“Love, you gotta pull up now.I’m gonna come.”
She shakes her head, gripping me tighter, moving with more confidence now, and Christ, that’s it.
That’s the moment I lose the last scrap of control I had.
This started as something else entirely.
A way to show her she’s wanted.
Desired.
Unbelievably sexy.
I thought maybe if she saw what she does to me—how completely she owns my attention—she’d stop doubting herself and us.
What I didn’t expect?
Is how watching her like this makes me feel.
Proud.
Protective.
Absolutely ruined for any other woman on earth.
My hands slide into her hair, not forcing—never that—but holding, steadying, my head tipping back as the sensation crashes through me.
“Chiara, bloody hell.Fuck.Chiara.My Chiara.”
Her name comes out like a prayer.
And when the wave finally hits, it takes everything with it.
Every bit of restraint.
Every thought except her.
For a few seconds, the world shrinks down to the two of us in the physio room, her kneeling on the floor, the quiet hum of the lights overhead, and the feeling that this woman—this stubborn, brilliant, curvy little hurricane—has somehow worked her way straight into my bones.
When the last of it fades, I’m already moving.
Because if she thinks this was one-sided, she’s out of her mind.
I sink down in front of her, catching her by the waist as she starts to shift.
“Whoa there, love,” I murmur.
With a gentle push to her chest, she ends up stretched out on the mat, brown curls spilling around her head.
Her eyes widen slightly.
“Noah—”
“Shh.”
I trail my fingers along her hip, slow and deliberate, watching the way her breathing changes.
“You really think I’m letting you walk out of here without returning the favor?”
