I feel her here, Morgan." He half-turns, a twist of his torso, gesturing at the home at large. "Everywhere. The couch. The art. Everything." A long pause, a sigh, a sip, and a swallow. "It's not like I feel her watching as if she were a ghost or something, I just…"
I sidle closer, cheek to the outside of his burly bicep that stretches the sleeve of his green-and-blue flannel shirt. "I hadn't considered that aspect."
"Me either. It's one thing to sit and talk with you, share a meal. But I think about kissing you, which, to be clear, I haven't stopped thinking about kissing you since I saw you last…and I just…" his gaze flicks unconsciously to the mantle above the fireplace.
There's a framed photo of Taylor there with several other framed photos of Noah, Taylor, and Noel throughout the years.
The spacing is off, though. As a perfectionist who can't sit in my living room if a frame is tilted or a vase is off-center, I can tell exactly how Taylor had those frames arranged, spaced just so.
The one photo of Taylor is out of place—the rest are family photos.
My guess? He moved it from the bedroom to the mantle; it's a hopeful move, and one I understand.
He notices that I've followed his gaze. Adorably, he blushes. "It's obviously out of place there. Feel like a fool, now. I don't know what I was thinking."
I squeeze his arm. "No, Noah. Not at all. I get it."
He frowns, looks away. "It was a moment of impulse. Stupid."
I put myself between his body and the glass door. "You have no reason to feel that way."
His dark blue eyes fix on mine. "It was in my bedroom."
"I know."
"But I can't even—" he trails off, shaking his head. “I guess I'm not as ready as I thought I was."
“Mallory is at home studying, or I'd say we could go there."
H shakes his head again. "I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to apologize for, Noah. There's no rulebook or guidebook for things like this. I'm not upset. I really, truly do understand. I mean, I get it. At least I know I can't really fully know how you're feeling, but—"
His mouth suddenly nuzzles mine, and my heart lifts, pounds, flips. His lips are soft and wet and firm all at once, pressing against mine. It's a gentle kiss, an offer of a kiss; I accept.
Kiss him back. Lift on my toes, let my hands roam his broad, hard shoulders, the solid wall of his powerful chest. He growls quietly, and his hands come up to my face.
I can't help but sigh into his mouth at the way his rough, paw-like hands so gently frame my face, as if I'm delicate and he's afraid of his own strength.
We break apart a couple of inches, gazes locked and searching.
For a fraught moment, I think he's going to push me away, tell me he can't. I'd understand, but it's not what I want, even though my own heart is crashing crazily in my chest and my fears are boiling inside me, my insecurities chanting in my brain.
Instead, his thumb caresses my lower lip, and his mouth follows.
He tucks my hair behind my ears; I've left it loose today, brushed but wild.
Noah cups the back of my head with one hand and pulls me in for another kiss, his other resting on my waist. I open my mouth to him and arch against him, feeling my pulse go wild at the heat of his hand through my sweater, at the searching, delving of his mouth on mine, his tongue teasing and tasting.
I hear myself let out a small sound of desire—our mouths part, a sliver of daylight between our lips, and I gasp, almost a whimper.
God, his kisses are a drug. Intoxicating.
Heady and dizzying. I curl my fingers into his shirtfront, clutching with shaky hands, pull him closer while pressing my chest against his, rubbing my hard, aching nipples against his firm frame.
His hand slides from my waist to my hip, pauses, hesitating, and then, with a low rumble, he palms my ass.
Oh god.
My core aches at his touch, and I tip my hips against his—I feel his erection pressing against me, a thick ridge behind his zipper.
I lift my hands from his shirt to his jawline, caressing his short, neatly-groomed beard as we come back together for another long, wet, tonguing kiss.
He presses my shoulder blades harder against the glass even as his hands, both of them now, grasp my bottom and pull me against his hips.
I trail my hands down his jaw, rest them on his shoulders; discontent, eager, aroused, lost to his kiss and alive with incandescent desire, I need more.
I find a button, open it. Another. A third, down to his diaphragm.
Seeking the warmth of his skin, I'm frustrated to find a white T-shirt in the way.
I free more buttons until his flannel is hanging open.
Un-tuck his tee, lift on my toes to deepen the kiss, opening my mouth wide and sliding my tongue against his; I finally find hot skin and hard muscle.
He rumbles again at my touch. Cups my backside in both hands, squeezing, exploring, petting.
I writhe against him, pushing my core against his, my zipper scraping against his, trying to undulate against him while pushing my bottom into his touch at the same time.
He finds the gap between sweater and jeans, and a gasp leaves my lips at the rough scrape of his hard hands over my soft skin at the small of my back.
I explore his torso, his hard abs beneath a thin layer of padding, his heavy chest. He has a dusting of body hair.
He's not some hairless, shredded fitness model; he's my personal ideal of male beauty—hard, strong, and fit, but real. He lives life. Eats well and enjoys his food, but takes excellent care of his body. I know some fire captains do a lot of their work behind the desk and from the sidelines, but not Noah. He’s in the thick of it with his men, training with them, leading by example and never asking them to do anything he hasn't done and wouldn't do himself.
I push his flannel off, and it falls to the floor, and I caress his thick, hard arms, up under the tight sleeves of his tee, down his triceps, up his biceps.
More—I need more. I'm discontent with fabric when there's skin and muscle on offer—I push the hem of his tee up, up.
He lifts his arms and I rip the garment off, raking my fingernails down his chest and abs.
His hands skate up my back, caressing in wide circles from shoulders to waist. "No bra," he murmurs.
"Mmm-mmm," I answer.
He brings his hands to my belly, and I lean back against the glass, biting my lip over the protest I feel trapped there.
I'm more self-conscious about my belly than any other part of me, but his touch is gentle and soft and easy, and his eyes are rife with desire and obvious attraction. I need look no further than his bulging zipper to know that my stomach not being flat and smooth isn’t a turn-off.
His eyes are on mine, searching and assessing as his hands drift subtly upward from my belly.
I roam his chest and sides and stomach with my hands, hold his gaze, lift my chin.
I don't try to hide my nerves; I'm trembling, and I know my eyes betray my tumult of emotions. I’m trying so damn hard to be brave, to let my desires take over rather than my fears and insecurities.
I stop breathing as his palms carve over my ribs and halt a hair's breadth from the underside of my breasts.
I feel my lower lip catch in my teeth, my lungs freeze.
How do I communicate my desires? I can't summon speech—my mouth is dry and my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my heart is pounding frantically.
I'm terrified. I haven’t been touched like this for longer than Mallory has been alive, and I've forgotten what it's like, how vulnerable it is to put my body in the hands of a man who could hurt me, reject me, insult me…
or give me pleasure, validate me, praise me.
I slump back against the glass and gaze up at him. "Noah," I breathe. "Please."
What am I asking for? I don't know. I hope he does.
By millimeters at first, his hands skim upward. My mouth drops open in anticipation, eyes wide and fixed on his. When I don't stop him, when my fingers hook desperately into the front of his jeans, I see him understand that I want this, I'm just too chicken to say so.
His huge hard hands cover my breasts all at once, and I whimper at his touch. He rumbles as I whimper, growling his desire and appreciation.
His hands are massive and powerful and my breasts are small.
His hands engulf them easily and completely.
My nipples, already hard and sensitive, tighten further into diamond points as his rough, callused palms scrape over them.
His caress is gentle. No painful squeezing, no honking—thank god.
He swipes his thumbs over my nipples, and I gasp helplessly, mouth falling open.
Now he does squeeze them, but tenderly, worshipfully, carefully.
Lifts them, lets them drop—they don't go far, obviously.
I squirm as he touches me, thighs pressing together, stomach curling in.
With a soft, impatient snarl, Noah leans down and claims my mouth, hungry and insistent. As he kisses me, he lifts the hem of my sweater, inch by inch, until cold air drenches my breasts. I break the kiss and lift my arms, and then I'm topless.
I grip his arms in shaky hands, fingernails digging into muscle as I resist the urge to cross my arms over myself.
“So fucking beautiful, Morgan," he whispers, the words ripped out of him, as if the truth simply had to be uttered.
My entire being swells at the praise. My psyche soaks it up. My heart devours the validation.
I can't look at him, though. I can only close my eyes tightly and endure the prickling awareness of his scrutiny.
"Morgan, honey." His voice is soft and rough with desire. "Look at me. Open your eyes."