A wave of liquid squirts out of me, followed by another and another.
Every nerve in my body sings, every muscle in my core tensing then releasing as arousal and warmth guide me through a beautiful, soul-aligning climax.
When Noah finally releases my clit, he kisses my pussy and rests his chin on top of my mound.
“So fucking sweet,” he murmurs, desire and yearning and love radiating from him.
I prop my arms up behind me, but before I can sit up, he smooths a hand up the center of my chest, pushing me back.
“Lie back, honey. I’m nowhere near done with you.”
Chapter thirty-seven
Mercer
Snow falls outside the kitchen window. There’s a heaviness to the way it’s coming down now, every flake urgent and weighted in its descent.
If it continues at this rate, there’s a real chance I’ll have to cancel class on Monday. Snow closures are a rarity at Holt University. Lore has it that someone tried to sue the institution in the nineties, citing they “didn’t get their money’s worth” after bad weather shut down campus for three days. Now for the most part, it’s up to professors to cancel a class at their discretion.
After the number of classes I’ve canceled so far this semester, I can’t in good conscience do it again. So I’m secretly hopingfor at least one university-sanctioned snow day, if only so I can hide away and properly reacquaint myself with the woman I’m hopelessly in love with.
The floorboards creak, and a heartbeat later, Tytus meanders into the kitchen and tips his chin in acknowledgment. Then, silently, he sidles up to the sink.
I watch him, considering how to handle this next part. After the events of last night, a headache throbs behind my temples and the whole world feels fuzzy, but the opportunity has risen, so I will take it.
With his back to me, he runs the water, then adds dish soap.
“Would you like some help?” I offer. I should have already started on the dishes, honestly, but I’ve been too lost in my head all morning to think straight. Too preoccupied by the story Sawyer and Tytus shared and concern over the extent of the damage I caused.
Tytus glances over, the sharp angle of his jaw making his scowl even more pronounced. Onyx eyes as dark as my own bore into me. “I’ve got it,” he says flatly.
Jaw clenched, I hover. It feels wrong to sit back down and watch him do the dishes. After an awkward beat where he is focused on the water filling the basin and I’m watching him, I snag the towel hanging from the handle of the stove so I can offer to dry.
When I turn, he’s lifting the cast iron skillet Noah used to cook (more like burn) the eggs in, a tense pull at the corners of his mouth.
I rush back to the sink, one arm outstretched. “Here, allow me.”
With a grunt, he angles his body away from me. “I said I’ve got it.”
As if to prove him wrong, the pan slips from his hand and lands in the soapy water, splashing all over the counter. And us.
Got it, he does not.
“Fuckin’ A,” he curses under his breath.
“Are you hurt?”
Surely he’s been given restrictions, and that skillet must weigh at least five pounds.
With a sharp breath in, he grips the sides of the sink, head hanging low.
“I’m fine,” he clips out through gritted teeth.
Considering the way his knuckles have turned white, he certainly is not.
“Fuck.” He straightens and tugs at the front of his shirt, which is now soaked.
He lifts the hem away from his body and tugs it up, inspecting the bandages scattered across his stomach.
