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“Yeah.” He sits up. He’s not smiling, but there’s a sort of quiet intensity to him that sends a shiver through me. “Why not? You scared?”
A mad momentum moves me forward, like when you’re running down a hill and realise you can no longer stop. I climb onto his lap, balancing myself with my hands around his neck as I straddle him. His hands immediately move to my waist, his fingers on the exposed skin between my bustier and the high waistband of my velvet trousers. He pulls me closer. We’re almost face-to-face, with mine a little higher than his.
For a second, we just stare at each other.
My heart is in my throat, making it harder to breathe. I’m so nervous my skin tingles as if there’s electricity trapped underneath it.
Noah reaches up to brush a long strand of blond hair from my shoulder. His fingers tickle the skin of my neck, then his hand falls away. He tilts his head.
“Seraphina,” he says.
My heartbeat stutters. “Nobody calls me that.”
“Why not?” he asks. “It’s a pretty name. Beautiful and posh, like you.”
Now we’re so close, the conversation feels strangely intimate, even though it’s not really—we’re only talking about my name. But his skin is touching mine, and his voice is low and a little deep, and I can smell him, soap and detergent and his stupid spray, and the fragrance of him wraps around me like a silk scarf.
People don’t call me Seraphina because I always thought my name was embarrassing. When I started at Spearcrest, I always introduced myself as Miss Rosenthal instead. People started calling me Rosenthal and then, eventually, everyone started shortening it to Rose. I have some friends now that don’t even know my real name, friends who think my name is literally “Rose Rosenthal.”
But I don’t want to tell Noah I’m Miss Rosenthal, and I don’t want him to call me Rose. I don’t want him to call me by the same name as everybody else.
“It’s just a bit… over-the-top,” I try to explain.
“Well, what would you prefer to be called?” he asks. His voice is deep and calm. I wish I was as calm as he seems. His eyes glint with a sparkle of amusement. “Shall I call you Sephie? Darling? Angel?Princess?”
“I absolutely don’t want you to call me princess,” I say, frowning down at him. “That’s a name for a pet, not a person.”
“But you look like a princess,” he says, running his fingers down the long gold strands resting on my shoulders. “All that golden hair…”
He gives a little half smile, showing me that long dimple in his cheek. My heart twists in my chest. I open my mouth to assure him I’m no princess.
But then he reaches up and kisses me and the words on my tongue fade to nothing.
Chapter 9
Blue Balls Belle
Noahkissesmeslowlybut not lazily. And there are no fireworks or earthquakes. It’s not like in movies, with two people holding on to each other as if their kiss is their lifeline.
It’s not like that at all.
Instead, it’s… soft. Soft and warm and slow. Noah’s mouth is unhurried and tender. Small kisses, to begin with, the pressing and clinging of closed lips. One of his hands caresses my waist, the other rises to cradle my face. His fingers hold me firmly, pushing on my chin to tilt my head as he tilts his. He opens his mouth against mine, slowly, sweetly. His tongue brushes against my lips, against my tongue. His fingers dig into my waist a little harder.
I melt against him like butter on warm bread.
I melt in the heat of his slow kisses, his skin on mine, the wet warmth of his tongue.
Wrapping my hands around his neck, I pull him closer, deepening our kiss. I can’t quite believe how good this feels. Heat floods my cheeks, my chest, my stomach. Heat pools between my legs, where I’m hot and tight and pulsing.
I can’t quite explain it, but this feels like a first kiss. Like being young and kissing for the first time, that sensation of doing something life-changing and forbidden—almost taboo. I squirm on Noah’s lap and arch closer to him, and it’s honestly a miracle I’m managing to hold back the whimpers of pleasure rising to my throat.
Noah finally breaks the kiss, pulling away softly. My lips tingle, alive with sensation. His warm breath ghosts over my wet mouth. He speaks in a murmur.
“Where do you like to be kissed, princess?”
I blink down at him, dazed with pleasure and surprise. I barely register the nickname—his question smoulders in my mind, casting shifting light and shadows over my thoughts. Nobody’s ever asked me that question before. I try to respond, but my voice breaks. I swallow hard and answer.
“Anywhere you like.”
