He’s breathing hard, restraint written in every tense muscle. For a second, I think about what comes next—what I want to come next—and the question tumbles out before I can second-guess it.
“Do you have a condom?”
The words land like cold water. His eyes close briefly, jaw clenching. “Fuck. No.”
My stomach drops with disappointment so intense it surprises me. “I don’t either.”
We’re both quiet for a beat, the weight of that settling between us. His hand covers mine where I’m still touching him, stilling my movement.
“We don’t have to—” he starts.
“I want to,” I interrupt. “I just want more of you.”
His gaze locks on mine, darkening with heat and frustration and something tender that makes my chest ache. “There are other ways I can make you feel good.”
“Other ways we can make each other feel good,” I correct, and I’m rewarded with that crooked smile.
I shift, pressing him onto his back against the pillows. When I lean down and take him in my mouth, his hand flies to the duvet, gripping hard.
I’m unpracticed, tentative at first, but the way he responds—the ragged breathing, the barely restrained sounds, the way his fingers flex against the fabric—emboldens me.
“God,” he breathes, one hand gentle in my hair, not pushing, just present. Grounding.
After a moment, he tugs me up carefully, repositioning us with surprising coordination. “Come here,” he murmurs, guiding me into a straddling position, facing away from him. “Let me taste you again.”
The position registers—intimate, mutual, generous—and heat floods through me. When I feel his breath against my inner thigh, I lean forward, taking him back into my mouth as his hands grip my hips, pulling me down to meet his tongue.
The dual sensation hits immediately and I lose coherent thought. His mouth is warm and deliberate, his tongue finding the exact place that makes my thighs clench, while I take him deeper, learning him by sound—the sharp exhale when I change pressure, the low groan that vibrates against me when I find what he can’t control. We move together, finding a rhythm that keeps shifting as we each chase the other’s response, and the intimacy of it—giving and receiving at once, each of us trying to take the other apart—is unlike anything I’ve experienced. I can’t perform. Can’t manage. Can only feel.
His fingers join his mouth, and I lose the rhythm entirely. I feel myself building again, impossibly fast, and I break first—pulling back, gasping his name, my whole body shuddering through it. The vibration and my response seem to tip him over the edge. His hips jerk upward and I taste him—salt and heat—as he finds his release.
When we finally break apart—both of us wrecked, sated, undone—it’s with shaking hands and racing hearts.
He pulls me against him, and I settle into the curve of his body, my head on his chest. His heartbeat is still elevated, matching my own.
“That was…” He exhales, like he’s steadying himself. “I’ve been thinking about that all week.” He presses his lips to my hair. “Next time, I want all of you.”
“That was…more than I expected,” I murmur against his chest.
“In a good way?”
“Oh, yes.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder. “Good. Because I’m not planning to stop there.”
His arm tightens around me, and the room goes quiet. For a long moment, we don’t speak. Maybe there’s nothing to say. Maybe this exists outside of words and plans and careful control. I should feel regret. Guilt. The familiar urge to analyze every decision. Instead, I feel...quiet. Like something wound too tight has finally released.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand—twice, then three times. Work. Always work. I ignore it. Tomorrow I’ll worry about what this means. Tonight, I’m letting myself have this rare and terrifying gift of surrender.
Chapter
Thirteen
Noah
She’s still catching her breath when her phone starts buzzing on the nightstand.
Once. Twice. Three times.