“You really do like this.”
“I really like you.”
“Diplomatic.”
“I’m attempting to retain a shred of control.”
He laughed, then leaned closer.
The first warm brush of his mouth stripped away every coherent thought.
“Noah.”
He did it again, slower this time, watching my face as he learned exactly what affected me.
When his mouth closed around me, my hands gripped the chair.
The sound I made lacked all dignity.
Noah drew back just enough to look satisfied.
“That was convincing.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been imagining this.”
“Since when?”
“Since we began discussing condoms upstairs.”
A laugh escaped me and turned into a groan when he returned to what he had been doing.
His touch was exploratory rather than practiced, and that made the intimacy almost unbearable. He learned from each breath and involuntary movement. He adjusted the pressure of his hand, the warmth of his mouth, the rhythm that steadily stripped thought from me.
I touched his hair.
“Still comfortable?”
He made a soft sound of agreement.
The vibration nearly pushed me over the edge.
I caught his shoulder.
“I’m close.”
He pulled back, lips damp, eyes dark.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Do you want to finish?”
“Yes.”
He leaned in again.
