Brian
I wake in darkness to find my arm asleep beneath Noa's curves. We must have dozed off after we both came so hard that we extinguished her candles. I should shake my arm awake, but I can't bring myself to move.
The storm still rattles the windows, but the howling has lessened somewhat. My phone remains in the living room, likely flooded with messages from Rachel and my mother. I know they’re worried, but I’m so warm here in this bed that I can’t bear to get up.
Noa stirs, and her eyes flutter open. "Hey," she murmurs, voice husky from sleep—and other activities. The sound goes straight to my groin.
"Hey yourself," I reply, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "You okay?"
She stretches, catlike, and I'm treated to the sight of her breasts as the sheet falls away. "Starving, actually. What time is it?"
I glance toward the window, where the darkness gives me no clues. "No idea. Does it matter?"
Her laugh feels warm against my skin. "I guess not. Want some more donuts? I don't have enough energy to make an actual meal."
Suddenly, the bedside lamp flickers before steadily illuminating the room and casting a soft yellow glow across Noa's skin.
"Power's back," she says, blinking in the sudden light.
I reach over and dim the lamp to a softer setting. "I liked the candlelight, but this has its advantages too." I can see her clearly now—hair tousled, lips still swollen from my kisses, sheet draped carelessly across her hips. "I can finally see all of you properly."
She blushes under my gaze. "Ugh, I need to find us some food."
"Let me see what I can do," I say, sliding out of bed. "You rest."
She raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "You cook?"
"I'm a man of hidden talents," I tell her with a wink, pulling on my boxers. "Wait here."
Her small kitchen is remarkably well-organized, with everything in its place. I open the cabinets quietly, familiarizing myself with the layout. I spot a hand-written label identifying a foil package of mini cranberry brie bites in her freezer—perfect for a quick snack. While the oven preheats, I notice flour, sugar, and a packet of yeast in her pantry, which sparks an idea.
My phone buzzes from the living room. Now that the power is restored, notifications are probably flooding in. I ignore it.
I slide the pastries into the preheated oven and set the timer for ten minutes. While they warm, I decide to surprise Noa with something more ambitious for tomorrow morning.
It's been years since I've made bread with my mom, but the process is meditative—something I rarely allow myself in my hyper-scheduled life. Something about this woman, this apartment, has me wanting to slow down. Reconnect.
I spot an apron hanging on a hook—green with "So Many Books, So Little Thyme" emblazoned across the front. Tying it around my waist, I get to work gathering ingredients for challah.
Mixing the dough is therapeutic; the repetitive motion of kneading allows my mind to be quiet. For once, I'm not thinking about contracts, endorsements, or flight schedules. There's just the smooth counter beneath my palms, the elastic resistance of the transforming flour, and the lingering memory of Noa's body against mine.
I'm so absorbed in the process, punching down the dough with perhaps more force than necessary, that I don't hear her approach.
"What are you doing?"
I look up to see Noa leaning against the doorframe, wrapped in a silky robe, her hair tousled from sleep and sex. Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of me—clad only in boxers and her apron, with flour dusting my forearms.
"Making bread for the morning," I answer, returning to my kneading. "If that's okay. Your brie bites should be warm in about five minutes."
"You bake bread?" She moves closer, watches my hands work the dough with evident fascination.
"My mother taught me. Said I need to be self-sufficient." I flip the dough, press the heels of my hands into it. "I haven't made it in years, but it's like riding a bicycle."
She's silent for a long moment, and when I glance up, her gaze is fixed on my hands, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. The hunger in her eyes has nothing to do with bread.
"Does watching me bake turn you on, Noa?" I ask, deliberately slowing my movements.
A flush spreads across her cheeks. "It's the forearms," she admits. "And your hands. The way they... work things."
