“Better than okay.” Grabbing a fistful of hair, I pull him closer. “Now fuck me like you mean it.”
Capturing my mouth with his, we disappear into a fit of moans and thrusts, my eyes only half open. Our bodies are one, pressed together in every possible way and it isgood.I lift my pelvis to let him go deeper and he surprises me again, by pulling out and flipping us over so I’m straddling his hips.
Recognizing this is my chance to tease and play, I use every ounce of restraint and take things slow. With my hands on his chest, I lower myself down, savoring the careful descent and the way he fills the space between my legs. Noah bites his lip and grabs the soft rolls at my waist. I lift up again, and lower, slower than before, enjoying the agony meeting pleasure on his face. He slides his hands up and down my thighs before settling a thumb between my legs, circling my clit as I ride him.
This man knows pleasure, and he is not about to let me torment him any longer. My speed increases as his thumb works meticulous rounds and soon I’m cresting that all consuming hill again. As the thrill of an orgasm echoes through me, Noah loses himself and, for a few brief moments, we are bound to the feeling, our bodies reacting to the waves of gratification. He pulses inside of me and groans, the sound of it echoing in all my hollow places.
I fall onto his chest in a limp puddle, our breath ragged and uneven while his heart thumps wildly against my ear. The erratic rhythm pulls a smile.I just fucked Noah Graves.
But even as I think them, the words fall short of what it was and questions bloom against the glow of our undoing.
Anxious, and hoping to avoid the softness of after sex intimacy, I reach for anything to break the moment. Anything to pull us back into the realm of casual banter.
“All those runs do you good, Graves.”
A deep chuckle answers my tease, and I’m okay until his hand glides up to tickle my back. It’s intimate, a slow idle trace up my spine and then down again. I pinch my eyes closed against the impending well of questions regarding what comes next, and bite the inside of my cheek to keep from spilling them. There is no what’s next. Hasn’t been since Axel.
What happened with Noah is simple. We had a few beers, admitted our mutual attraction, and let it culminate in a fit of sex. There was no admission of anything more, and spiraling about that now is pointless.
Uncomfortable with the way Noah’s body feels below mine, I slip away from his hands and do my best to avoid looking at him. He rolls over, flicks the light on and disappears towards the bathroom. In his absence I pull the comforter up to my chin and work through how I’m going to politely evade any kind of pillow talk. Before I can settle into pretending I’m asleep, Noah is back and clears his throat. I prop myself up on my elbow to face him and his sheepish grin.
“I don’t want to presume . . .” His pause opens the pit at the base of my stomach and I wait. “But the couch isn’t very comfortable.”
I fight a cringe, but the look on his face stops me from coming up with some kind of excuse. It’s the same face he wore when he insisted we didn’t have to play pretend for the Barkers. The same face that told me he wouldn’t press for more or force me into anything I didn’t want. In an effort to seem casual, I reach for the lamp and hope he doesn’t see the way my hand is trembling.
“Get in here. But if you steal the blankets, I’ll kick your ass back to the couch faster than you can say Dominos.”
Grinning, he slips into the bed, which suddenly feels far too small. Thankfully, he doesn’t curl up against me, or make any effort to touch, and I cling to that shred of separation with everything I have.
It was just sex and this is just sleeping.
Yet, as Noah drifts off, his breath coming in deep inhales and quiet exhales, a single thread of bitter truth curls among the snake pit of questions.
Whatever this was, is more than just sex.
There is a reason I tend to slip out before dawn or push my one night stands out of bed while we’re still buzzing with the remnants of an orgasm. Startling awake, naked, to a warm, albeit empty bed and the smell of coffee wafting in through the cracked doorway with the phantom of Noah’s hands all over me, reminds me of this reason.
It’s too personal to wake up to someone.
Without the haze of beer fueled flirtations, the weight of what we did threatens to swallow me whole.
“Fuck,” I croak, rolling over to bury my face in the pillows.
I inhale to let out a frustrated groan. Everything smells of Noah and sex, the lines of our agreement blurred beyond recognition. In the cold light of morning, the path we starteddown last night is terrifying, a brisk pop of what could be amidst the pretend play. Somewhere between sharing pieces of our past and flirting at the pool table, we crossed a line I’m not sure we can recover from.
But worse than not seeing a path is a chilling reality: I’m not sure I want to.
I mean, of course I do. We still have a deal to close, and a store to launch, and there are far too many questions I don’t want to ask or answer. Never mind the fact all that waits on the other side of this is the mess of a heartbreak for one or both of us. Pulling everything back into the professional space and forgetting last night is the only thing I can do. Any other option is too risky, for more than our professional roles.
Tugging the top sheet free, I keep it wrapped around my chest while I cross over to my bag and pull out a pair of leggings and a t-shirt. I dress quickly and ruffle my hair. Everything on this side of the bedroom door is settling into normal. Or, at least as normal as it can be after fake dating and for real fucking your boss on a business trip.
I’ve done casual, and the easy-breezy-after-sex brush off has my brand stamped all over it. There is no reason why I can’t walk out there and pull us sharply back into the bounds of propriety. Never mind the fact his face was between my legs a few hours ago. We can come back from that. We have to.Ihave to.
Padding down the hallway, I focus on inhaling and exhaling like someone who doesn’t have to think about it. Noah’s back is to me, a light blue t-shirt pulled tight around his shoulders as he uses a dustpan to sweep up the broken shards from the vase we broke last night. An electric thrill runs under my skin remembering the desperate clawing that led to the vase smashing against the hardwood and the way he carried me over it. It takes everything I have to keep my voice even.
“Good morning,” I chime, stepping past him and tucking my hair behind my ear.
He pivots on his toes and beams, his eyes sparkling with the unsaid.
