I can’t help but smile back, even as I continue. “You make my life hell on a daily basis. You’re stubborn and controlling and?—”
“And yet,” he interrupts softly, “you followed me tonight.”
The reminder makes heat crawl up my neck. “I was curious.”
“Curious,” he repeats, testing the word in his mouth. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
I swallow hard, suddenly aware of how close we are, of the warmth of his body radiating through the thin cotton of my sheets. My mouth feels dry, and I’m acutely aware of every point where our bodies are almost touching—his knee brushing mine, the way his chest rises and falls just inches away.
“What would you call it?” I whisper back, my voice barely audible.
Noah’s eyes drop to my lips for just a moment before meeting mine again. “Dangerous. You are very dangerous, Beatrice Wrong.”
30
Bea
The word sendsa thrill through my body that I probably shouldn’t be excited about. Everything about this situation screams that I should extract myself, put distance between us, and go back to maintaining professional boundaries.
So, naturally, in my best fashion, I find myself leaning slightly closer.
“Maybe I like dangerous,” I admit, surprised by my own boldness.
His deep intake of breath is audible in the quiet room. “Bea.”
There’s a warning in the way he says my name, but also something else—want, maybe, or need. His hand releases mine only to slide up my arm, his fingers trailing fire along my skin until his palm cups my face.
“This is a bad idea,” he murmurs, but even as he says it, his thumb traces lines across my cheekbone.
“Terrible idea,” I agree, my pulse racing as I lean into his touch.
“We’ll regret it in the morning.”
“Probably.” But I don’t move away. If anything, I shift closer, drawn by the heat in his eyes and the gentle pressure of his hand against my face.
For a moment, we just stare at each other in the dim light, suspended in this fragile space between what we want and what we know is right. His thumb traces the curve of my cheek, leaving a trail of heat that makes it nearly impossible to breathe.
“Tell me to stop,” Noah whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “Tell me this is a mistake. Tell me, or I won’t be able to stop.”
But I can’t. “I don’t want you to stop.”
His breath catches, a muscle working in his jaw as he fights some internal battle. Then his hand slides to the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair, and he pulls me closer with agonizing slowness.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, his lips a breath away from mine. “Say no, and we’ll blame this on the concussion in the morning and go back to our regular lives.”
Instead of answering, I close the distance between us, pressing my lips to his. For one heart-stopping moment, he’s completely still. Then something breaks loose inside him, and he’s kissing me back.
His lips are softer than I imagined, moving against mine with a gentleness that contrasts the firm grip of his hand on my neck. It’s nothing like I expected—not rough or demanding, but careful, almost reverent. Like he’s afraid I might shatter if he presses too hard. The man in the ring was raw and uncontrolled. This man is soft, deliberate, and I’m okay with that.
I reach up, my fingers grazing the stubble along his jaw, careful to avoid the bruises blooming there. He makes a sound deep in his throat—part groan, part sigh—and deepens the kissas his tongue traces the seam of my lips in a silent question. Who knew Noah King could be so gentle?
I open for him without hesitation, and the first touch of his tongue against mine sends heat spiraling through me. Like a jolt of lightning that shoots electricity straight through my core.
The kiss shifts from careful to hungry in an instant, his hand tightening in my hair as he angles my head to get closer. Deeper. I can feel the man from the ring returning with strength radiating from him. I taste the faint mint of toothpaste and something I’ve never had before.
Home. Noah King tastes like home.
My heart is hammering so loud it’s probably audible over the traffic outside, or maybe it’s just that every other sense has narrowed to this: Noah’s breath on my lips, the heat of his bruised chest under my palm, the way his hand is cradling my neck like I’m something fragile and precious.
