“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it,” I whisper, scared that he will take the words back, and I will have to return to my cold, lonely nights.
“I mean it.” His voice is barely restrained. Husky. Needy. His hand slides to cup my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. “Every fucking word.”
The intensity in his eyes destroys whatever resolve I have left. I lean down and capture his lips again, pouring everything I can’t say into the kiss—the weeks of frustration, the nights spent wondering what his hands would feel like on my skin, the aching want that’s been building since I yelled at him in the hotel lobby a year ago.
Noah responds immediately, his hand sliding back under my shirt to find the underside of my breast. When his thumb brushes over my nipple again, I can’t suppress the soft moan that escapes me.
“Fuck,” he groans against my mouth. “Need to feel you. All of you.”
His hands grip my waist, pulling me fully on top of him despite his injuries, and I feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against me through the thin towel.
“Your ribs—” I start to protest, but he cuts me off with another kiss.
“I don’t care,” he growls against my lips.
His hands begin pushing up my shirt, and I help him pull it over my head. The cool air hits my bare skin, making me shiver, but then his hands are on me, warm and sure, mapping every curve like he’s memorizing me by touch. Sitting here with no clothes on for the first time in front of him probably should make me at least slightly shy, but I feel bold and free.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes dark as they take me in. “So fucking beautiful.”
I reach for the towel around his waist with my trembling, greedy fingers. “You’re overdressed.”
“We need to remedy that,” he breathes, lifting his hips slightly so I can unwrap him like the best Christmas gift.
When the towel is finally pulled away, I can’t help but stare. Noah King does not have anatomical inadequacies. Definitely not.
I bite my lip, heat pooling to my belly as I take in the sight of him. Even bruised and battered, Noah is magnificent—all lean muscle and barely restrained power. The towel had been hiding a lot, and now there’s nothing between us but the thin fabric of my underwear and his evident longing.
“Having second thoughts?” he asks, and I sense a note of vulnerability beneath the teasing tone.
“No.” I lean down to kiss him again, slower this time, savoring the way he groans into my mouth when I shift my hips against him. “Just appreciating the view.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest, followed immediately by a wince. “You’re going to kill me.”
“That’s the opposite of what I’m trying to do,” I say, trailing kisses along his jaw, careful of the bruises. “Tell me if anything hurts.”
“The only thing that hurts is how much I want you,” he says, his hands sliding down to grip my hips. “Been driving me insane since you started working for me.”
I pull back to look at him. “Only that long?”
“Maybe before,” he admits as his thumb traces the waistband of my panties. “Maybe since the island. But definitely since you started working for me and wearing those fucking skirts.”
“You noticed my skirts?” I can’t hide the smug smile in my voice—I’ve been weaponizing them against him every chance I get.
“I notice everything about you, Bea.” His eyes are intense, almost fevered. “The way you bite your lip when you’re concentrating. Or how you tap your pen against your desk when you’re annoyed. And the way your eyes flash when you’re about to tell me off.” His hands roam up the length of my whole body as he speaks before settling back down at the crease of my hips. “I’ve memorized every one of your tells, Bea.”
“That’s kind of stalkerish.” I try to giggle, but my words come out breathy because I like his confession a little too much.
“Maybe.” He slides his hands around to cup my ass, pulling me tighter against his hips where his very large abundance twitches right under my heated core. “But you followed me to a fight club, so we’re even.”
I can’t argue with that logic, especially not when the friction between us is making coherent thought nearly impossible. I rock my hips experimentally, and we both groan at the sensation.
“Fuck, Bea,” he hisses, tightening his grip. “Need you. Now.”
“Patience,” I murmur, even though patience is the last thing I have right now, but I’m realizing that I enjoy this power I have over him between my legs.
My hands explore his chest carefully, mapping the planes of muscle marred by fresh bruises. When I lean down to press a kiss to an unmarked patch of skin near his collarbone, he shudders beneath me.
“I don’t think I can handle this much longer,” he growls, tangling one hand in my hair to pull me back up for another scorching kiss.
