Page 44

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

Blood and mead rush to my head as I bolt upright and we scramble for the tent.

I sway in place for a moment while Noah hurriedly tugs at the zipper to the entrance.

When it catches against the plastic, he curses, nearly tearing it off in his haste to get inside.

I wonder briefly why we’re bothering with the tent at all.

I peer out into the night, but with no moon in sight and the sun gone hours ago, I can’t see anything farther than the bubble of light cast by our own dying campfire.

Before I have a chance to fully think it through, Noah finally unlatches the flap and tugs me inside.

Thank fuck we’d already prepped everything when we assembled the tent.

Noah had lined the floor with cushioned sleeping pads, two separate sleeping bags (just in case—what a gentleman), the quilt from his van, several pillows, and a small solar-powered lantern.

“It would have been too heavy to carry all this on a real backpacking trip,” Noah had teased earlier.

“But for your first time, Sadie, I’ve ensured maximum comfort. ”

As I move to step in after him, Noah stops me with an outstretched hand. “No shoes.”

I kick off my sandals. “Anything else you’d like me to take off?”

His eyes darken. “All in good time.”

As Noah zips up the tent behind me, I realize how intimate the space is.

It’s smaller than the bed in Noah’s van, and even crouched as I am, my head brushes the top where the poles intersect in the middle.

Already Noah’s sprawled out in the nest of blankets and sleeping bags, peering up at me through half-lidded eyes.

Curling his hand around mine, he gently leads me down until I’m lying at his side, propped up on my elbow.

The space between us feels charged with electricity, but I’m not sure how to make the connection again.

I’m not sure where to start.

Noah closes the distance between us. He reaches out to run two fingertips down the curve of my cheek. “Tell me what you want, Sadie.”

I short-circuit at the question. What do I want?

I’m used to following someone else’s lead.

I hadn’t seen anyone seriously in the years since college—I was far too focused on my career for romance, I’d told myself—but I’d had a handful of half-enthusiastic hookups.

They’d all known what they wanted from me, whether it was a rough make-out session pressed against the wall in the corner of a sticky dance floor, or ten minutes of quick, unsatisfying missionary on a mattress (sans bed frame) in a Williamsburg apartment. No one had ever asked me what I wanted.

But then, I’d never bothered to ask for it, either.

I’m not sure how to answer him, so I try for the obvious. “I want you.” It’s the simple truth. To stave off any more questions, I lean forward to kiss him—but he stops me with a finger between our lips. I can smell sugar and chocolate on his breath.

“Tell me what you like.” His voice is pitched low, and there’s this rough undertone to it that makes my chest ache. “Where do you like to be touched?”

Everywhere, my mind screams. But I chew on the inside of my cheek, quiet.

“What makes you feel good?”

I feel a rush of annoyance that isn’t directed at him.

I don’t—I don’t like being put on the spot.

I like it when someone else is in the driver’s seat, making the decisions.

While I might not like the destination, it saves me the anxiety of having to decide for myself.

What if Noah doesn’t like the same things I do?

As I retreat further into myself, Noah runs his palm over my shoulder. “You don’t have to say it,” he murmurs, butting his nose up against mine. “But can you show me?”

The knot building in my chest stills—then loosens slightly. I lift my hands and splay my fingers experimentally over his chest. The uncertainty drains away, replaced by curiosity. Boldness.

Hunger.

“Can you take this off, please?” I ask, with a finger to his dark gray tee. It comes out more politely than I intend.

Noah chuckles quietly as he shoulders out of his shirt. At the same time, I slip out of my cropped tank. We return to the same positions, both lying on our sides, facing the other, and I reach out again, tracing upward from the softness of his stomach to the wide, muscular plane of his chest.

Again I’m caught off guard by how much lighter and redder the coils of hair clustered here are than the dark curls falling around his face.

I reach up to run my hand over his hair as it falls around his neck and shoulders.

He looks wilder with it down, more untamed.

I like it. As my fingers skate back to his chest, they still over his heart.

Although his breathing is carefully even, I can feel his pulse race under his skin.

My hand strays lower. I tuck a finger under the waistband of his shorts and tug—the same motion Jaylie had used to tease Loren. “These, too.”

We both peel out of our shorts, and as soon as he’s tossed his from his ankle, I roll on top so that I’m straddling him again.

His briefs are tight and black and leave nothing to the imagination.

I still don’t know how to answer his question, but I know from earlier that I like this.

It’s as good of a place to start as any.

I press my chest to his as I roll my hips against him again.

Noah squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenching as he releases a shaky breath.

There are so few layers left between us, I wonder if he can feel the heat rolling off me in waves.

With him pressing incessantly between my legs, I wonder if he can feel how wet I am.

Gently, I tug at his lower lip with my teeth before kissing him.

He groans into my mouth as his hips buck upward to meet mine where I arch against him, and the friction is almost magical.

It feels like hours pass this way as our bodies move against each other in the heat of the tent, sweat slicking our skin until we’re gliding together.

Noah is the first to deepen the kiss, and he tastes like sweets and mead and honey and him.

As his tongue tangles with mine, warm and slow, I can’t help but fantasize about the way it might feel on my—

With a little gasp, I pull back. And then I lean upward.

We come to the same conclusion at the same time.

“Can I…?”

“Yes, Sadie. Please, ” he gasps, like a drowning man who’s just been offered water. My mouth goes dry at the naked need in his voice. I lick at my lower lip, swallowing carefully.

“Okay.”

I lean backward, enough so that Noah can hook his fingers under my panties and slide them down my legs.

I sit up a little, balancing on my knees as Noah shifts his body down.

I pause, hesitant, but then his warm palms are on the backs of my thighs and he’s easing me forward, guiding me until my knees are by his ears and I’m hovering above him.

His breath curls against my inner thighs.

Looking down, I see only the top half of his face.

Even in the dark, his eyes sparkle.

“Please,” he says again. Every calloused finger brushes against my skin as he drags his hands up my inner thighs. He draws one thumb up between my legs, between my lips, barely touching—but it’s enough to make me bite back a whimper. “Please?”

My spine relaxes, and I sink down lower over his face.

The first thing I feel is his beard. It tickles against my skin—so sensitive —as he exhales against me. It almost makes me straighten again with surprise.

But it’s the first swirl of his tongue that makes my mind go blank.

I forget how to breathe. His tongue moves with the same slow curiosity that it had when he’d licked my fingers clean, when he’d chased the line of melted chocolate down my neck. He tastes me in the same way—sampling, savoring, sucking.

I can’t help myself. I drop my hips even lower, grinding myself along the line of his tongue, into his jaw.

Noah makes a low, pleased sound in the back of his throat.

Distantly, I hope he can breathe, even as I struggle to suck oxygen down myself.

I sink my fingers into those messy curls, worrying that if I don’t have something to hold on to, the ecstasy of it will have me floating off into the night sky like a ghost. As an extra anchor, he slides his hands over the tops of my thighs, pulling me even more solidly down against him.

There’s no way he can breathe.

He moves against me in slow, aching circles, and each pass of his tongue sends me closer and closer to the edge.

The pressure building in my core feels so heavy with coiling tension that I can barely imagine what will happen when I finally fall in.

But Noah, who never rushes anywhere, takes his time.

Noah could do this all day, probably. Noah has all the time in the world.

I wonder if he knows that I’ve got only seconds left.

“Stop,” I gasp. The word comes out dry and quiet, like I haven’t spoken in days. “Stop.”

He draws back immediately. “Is everything okay?” Warmth rushes over me at the concern in his tone.

“God, yes, of course. I just—” I have to swallow twice before moisture floods my mouth again. Even then, I struggle to string together more than five words. “I want more. I want to feel you, before I—I want to feel you first.”

I can hear more than see his smile when he speaks. “Okay.” He lifts his hands from my thighs but otherwise doesn’t move.

Huffing, I swing my leg over his body; my knees are so weak, it’s a lot more difficult this time. As I lie on the nest of blankets and stick myself to his side, I press a series of kisses to his ear. “It’s your turn, Noah. Show me what you want.”

Unlike me, he doesn’t need to be told twice.