Chapter 37 #2
Noah turned carefully onto his left side. I placed a pillow beneath his upper leg, keeping the right hip supported and preventing it from rotating too far.
Then I fitted myself behind him.
I kissed the back of his shoulder.
His breathing had become shallow again.
“Color?”
“Green.”
I warmed the lubricant between my fingers and touched him lightly.
His entire body tensed.
I stopped at once.
“Amber?”
“Wait.”
I left my hand exactly where it was without pressure.
Noah took one breath.
Then another.
Three.
Four.
The rigid line of his shoulders gradually softened.
“Again,” he said.
I resumed with less pressure, touching him in slow circles.
His hips shifted toward my hand.
“Green?”
“Yes.”
I continued until the initial tension began to ease. The contact became less foreign beneath my fingers. His body softened enough to accept the possibility of more.
When I pressed one fingertip inside, Noah inhaled sharply.
I froze.
“Pain?”
“Stretching.”
“Color?”
“Amber.”
“Do you want me out?”
“No.”
“Still?”
“Yes.”
I stayed exactly where I was.
No movement.
No additional pressure.
No expectation.
Noah reached back until his hand found my thigh. His fingers closed around it.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m here.”
“Something else.”
“You’re in our bed.”
His grip tightened.
“It’s raining. The green lamp is on in the hallway. Marlowe is scratching at the door because he believes every closed room contains something specifically arranged to exclude him.”
A laugh trembled out of Noah.
His body loosened around the contact.
“Better?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I moved my fingertip slightly.
His breathing changed.
“Green?”
“Yes.”
I entered him slowly.
Only one finger.
No rush.
No assumption that this moment had to become anything beyond itself.
Noah’s head fell back against my shoulder. I kissed the place beneath his ear while my hand learned what his body could accept tonight.
Pressure.
Pause.
A slight change in angle.
His hips shifted.
“There.”
I repeated the movement.
Pleasure showed clearly in his body. His stomach tightened. His lips parted. The hand on my thigh loosened and then gripped again.
“Again?”
“Yes.”
I kept the motion small and careful.
The closeness affected me with an intensity that was almost painful. His trust. The vulnerable openness of his body around my hand. The knowledge that fear remained present and he was choosing to stay anyway.
My own need ached between us.
But this was not a path toward satisfying me.
This was Noah discovering that he could remain inside a frightening moment without being swallowed by it.
His hand moved down his body.
“May I add another finger?” I asked.
He stopped touching himself.
Fear returned in the immediate tension of his spine.
“No.”
I withdrew enough to remove the pressure without leaving him entirely.
“All right.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No apology.”
“I thought I could.”
“You can decide one is enough.”
His breathing began to steady again.
“Keep touching me.”
I did.
One finger.
My mouth against his shoulder.
His hand on himself.
Nothing demanded to become more.
The simplicity made the pleasure safer.
Soon his body began to move again—small, deliberate motions against my hand.
“Cal.”
“Yes.”
“I want to feel you.”
My pulse surged.
“Where?”
“Behind me. Against me.”
I withdrew carefully and cleaned my hand.
Then I moved closer, fitting the length of my body along his back.
My arousal rested between us, hard against the curve of him.
Noah pushed backward once.
I caught his hip, not restraining him, only keeping the movement from twisting the joint.
“Tell me what you want.”
“Stay there.”
I pressed along him without entering.
He shuddered.
The feel of his body against mine, warmed and prepared but still protected by my restraint, nearly broke my control.
Noah reached behind us and guided me lower.
When the head of me brushed the place I had been touching, he stopped breathing.
I did not move.
“Color?”
“Green.”
“Do you want pressure?”
“Yes.”
I pressed gently.
His body resisted at first.
Then softened.
Only the smallest part of me entered.
Noah made a sound so raw that I pressed my mouth to his shoulder to keep from answering with one of my own.
“Stop?” I asked.
“Stay.”
I stayed.
No thrust.
No attempt to take more.
Our bodies held the moment between them.
Noah trembled in my arms.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not pain.”
“What is it?”
“Too much feeling.”
I wrapped one arm around his chest.
“Do you want me to pull away?”
“No.”
His voice broke.
“No. Please.”
I remained exactly where he had asked me to stay.
His hand returned to himself. The pressure of my body, the knowledge of what we had crossed into together, and the slow movement of his hand brought him close almost immediately.
“I can’t—”
“You don’t have to wait.”
Pleasure took him with a startled cry.
His body tightened around me.
The sensation dragged a groan from my chest, but I did not move deeper. I held him while release shook through him, one arm around his chest, my mouth against the back of his neck.
When the last tremor faded, I withdrew slowly.
Noah made a quiet sound of protest, then turned toward me.
I gathered him against my chest.
His face pressed into the hollow of my throat.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
His breathing remained uneven.
I stroked my palm down his back.
“Color?”
“Green.”
“Pain?”
“One.”
“Regret?”
“No.”
“Fear?”
He was silent long enough that I felt his answer before he gave it.
“Gone.”
I kissed his hair.
He pulled back far enough to study me.
“You didn’t finish.”
“No.”
“Do you need to?”
“No.”
“That is suspicious.”
“I’m an adult. I’ll survive.”
“A very hard adult.”
I laughed.
“I can deal with it later.”
His hand moved between us.
I caught it gently.
“You’re exhausted.”
“I still want to.”
“Why?”
His expression became unexpectedly serious.
“Because I want you.”
I searched his face.
There was no obligation there. No panic that he had taken something without giving an equivalent in return.
Only desire surviving through fatigue.
I placed his hand over me.
“Slowly.”
He touched me.
His grip was warm and still slightly unsteady from his own pleasure. I kissed him as he moved his hand, keeping the rhythm easy.
Noah watched my face.
He always did now.
As if every change in my expression taught him something about us that memory could no longer provide.
When I came, I gasped his name against his mouth.
His hand held me through the last pulse, neither retreating nor hurrying me.
Afterward, he smiled.
Sleepy.
Satisfied.
“There.”
“Thank you.”
“That was very formal.”
“I’ll submit a written evaluation.”
“Five stars?”
“Premature.”
He made a wounded sound.
I cleaned us both with a warm cloth.
Noah lay beneath the quilt, watching the green bar of light beneath the bedroom door.
When I returned, he opened his arms.
I settled beside him with care.
His palm came to rest over my heart.
“You were inside me.”
“Barely.”
“It counts.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted it.”
“Yes.”
“And I stopped where I needed to stop.”
“You did.”
His eyelids drifted lower.
“I think that matters more than going farther.”
“It does.”
His fingertips touched the base of my neck.
“Next time.”
“Maybe.”
A smile formed without his eyes opening.
“You’re learning.”
“We both are.”
He slept for forty minutes.
Then he woke with enough hunger to eat two toasted sandwiches and half a bowl of tomato soup in bed.
We put on a documentary about a shipwreck recovery. By the final segment, Noah’s head had settled onto my shoulder.
He never saw how they raised the wreck.
Neither did I.
I watched him breathe instead.
The following morning, he moved carefully with soreness he did not admit at first.
He entered the kitchen wearing my flannel shirt and soft pants. The sleeves swallowed part of his hands.
“Hip?” I asked.
“Fine.”
“Head?”
“One.”
“Anywhere else?”
His eye narrowed.
“You promised questions wouldn’t become an interrogation.”
“That was three.”
“Three was the old agreement.”
I poured tea.
“Are you sore?”
“Yes.”
“Pain or ordinary soreness?”
“What would happen if I refused to classify it?”
“I would become unpleasant.”
“More unpleasant?”
“Difficult, but possible.”
He accepted the mug.
“Expected soreness.”
“Anything sharp?”
“Reid.”
I stopped.
He took a sip, then leaned over and kissed my cheek.
“I’m all right.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.”
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“And smug.”
“Why smug?”
“Because I did something that frightened me, and I enjoyed it.”
Warmth spread through me.
“You did.”
“I don’t want more today.”
“Good.”
He frowned.
“Good?”
“You’re listening to yourself.”
“I might want more tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow can answer for itself.”
He sipped his tea.
“I dislike your wisdom before breakfast.”
Leah called shortly after nine.
Noah put her on speaker while we sat at the kitchen table.
She had received his message about Diane and spent most of the previous evening drafting replies she had been wise enough not to send.
“I should have warned you she saw the article,” Leah said.
“You didn’t know she would come here.”
“I should have anticipated it.”
“No.”
Noah rubbed his thumb along a scratch in the tabletop.
“Has she asked you for money before?”
Silence came through the speaker.
“Not exactly.”
“Leah.”
“She mentioned the mortgage. She said you’d always had more money than she did.”
“I was in the hospital.”
“I know.”
Anger tightened Leah’s voice.
“I told her not to contact you. I told her your settlement had nothing to do with her. She accused me of choosing your lifestyle over family.”
Noah’s expression changed instantly.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m furious.”
“Did she say anything to the girls?”
“No. And she won’t.”
The certainty in Leah’s voice reassured me.
“I blocked her,” Noah said.
“Good.”
“I told her not to contact me again.”
“Even better.”
Silence held for several seconds.
Then Leah’s voice softened.
“I’m sorry she isn’t the mother either of us deserved.”
Noah closed his eye.
“So am I.”
“But you have me.”
“I know.”
“And Emma and Clara have declared Uncle Noah mandatory at every future birthday.”
His mouth softened.
“I will attend under protest.”
“They expect terrible gifts.”
“I’m extremely gifted at buying terrible gifts.”