He squeezes my hand gently. Not pushing. Just...present.
That’s what gets me. Not the attraction, not the champagne haze—but the simple fact that he’s here, and he’s letting me choose.
I lead him toward the stairs, my heart pounding as his footsteps follow. Halfway up, I glance back at him, and the look in his eyes—the restraint, the want—makes me ache.
“I’ve been trying not to want this,” he says quietly.
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
In the doorway of my bedroom, I pause. The rain has lifted, the gray light soft through the curtains. “This may be a bad idea, but no regrets,” I say, voice barely audible.
He gives a faint, crooked smile. “None whatsoever.”
“I need this.” What I’m not saying is, I want to stop thinking.
My declaration is all it takes. His fingers thread my hair, and his mouth finds mine—slow at first, then deeper, needier, until thought itself disappears.
When he lifts me, I don’t resist. When he lays me down, the outside world fades completely—the storm, the loss, the guardedness. The bedroom is cool, rain-dimmed light filtering through the curtains. I’m aware of everything—the soft cotton of the duvet beneath me, the scent of his cologne mixing with the rain on his skin, the sound of our breathing in the quiet house.
When I reach for the hem of his shirt, his stomach muscles tense beneath my fingers. I feel powerful and terrified all at once. His skin is warm, smooth over hard muscle, and when I press my palm flat against his abdomen, I feel him inhale sharply.
For a second, I freeze. It’s been so long. What if I’ve forgotten how to do this? What if?—
“Hey.” Noah’s voice is soft, his hand finding mine. “We don’t have to?—”
“I want to,” I whisper. And I do. God, I do.
When his hands slide beneath my sweater, I gasp. His palms are warm against my ribs, and every nerve ending ignites. I arch into the touch, surprised by how hungry I am for this—for him—for feeling something other than fear and control.
He undresses me slowly, his hands unhurried, and I do the same for him—fumbling slightly with buttons because my fingers aren’t steady, hyperaware of every inch of skin as it’s revealed. His shirt drops to the floor and I press my palms flat against his chest, feeling the heat of him, the definition of muscle beneath skin, the way he goes very still when I touch him like he’s fighting to let me set the pace.
When there’s nothing left between us, he draws back just enough to look at me. I resist the urge to cover myself—the vulnerability of being seen is almost too much, the old familiar inventory of imperfection threatening to crowd out everything else. But the way he’s looking at me stops that thought cold. Not assessment. Not performance. Something quieter and more devastating.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, and the reverence in his voice makes my throat tighten. I don’t feel beautiful—I feel exposed, vulnerable, over forty, and imperfect—but the way he’s looking at me makes me believe him.
He settles beside me, one hand tracing down my side, learning the curve of my hip, my waist. When his mouth finds mine again, it’s slower, deeper, a claiming that makes me forget every reason this isn’t recommended.
His lips trace a path down my throat, across my collarbone, lower. When he reaches my breast, I arch into him, my fingers curling into the duvet. His mouth is warm, insistent, and when he draws my nipple between his lips, I cry out—shocked by the intensity of sensation.
“That’s new information,” he murmurs against my skin, and despite everything, I laugh breathlessly.
His hand slides lower, fingers tracing the inside of my thigh, and I tense for just a second—anticipation mixed with nerves. It’s been so long.
“Relax,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”
And when his fingers find me—warm, sure, devastating—I surrender completely.
He takes his time, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me moan, what makes my hips lift helplessly into his touch. When his mouth follows the path his fingers blazed, I forget all thoughts.
I’ve spent years perfecting the art of restraint, but here, now, with Noah’s mouth doing impossibly wicked things and his fingers working magic, control shatters. My hands fist on the comforter. My back arches off the bed. I hear myself making sounds I don’t recognize—desperate, needy, honest.
When I shatter, it’s with his name on my lips.
He kisses his way back up my body, and I’m still trembling, still catching my breath, when I reach for him. His length is hard against my hip, and I want to give him what he just gave me—want to make him feel what I just felt.
I wrap my hand around him, and the sound he makes—low, strangled—thrills. He’s velvet over steel, and when I stroke him slowly, his hips jerk involuntarily.
“Alicia—” A plea? A warning? Both.