I flatten my hand against his bare chest, feeling the ragged rhythm of his heart, the uneven rise and fall of his ribs under my palm.
The skin on his chest is surprisingly warm and smooth, a contrast to the stubble on his jaw. I feel a crazy urge to map every inch of him, to find every tender spot and soothe it, to see if I can learn the blueprint of him by touch alone.
I want to treat him like he treats his designs—so careful of the details, spending unrestrained hours researching each area before starting to draw, and pouring his whole soul into it.
He is a work of art too that nature has created. The perfection of every ridge and groove of his scarred body. And even with dark bruises over his chest and face, he looks like another world wonder. I’ve never been attracted to brute force before, but Noah is shifting my perspective of reality, it seems. Seeing him bloodied after a battle has called to something primal in me, and the primal in me has responded.
Noah breaks away from the kiss first. His forehead drops to mine, his breaths come in short, pained bursts. He’s trembling, or maybe I am. Our noses brush and our lips are barely a whisper apart, but we are not doing any more of that wonderful thing we were just doing. Why? Why aren’t we?
I can feel his restraint, the way he’s holding himself back, with every muscle in his body strung tight.
“Fuck, Bea,” he rasps, and his voice breaks somewhere between a want and a warning. His hand tightens in my hair but doesn’t pull me closer or push me away, just anchors me exactly where he wants me. For now. He’s clearly at war with himself, and for once, I want him to lose that war.
“We really shouldn’t,” he mumbles, but it comes out more like a plea than a command.
“I know,” I agree, but my actions contradict my words as I lean in to kiss him again, unable to stop now that I’ve started. The rational part of my brain is screaming that this is a mistake—he’s my boss slash brother-in-law’s brother slash someone who-has-not-been-nice-to-me; he’s injured, and we’re both emotionally raw—but my body wants what feels good.
His hand slides from my hair to my waist, pulling me closer until I’m half on top of him, every point of contact between us electric.
“Your ribs,” I murmur against his lips, bracing myself with one hand on the mattress even as my body screams for more contact.
“Don’t care,” he growls, sliding his hand under the hem of my sleep shirt, letting his fingers splay across the bare skin of my lower back. The touch sends shivers racing up my spine.
His lips leave mine to trail along my jaw, down the column of my throat, and I tilt my head to give him better access. My eyes flutter closed as he finds a sensitive spot just below my ear, histeeth grazing the skin before soothing it with his warm tongue. A soft moan escapes me before I can stop it.
“God, the sounds you make,” he whispers against my neck, his voice is husky with desire. “Been wondering about them for weeks.”
The confession sends heat pooling low in my belly. “You have?”
“Mmm.” His hand keeps sliding higher under my shirt, tracing the ridges of my spine. “Especially when you get that little crease between your eyebrows when you’re concentrating. Makes me want to know what other expressions I can force you to make.”
I pull back to look at him, feeling heat flooding my cheeks at his admission. His eyes are dark with want, and I can feel the tension coiled in his body beneath my hands.
“What kind of expressions?” I whisper, empowered by the desire I see written across his face.
Noah’s hand tightens on my waist, his thumb tracing circles on my skin that make me shiver. “The kind you’re making right now,” he murmurs. “Looking all flushed and breathless.”
I lean down to kiss him again, unable to resist his words. His lips move against mine with increasing urgency, his hand sliding higher still under my shirt until his palm covers my ribs and his thumb brushes just beneath my breast, making me arch into his touch instinctively. His thumb brushes across my nipple, and I gasp against his mouth at the sensation. My body feels electric, hypersensitive to every touch, to every brush of his skin against mine.
“Noah,” I whisper, his name is a plea for something his body might not be ready for.
He groans in response, the sound vibrating through his chest against my palm. His kiss deepens, growing more urgent as his hand kneads my breast gently, thumb circling my nipple until ithardens beneath his touch. I press myself into him, forgetting about his injuries for a moment, and he winces slightly. It’s barely there, but I notice it.
“Sorry,” I murmur, pulling back immediately. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Noah’s eyes are dark, intense as they lock with mine. “I’ve had worse. Don’t stop.”
But the reminder of his injuries breaks through the haze of want clouding my judgment. I sit back slightly, my hand still resting on his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my palm.
“We should slow down,” I say, even as my body screams in protest. “You’re hurt, and I’m?—”
“Mine. You are mine.”
31
Bea
His words are morepotent than any aphrodisiac I could ever have.
