“And you stayed at Yale.”
He shrugged. “Yeah. I’d worked hard enough to get there. I could work hard enough to get through it.”
“I just didn’t know where else to go,” I said with a laugh. “And my mother, as you know—”
“Do you talk to her much? See her?”
“She’s back in London again, working on a book. She’s busy. She’s good.” Another laugh. “She flew in for the wedding. The one that didn’t happen. Jaime runs a good defense and she managed to keep her away after everything fell apart. We’ve played a slow game of phone tag since then.” I glanced up at him. “I am sorry,” I whispered. “I—I should’ve remembered. I should’ve been better for you. I should’ve reached out more. Stayed in touch.”
“It was a long time ago,” he said. “We were kids. We…we were idiots. We had no business making plans more than five minutes in the future.”
Except Noah had kept those plans. He’d honored that pact. Healwayshonored the pact.
“And it made sense that you might’ve changed your mind,” he added. “There are far better things to do than roll up at Old Home Days and expect anyone to give a damn.” He studied me for a moment, glancing at my eyes and then down at my lips. “Anyway. I’ve heard that blow jobs in the shower are better than any of this town’s many, many festivals.”
“Oh, you’ve heard that?”
“Yeah. Reputable sources too. Peer reviewed, even.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“If you’re determined to make amends—not that amends are necessary but if it’s on your mind—I wouldn’t turn down a hot shower after freezing our asses off here.”
“Speaking of which, how long do we have to freeze our asses off here?” I asked.
He gave a slow shake of his head as he exhaled. “Honestly, the sooner we leave, the less likely it is that I’ll get roped into doing something for the holiday tree-lighting festival.”
“How does this town fund all these festivals?”
Noah waved for Gennie to join us. “I could explain it to you but you’d drop into a boredom coma before getting your mouth on my cock and I’d like to avoid that.”
“I have to confess, I don’t love giving blow jobs.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t like gagging, and considering”—I shot a pointed glance at his jeans—“I know I’ll gag.”
His grin was the most arrogant thing I’d ever seen out of him. It was adorable. I loved every egotistical bit of it. “What if I promise to play nice?”
“You don’t know how to,” I said, shaking my head as I smiled up at him. “You’re sweet and shy now, but when the clothes come off…”
“Yes, wife? When the clothes come off?” He slipped his hand under my coat, under my sweater. Rucked up my tank top, pressed cool fingers to the small of my back. I shivered and his eyes sparkled. “Tell me what happens then.”
“You know what happens.”
He leaned in and brushed his lips over my ear while he drew circles along my waist. “I won’t make you gag, wife. I don’t want to see tears in your eyes. But I’ve been thinking about your tongue on the head of my cock for—well, for too long. Do you think you could handle that much?”
I bobbed my head. “Probably.”
“A shower sounds nice, doesn’t it? Have you noticed the detachable showerhead in there? It has nine different settings. And then there’s that bench. It’s a good size. Sturdy too. We could have some fun with that, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said, the word barely more than a gasp.
This was how I ended up flat on my back and stripped from the waist down in his secret project greenhouse last week. Some whispering about getting a taste of me, some light touching under the clothes, a promise that we’d enjoy ourselves. I left with lavender in my hair, dried oregano under my nails, and legs barely capable of carrying me back to the house. He’d secured me into his ATV, muttering to himself about being crazy if I thought he’d let me wander through the orchard while sex drunk. When he got me back to the house, he had me flat on my back once again and screaming into a pillow within minutes.
This was also how we’d found ourselves having sex in the pantry a few nights ago. It started out as a simple matter of asking him to help me reach one of the shelves and ended up with a bag of flour spilled all over the floor and his orgasm running down my legs. He apologized profusely for the mess—both of them—but then dragged his fingers between my thighs until my vision blurred.
And this was how we’d managed a quickie while Gennie was collecting eggs the other day. A hand over my mouth to keep me quiet while I straddled him on the chair in his bedroom. The other hand gripped my ass cheek hard enough to leave dark red marks that bruised by the next morning. When he realized this, he bent me over the bed and rubbed an herby balm he’d created into my skin. He shoved his fingers in my mouth and teased my seam with every gentle, stroking pass but he made it very clear he didn’t like marking me. Unless I liked it, in which case he loved it.
