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But then I s
ee the hint of grey smudged across the skin beneath his eyes and something inside me flips over. ‘You haven’t slept at all?’
He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. ‘I shut my eyes a few times.’
I trained as a psychologist but, beyond that, it’s who I am. All thoughts of my own nakedness are forgotten. I drop the sheet and lean forward, concern etched on my face. ‘You have to sleep,’ I say urgently. ‘It’s important.’
He shrugs again. ‘I will.’
‘When?’
‘When I do.’ There’s a hint of impatience zipping through the answer, but I refuse to be cowed.
‘What is it?’ I ask, bringing my knees up under my chin and looking at him seriously.
‘Maybe it was the fact you were lying in my bed like this.’ His smile is a ghost of a smile. ‘Hard to sleep with a raging hard-on.’
I snatch a breath, holding it inside me, unable to exhale, unable to swallow. But I take the threads of our conversation and chase after them. ‘When did you last sleep? For more than ten minutes,’ I add before he can fob me off once more.
‘Does it matter?’ He strides towards the bed.
‘Yes. There are loads of things that can happen if you’re not sleeping properly. It’s dangerous and...’ He climbs in front of me and, as with last night—no, this morning, earlier—he presses a finger to my lips. I have no choice but to cease speaking.
‘How do you feel?’ His voice is gruff as he asks the question and my heart thumps.
‘I’m serious, Noah. We need to talk about this.’
‘Doc?’
I blink.
‘I thought you said you didn’t want to treat me.’
‘I don’t. I mean, not officially. But this is serious.’
‘I really don’t want you to be a therapist right now.’
I sink my teeth into my lower lip. ‘No?’
‘No.’
And he kisses me, hard, hard enough to press me back onto the bed, hard enough to make my head swim and my eyes close. His weight on top of me is the answer to a craving I didn’t realise I felt. The feeling of him, pressing me against the mattress, makes all my nerves tingle.
‘How do you feel?’ He asks the question as his fingers slide into the waistband of my underpants, finding my thong and loosening it, pushing it down my thighs.
My arms lift and wrap around his neck, my fingers tangling in the thick dark hair at his nape.
‘Doc?’ He drags his mouth down to my breast, rolling his tongue over my nipple, drawing me into his mouth so that I arch my back and cry out all at once. I feel his smile against me and have no way of verifying that my feeling is correct because my eyes are squeezed shut, allowing the deluge of sensations to ransack my body.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Good,’ I groan into the room, digging my fingernails into the sheets. How long has it been since a man has kissed me like this? Longer than five years. Five years since perfunctory, horrible, terrifying lovemaking with Aaron—so much longer since my body has been feted in this manner. He touches me as though I am made of porcelain and might break, and yet his kisses are savage and wild, thrilling me with their intensity and desperate need.
‘No headache?’
‘No!’ And I no longer want him to treat me like porcelain. ‘I’m fine!’ I say the words loudly and push at his chest, wrapping my legs around him as I topple him backwards. On top of him, I have a thrill of something like power and pleasure and it dances through my system, fascinating my nerve endings.
I need him, need him so badly I cannot think straight. I find his jeans and push them down, just low enough to expose his dick. It’s so hard and bloody huge that I have a momentary burst of doubt about what we’re about to do. I try not to make comparisons to Aaron—it wouldn’t be fair. No comparison to Noah seems fair, for any man.
