He was spent, absolutely exhausted and shivering. His eyelids closed as I kissed them. Held his head in my arms and just tried to remember who the hell I was and where all this had suddenly come from.
Noah. Right there. Deep, noisy breaths coming from somewhere deep inside of him.
My lips firmly on his forehead.
I wanted more. Wanted to kiss his mouth and tell him far too many words. Wanted to keep his softening cock inside of me even though he’d already slipped out. My arse was cold and loose, and his skin was everything against mine.
“That okay?” he finally whispered.
Oh my darling. Okay? Was that okay? He’d just completely destroyed everything I’d ever been, and he asked if it was okay?
I wanted to laugh. Instead, I swallowed a sob.
“You’re amazing,” I whispered back. Then I just rocked him in my arms because I had no more words to say.
Chapter 7
Noah
We lay on the bed, in an awkward embrace for what seemed like an eternity of quiet comfort. Until it no longer was, and I felt embarrassingly lost for words. His head still against my chest, and my hands once again playing with his hair.
“Never cut this,” I whispered. “It’s the most beautiful thing ever.”
“It covers the bald bits at the front. I’ll have to cut it eventually; I’m not going to be that pathetic bloke with a bad comb-over.”
“You’d be perfect, even if you were bald.”
“That’s a total contradiction.” He smiled. I could feel his facial movementsagainst my chest.
Then we were silent again. Just his fingers tapping over my chest. The slow movement of his breathing. The fan whirring in slow circles above our heads.
I was honestly still a little bit in shock because this had not been my plan, and how I’d gone from the stern decision in my head to carry him back to where he’d come from to… I was now lying here hoping he’d never leave. That I could just carry on this charade forever.
“You said,” he started, then he moved. I didn’t like it. Didn’t want him to. But he leant up and adjusted himself until he had his chin on my chest and was looking straight at me. “You said you were bad at sex. Where the hell did you get that from?”
“I’m usually too shy to make a move. I never really do. I don’t know, it’s, like, a confidence thing. I’m not…like you. I don’t walk around naked and swing my dick in people’s faces.”
“I don’t swing my cock in people’s faces.” He pouted, that glitter back in the corner of his eye.
“You did. All morning.”
“Bah.” He grinned. “And then you just got up and stripped and stuck that big, fat finger of yours up my arse.”
“Oh, we’re debriefing, I see? Someone stuck that arse in my face, and I just did the polite thing.”
This was me being stupid. Also? Him being absolutely sweet.
“I loved it. Loved how you took charge and made me feel good. It’s a skill. You’re really good at topping. Put me right to shame. I’m usually a bit more reserved with using my mouth. Lube is good. Fingers. But I have small hands, and everyone has different likes and dislikes.”
“Yep. I like…everything. You have a spectacular arse.”
“Thank you.” That smile on him. Bigger than the sun. “So, you ever bottom?”
“I…I don’t have sex much,” I admitted. Might as well. I was just being honest. “Maybe once…in a blue moon. When I get desperate, and sometimes I get desperate, then not desperate enough not to chicken out.”
“Relatable,” he said. Surprising. He didn’t seem like the chickening-out kind of guy. I said that out loud as well.
“I’m shy too, especially around hot guys,” he obviously lied. There was nothing shy about him. Nothing at all. “And then I lose my nerve. I’m more of a relationship kind of guy, when sex becomes a comfort.”
