I slide my hand between us and push his boxer briefs down just enough to get my hand around him, precum smearing all over my fingers before I even manage a stroke. His breath catches, his hips jerking forward into my grip.
“Fuck, Connor,” he gasps, his head falling back against the mattress.
I move my hand, giving him one slow stroke from base to tip. Noah makes a broken sound, his hand shooting out to grab my wrist. Not to push me away. Just to hold me there.
“Not good?” I ask, anxiety cutting through the haze.
“No,” he breathes. “Too good.”
I smirk and do it again, slower, watching his face as his mouth falls open and his eyes lose focus. He’s so beautiful like this, completely undone by my touch, and I want to see more.
I give him another stroke, loving how responsive he is.
“Connor,” Noah gasps again, his voice breaking.
But just as I start to move my hand faster, Noah’s palm presses flat against my chest, stopping me.
“Are you okay?” I ask, trying to read his expression. Did I hurt him? Move too fast?
Noah stares up at me, his chest rising and falling with each quick breath. His eyes are wide, serious, his cheeks flushed deep red.
Then he says, “Exactly how drunk are you?”
The question catches me off guard.
“A bit,” I say, still trying to catch my breath. Then I understand what he’s really asking. “Don’t worry,” I add. “I know what I’m doing, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
Noah nods, but he’s still watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Like he’s trying to see inside my head and make sure I’m really here with him.
I frown, suddenly wondering if maybeI’mthe one who should be worried.
“Wait—areyoudrunk?”
He shakes his head, still watching me with that searching look.
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, both of us breathing hard. Then I lean down and kiss him on the lips again, just for reassurance.
Noah blinks, as if he’s been pulled out of his own head, then smiles at me.
I smile back, and then we’re kissing again. Hotter now. Messier. Like neither of us wants to waste another second.
Noah’s fingers twist in my hair, and the sound he makes against my mouth—helpless, unguarded—drives me wild. I pull him closer, my hand sliding up under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin and the quick rise and fall of his ribs.
He wants this.
That’s the thing that keeps hitting me.
Noah wants me.
I drag my mouth from his, pressing my lips to his jaw, then his throat, then the hollow beneath it. Noah’s breath hitches. His hands move over my shoulders, my back, his fingertips digging in like he’s trying to find something to hold on to. I push the collar of his shirt aside and kiss the curve of his shoulder.
He smells incredible. Warm skin, the barest trace of whatever soap he used in the shower. I press a kiss to his collarbone, then another to the center of his sternum as I work his shirt up with both hands. He helps, lifting his arms so I can pull it over his head, and then he’s almost completely bare.
Well, except for his boxer briefs clinging low to his hips.
