Page 33

L ast night’s planned devouring of Noah took a sharp detour to Snoozeville as soon as we stepped outside the bar, and the freezing evening air hit my lungs. Asleep before we left the parking lot, I don’t remember one second of the trip or how I came to be tucked into bed in my coziest pj’s. The logical conclusion is that Noah carried me inside, dressed me, then left me to sleep.

Swoon.

On waking, I discovered I have my first ever hangover and I’m weirdly excited by that. Even as I vomit so hard aTwizzlerI ate six years ago hits the toilet bowl with a splash. Yup, they taste just as bad coming back up.

A steaming hot shower brings back a sense of humanity, brushing my teeth three times even more so. As I study myself in the mirror, I can’t help thinking back to my birthday, and my depresso song. Maybe I need to update the lyrics?

“Happy not birthday to you, happy not birthday to you, happy not birthday you not so stupid, pathetic, or lonely loser with a hot secret hockey player boyfriend you’re going to have sex with once I don’t feel like deathhh … happy not birthday to you.”

Hmm. I think I’m still a bit tipsy.

After making myself slightly more presentable, I leave the bathroom in search of my hat-trick scoring hockey god, happy that I now know what a hat-trick is. My head throbs like a mother each step I take, but on entering my kitchen all pain is erased by what has to be the best hangover known to mankind; a soon to be pro hockey player sitting on my bench shirtless, his BC cap on backwards while eating lucky charms. It’s the very thing I never knew I needed, and I’m fairly sure if I could bottle this feeling, I could make a fortune.

Leaning against the door jam, I watch Noah eat, the now familiar clenching of my heart steals my breath away. Each moment I spend with the big lug I fall further.

He’s going to leave you. He’s going to break your heart.

Ugh. Why do I have to find the perfect guy at the most imperfect time?

It’s just so me.

He takes another mouthful of cereal, and I trace the stray drop of milk that slips from his lips and slides down his chin. Before I can stop myself I rush to stand before him, and practically leap to lick his neck, catching the creamy goodness just as it passes his pulse point.

Not missing a beat, any remaining contents of the bowl splash against the floor and up the cupboard doors as Noah drops the bowl. “Jesus Christ, Lotte. You drive me crazy.” As he pulls me into his lap, he snarls, “Can I fuck you right here, Lot? Can I slip inside and make you come like a good little girl?”

Lifting my ass and tugging my pants down is all the reply I give. Holding me to him with one hand, Noah shows his impressive core strength and does the same. His cock, already hard and deliciously red, springs free between us. I take one look and know what I need.

“Please,” I beg, “Bend me over the bench, Noah. Take me from behind.” Even on the ice, I’ve never seen him move so fast. I giggle as he wraps his arm around my waist and slides us from the bench. Not letting my feet hit the ground, he spins me mid-air and folds me forward, cracking his hand over my bare ass then smoothing his palm over the tender flesh. “Fuck me, baby. Fuck me hard.”

On a grunt that shakes me to my core, Noah roughly pushes my legs apart and fucks into me, the force of his entry sees my stomach slam into the laminate, but the pain only adds to the intensity because all I can smell is Noah, fresh from the shower, his hair smelling of apples and spice. All I can feel is Noah, his thick cock filling me so completely, and all I want is Noah. Every single part of him.

It’s almost too much.

Almost.

Grinning, I close my eyes and push my ass back, meeting every punishing thrust. “Your pussy feels like heaven, but you should see how good you look, Lotte.” He folds himself forward, his soft, still damp chest slides against my back as he nips then growls into my ear. “How that ass shakes each time I slap it.”

“I can see. Look to your left.”

It’s almost winter, barely light, and with the kitchen lights shining bright above us, the sliding doors that open up to my little balcony act as a mirror. All long limbs and thick, defined muscle, Noah turns his head, and pauses, eyes widening to see our bodies moving as one. My ass is wagging in the air like a wanton slut, my boobs are pressed into the bench, my hair is a damn mess. “Someone call a priest cause you look like every fucking sin in the bible.”

“Yeah, well why don’t you come on my ass and call it holy water.”

“Fuck.”

Hips pistoning, all control lost, Noah fists my hair, tugs my head back and kisses over my shoulder so hard and deep I feel dizzy. Every sense known to humanity is aflame and when he slips his hand between my pelvis and the bench, it takes only one perfect stroke of my clit to have me coming harder than I knew possible. I cry out, not only from the scorching hot orgasm but because I’m suddenly empty, Noah is grunting, and hot cum is splattering over my ass cheeks. “Consider your soul saved.”

It’s not until Noah lovingly - no, not lovingly - thoroughly, cleans us both with a warm cloth, then redresses me, that I remember my roommate. “Shit!! Why do I keep forgetting she lives here?” I whine, as we huddle frozen in place.

Noah defrosts enough to lean and whisper into my ear, igniting a fresh wave of lust that feels super slutty considering what we’ve just done. “Because she’s always with Troye. I’m here more than she is. Maybe I should move in.”

Yes, please. My immediate thought strikes with such force I fear it was screamed at the top of my lungs. The lack of response by the giant hovering over me is the only thing convincing me I kept it in. Still, I’m rattled. “I’m sure Claire would be thrilled,” I say, my tone extra sassy to cover my fluster.

“Shit, Lotte. She’s not giving you heat about us, is she?”

Shaking my head, I slip Noah’s all-consuming touch and head to the bedroom. If Quinn is here, I need to apologize for the grade-A sex noises. If she’s not, I need to drag Noah into bed and make some more. “Wearing your jersey last night made her suspicious, but no, not really.”

“Well, you let me know if she does. You have enough on your plate. School, the cafe, another Doctor visit. Not to mention this Professor Carole rubbish.” The running tally of woes all but snuffs out my simmering desire, and the mood kill must be obvious. Pulling me up a few steps from Quinn’s door, Noah cups the back of my head in his palm and pulls me against his chest. “You know you can talk to me, don’t you? Especially about your … about Carole. This thing between us, I want it to be more than just sex. If things were different … if I wasn’t leaving—”

“But you are.”

“We could always try long distance? Others do?”

Hope, the tiniest scrap of it ignites and flickers in my heart, it’s quickly snuffed out by years of pessimistic martyrdom. “Yes, and I’m sure the success rate of relationships between college sweethearts and NHL rookies is through the roof.”

Once again, I pull free of Noah’s grip. Giving up on my apology to Quinn, I turn on my heels and head to my room, a new found determination to spend the day sulking beneath my blankets too strong to deny. “I’m tired, and you better get home before Claire gets any more suspicious. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Eyes fluttering with a surge of tics, I slam the door behind me, flop into bed and bury myself in darkness.

“Nope.”

With a whoosh of cold air, light permeates my hidey-hole and plunges me back into reality. “We are not doing this again, Lotte.”

The mattress dips as Noah flops beside me, reaches above to fluff a pillow then arrogantly tucks his hands behind his head.

“Sorry, what? I thought I asked you to leave?”

“No. You didn’t ask me to leave, you told me to then slammed the door in my face. It was quite rude.”

“Yet here you are.”

On a huff, Noah rolls onto his side. Unruly waves flop into his eyes and his freckled cheek is squished against his bulging bicep. He looks unreasonably cute. “That’s right, because like I said, we are not doing this again.”

“And prey tell, young Petterson. What am I doing that we are not doing again?”

“We’re not having fun, then talking, then getting offended, embarrassed, or snooty, then running away. We’re pretending we are nothing outside these doors, Little D, but there’s nothing fake in the way I feel about you.”

Swooning is not what I need right now but damn it if it’s not what I do. Heat I’m sure he can feel radiates from my burning cheeks, and with my blanket still out of reach, he can see it, too.

“Tell me what I said wrong, little one. Let me make it better.”

“You can’t always swoop in and fix me, Noah.”

“I’m not trying to fix you. I’m trying to fix what I did and help you.”

“To help fix me.”

“No, to support you. Nothing about you needs fixing.”

“Pfft. Not even my tics? Or my diet, or messy tooth brushing, or my father—” I cut myself short.

There’s a convenient tendril, or ten, hanging before my eyes that give me the slightest cover from Noah’s all-stare, but he delicately sweeps them from my face, leaving me bare and open. Defenseless in the tender eyes of a gentle giant.

“Look. Whoever your father is or isn’t is of no concern to me. All I care about is you. Now, I know you are afraid to open up, especially to me, but you can’t keep hiding from everything. Me. Marty. Claire. And Quinn if she ever shows face, need you and want to help you as much as you want to help everyone else. There is no shame in needing help, or being vulnerable. Only strength in admitting it.”

“Then why does it feel so hard?” Plump tears soak my pillow as something long ago buried inside me resurfaces. “I’ve been alone for a long time, and dreamed of something like this.” I motion between us, “happening for even longer. But it feels like as soon as something good happens to me, something or someone takes it away. That you’ll be taken away. Then there’s Carole. The prospect of learning my parentage should be a gift, but I cannot express how deeply I need it not to be him.” I bury my face into the big warm chest before me, using it as a tissue as well as a source of comfort. “He’s so horrible, Noah. He can’t be … but what if he is? And what if he finds out? Would that make things better or worse, or. Oh my God, what if he already knows and that is why he’s so horrible? What does that say about me?”

Noah kisses the top of my head and pulls me closer. “It says nothing about you and everything about him.”

“You have to say that because you’re my boyfriend-” Wishing I could melt into a pool of shame, I peep like a mouse and press myself deeper into Noah’s warmth. “I didn’t mean that.”

Another kiss is pressed to the crown on my head. “What if I wanted you to mean it? I could introduce myself as, Noah Petterson, boyfriend of Charlotte West, Sex Bomb.”

“We agreed not to tell anyone.” I whine, giggle and sniff, tears still stream down my face.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t call me your boyfriend. Even if it is just between us. Who better to help you through a tough time.”

No one. I don’t say.

For once, I give myself permission to feel. To risk being too much. To let myself fall apart in front of another. As horrible as I feel, that feels great.