I could feel myself rippling and fluttering around him. I was getting close again, and this time he had me where he wanted me. I was begging for him.
"Noah," I choked out. "I need—"
He pressed a thumb to my clit, playing with me expertly until he had me on the precipice, so so close, and then—
Fire raced through me. I clenched down, squeezing him as I came.
Noah cursed and slammed into me once, twice. He twitched and spasmed as he tipped over the edge alongside me, the both of us reaching our peak and falling back down together. We moaned as our bodies shook against one another.
After long moments, I let out a gasping breath. The burn in my lungs matched the burn in my muscles. I was exhausted in a bone-deep way I'd never before felt after sex. The entire experience had been mind-blowing.
I slowly relaxed against the mattress. Noah stayed lying on top of me as he panted to catch his breath, using his arms to keep from crushing me. We laid there silently, our chests heaving together with every breath.
"Told you," he murmured.
"What?" I asked sleepily.
"That I could make you beg."
"I happily stand corrected."
Noah took both my hands and pressed soft kisses to the inside of my wrists. My heart fluttered at the tender touches.
Noah's eyes flew open. "Wait. Hold on a second."
I froze. "What? What's wrong?"
Noah scrambled over to the bedside nightstand, fumbling around in the drawers. His strong, muscled back was to me. His shoulder blades flexed with every movement of his arms. I could see the tattoos from his front curling back around his torso, joining the tattoos on his back shoulders. It was a tempting sight, even after I had just been fucked to within an inch of my life.
He pulled out a handful of sheets of paper and a pen. Uncapping it with his teeth, he sat on the side of the bed and started scribbling on the lined paper.
I crawled over to look over his shoulder. "Are you… writing down music?"
"Yeah," he said, not taking his attention away from his work.
"Was the sex that inspiring?"
"I always write after sex."
"So this is what you do? Fuck girls, then write songs?"
"You got a problem with that?"
I leaned back, ruminating on his words. A terrible thought occurred to me.
"Does Naomi know? Is that why I got hired?" I sat up straight in bed, tugging the sheets to my chest. "Is that why none of the others worked out? You didn't want to have sex with them, but you'll have sex with me?" Anger and shame began to fill my chest. "God, is that what this is?"
"No," he said, cutting off my rising hysteria. "You're talented." He flicked his eyes to me, giving me a slightly amused look. "Your fuckability is just a bonus."
I was torn between crying and laughing. "Fuckability? Is that a word?"
"I'm a lyricist. It is now."
"So… you didn't plan all this?"
"No." He didn't look up from making notes on the paper. "I usually sleep with models or actresses or other musicians."
"Not fans?"
