Chapter 15 #3
"Didn't think so." He presses my wrists into the pillow. "Can you keep your hands here?"
"I…I think so? Maybe? I'll try."
I feel his thighs grip my waist as he sits astride me, and I can't help myself—I want to touch him, explore his muscles, his heat. No sooner have I grasped his thighs than he's got my hands in his grip again.
"Naughty girl."
The playful scold sends a thrill shuddering through me.
I fight against his grip, and I can feel myself grinning and laughing as he easily contains me despite my best efforts.
I feel safe and at ease, because I know he won't hurt me no matter what, so I feel free to give him everything I've got. So, I fight him.
Hard.
It becomes a wrestling match, one which I obviously lose—willingly. I'm left panting and gasping and laughing beneath him and still he has my wrists easily pinned. And then something silky circles my wrists, tying them together—a necktie.
"Noah?" I ask.
His weight leaves me, and my arms are tugged up over my head, stretched out.
A moment later, his body is angled against mine, partially on me, and I tug my hands—he's tied me to something.
The knot is loose and the tie cool and silky, and I can tell that I can easily slip out of it if I wanted.
I don't want to. I want to trust him. I want to give him this—a depth of trust I've never given anyone. Ever. Not even close.
I use my feet to find him—touch denim. "You're wearing too many clothes, Noah," I whisper. "Give me your skin, please. Please."
Rustling, and then I feel soft warm skin against my thighs. "Better?"
"Yes."
I can't see. My hands are bound. I'm helpless…mostly. I still have my legs, which are my most powerful muscle group by far. But I don't really want to escape, do I? I want to be here. I want this. It's fucking hot as hell, and I'm all in.
Scared out of my mind that I'll fall back into Super Over Thinker Mode ? and ruin everything…but I'm trying desperately to stay in the moment, to focus on Noah, on his touch, on the next instant.
His mouth skates over my chest, and he suckles a nipple, the other. Kisses the circumference of my breasts, each in turn. And then his lips dot quick soft kisses to my diaphragm. To the bunched ugliness of my belly.
I squirm. "Noah. You know how I feel about that spot."
"Yup." He kisses me there again. "I feel otherwise."
"It's ugly."
"No part of you is ugly."
"Feels ugly. Looks ugly."
He kisses. "Does that feel ugly?"
"N-no," I admit.
Another kiss, an inch to the left. "And that?"
“No," I whisper.
His fingers trail and trace over my stomach, circling from diaphragm to waistband, left side to right. His lips follow his fingers kissing, kissing.
“This womb created life," he growls.
“It’s not flat. It's never been flat."
"Some call it the Venus Belly." He covers my stomach with both hands. "And I happen to find it fucking intoxicating."
I would call bullshit, but I'm too busy gasping at the delicacy of his kisses across my belly, each one hot as a firebrand, each one erasing a psychological scar.
His mouth drifts inexorably lower, and my belly tightens in anticipation, curling in as he kisses his way to my waistband.
And then I'm on my belly, flipped over before I know what's happening, arms outstretched, cheek to the coarse fibers of a throw pillow. Noah's hands hook into the elastic at the small of my back. Hesitate. And then in a single rough yank, my leggings are gone, and my panties with them.
I'm naked.
Blindfolded.
Hands tied.
Panting through my teeth, squirming.
"Noah?"
I can't feel him.
"Where are you?"
"Here," he whispers, and his lips touch my left shoulder blade. "Here." A kiss to my back, down low near the swell of my bottom. "And here." Another kiss to the back of my thigh.
I feel him at my feet, and then his lips dance over the Achilles of my right foot. The left. Right calf, left. The back of one knee, back of the right. thighs. Higher, higher.
And then, oh god…his lips skitter across my buttocks, and his hands follow, teasing and cupping as his lips kiss and stutter, sliding and squeezing as his lips dance and dart.
He kisses his way up my spine and his hands follow upward to either side of his mouth.
He presses the hot hard length of his body flush against mine, and I feel the thick shaft of his erection nestled between my ass cheeks, and for a moment I'm filled with raw, blind lust, desperate to feel him inside me, to have him lift my hips and spear into me, fill me, ravage me, fuck me.
"Noah!" I gasp, tilting my hips up to rub against him.
He ignores my plea—the verbal one and the silent, physical one; his erection vanishes and the hot slide of his body on mine is gone, leaving me cold and weightless and aching for touch. His lips caress the back of my neck, and then slide against the shell of my ear.
"Are you wet for me, Morgan?" His voice is a scorching breath on my ear.
My sex gushes at his question, desire dripping through me. "You know I am."
"You are what? Say it out loud, Morgan."
"I'm wet for you."
"What's wet for me?"
I redden, cheeks hot. "Noah."
"Don't be shy."
I laugh breathlessly. "I never been accused of being shy."
"Then tell me." His voice drops in volume until I can barely hear him. “Tell me the filthy, sinful, beautiful truth, honey."
"My pussy is soaked for you, Noah," I hear myself say, the words tumbling out in a rush.
"I'm not sure I believe you," he breathes. "Gonna have to investigate…firsthand."
I snort in laughter. "Ohmigod, sex puns, Noah?" The laughter morphs into a breathy moan when he carves his hand over my ass and down between my thighs, where his fingers tease over my slick seam.
"You're dripping, Morgan," he whispers. His fingers ease inside me, eliciting a whimper; he explores my pussy with his fingers, and the wet, squelching, sucking noises make me twist and cringe and writhe. "Hear that, Morgan? How wet you are for me?"
His fingers slip out of me, and then I smell…me. Pungent, intense, inherently female—unmistakable. "Open your mouth," he commands.
I do. God help me, I know what he's going to do and I'm going to let him, even though every part of my psyche rebels against it.
I feel his fingertip slide over my tongue, and the taste of my sex bursts like fireworks on my taste buds. It's not…god, I don't even know how I feel about tasting myself. Weirded out and uncomfortable, yet also…aroused?
I hear him sucking on his fingers, and I can picture him licking his fingers clean as if he'd been eating Cheetos.
"Tastes like fucking candy," he growls in my ear. "Don't you think?"
"I…I don't know. I don't know."
"Was it gross?"
"No," I admit. "Weird, maybe, but not gross."
His lips touch the shell of my ear, then my nape, then between my shoulder blades, and then the small of my back, and then he's quite literally kissing my ass, big hands framing my buttocks as his mouth touches here and there, making me shiver, making me gasp at the featherlight teasing trail of ghostly-soft kisses to the upper swell, the outer curve, the lower edge, and I can't help but pant and whimper and lift my hips and tighten my belly as anticipation roars through me.
He grips my hips and rolls me to my back, and my knees instinctively clench together when I feel the damp skid of his lips over my upper, inner left thigh, his beard scraping my pudendum.
"Oh god, oh god, Noah—I…shit, I—" everything comes screaming back, all the doubt, all the insecurity, all the fear, every mean, cruel, vile, destructive comment.
"I know," he murmurs. "I know."
My leg crosses over the other in an attempt to hide myself, to lock away my sex before he can see it, smell it, touch it, taste it…and be disgusted.
He doesn't try to pry open my thighs. Instead, his nose slides along the outside of my thigh. I hear him inhale, scenting me. "I love the smell of your desire, Morgan," he says, nuzzling as close to my pussy as he can get.
"Noah, I…I want to—I can't—"
"Do you want me to stop?" he asks.
"N-no."
"Sure?"
"Yes."
"Trust me?"
"Yes."
His mouth quests against mine. "I wish you could see yourself right now, Morgan. So fucking sexy."
My heart spins in my chest like a gyroscope at his words—my heart hears him and believes him; my brain remains skeptical.
I expect him to kiss his way down my body, to coax my legs apart. I expect this, and brace for it.
That isn't what happens.
I feel his hands at my left ankle; I feel the cool silk as he knots another necktie around my ankle, and then on the right. Panic—and excitement—has me shaking all over like a dry leaf in an autumn wind.
"Noah?" I sound scared, even to myself. Beneath the fear is excitement and anticipation, but right now, the fear is on top and strongest.
"Relax. Trust me."
"Tr-trying."
Obviously, I can't see him, or anything, but I get the sense that he's kneeling at my feet; I'm still curled up in a tight ball, my lower half turned away while my upper half remains flat on the floor. Gently, slowly, Noah pulls one of my legs out straight; I have to fight myself tooth and claw to let him extend both legs, so I’m lying flat once more.
"Oh god, oh god," I whimper. "Noah, I’m scared."
"Of what?" He follows his question with a tender kiss to the inside of my left knee.
I gasp, jerk, my legs slamming closed. "I don't know."
"Morgan, honey." He trails fingertips down over my quads, over my kneecaps, down to my toes, tickling and teasing. "Tell me what you're afraid of. Please, sweetheart. Trust me. Tell me the thing that terrifies you the most. Put it out there."
Even with the eye mask on, I squeeze my eyes shut. My words escape through gritted teeth. "I'm scared you'll look at me or…or touch me…down there and-and-and be…disgusted." When I say it out loud, it sounds patently absurd, in relation to Noah Austin.
"Do you really think that's what’s in my head when I look at this?" His fingers ghost down the seam of my sex. “That I'm disgusted?"
"No."