Page 17 of Sucker Love (Sugar Pill Duet #1)

But love and hate are supposed to be just different sides of the same coin, so maybe that makes sense in some weird way.

I don’t know. I’m not a psychologist, and I definitely don’t pretend to understand Noel.

The intensity of his emotion is a vast and terrifying thing to behold.

It’s an ominous thunderhead building on the horizon, lightning flickering throughout.

A massive rogue wave off the prow of a ship.

And if that’s how anger and sadness manifests for him, I can’t help but wonder what it’s like on the other end of the spectrum.

Love, joy—does he feel these things as strongly?

Are they just as awesome and incomprehensible as the rest?

He’s passionate in bed, I know that for a fact; there is no romance between us but he is ardent, or at least he was during our one and only encounter.

The most of anyone I’d ever slept with. So much so that I did want more, against my better judgment.

No, I cannot chalk Noel’s behavior up to something as simple as young heartbreak.

There is more to it—to him —than that. I knew that from the night I met him.

From the time I slept with him and saw the strange bruises demarcating his upper arms and could not chalk them up to being the work of someone else.

Maybe they are the result of some esoteric kink I am yet uneducated about, but I don’t think so.

Their shape, their size, their relative location—all consistent. Why only the upper arms?

Maybe I should be scared, but I’m not. Concerned, sure.

Intrigued, oh definitely. He is a messy and complicated boy.

I don’t know why I want to unravel him so badly, why I’m enticed.

I don’t think I have anything to fear, really.

At the end of the day, he is an overwrought roommate almost a decade younger than I am and what he does doesn’t have an impact on me. On the balance.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

When my mind finally runs itself out on its little hamster wheel, I do fall asleep. And my dreams are not all that eventful.

In the morning I wake slow and late, disoriented not only by the unfamiliar surroundings but by Noel, who is standing by my side of the bed. He’s showered and dressed and holding a mug in his bandaged hands, watching me with polite interest as I wrangle myself upright and rub the grit from my eyes.

“Morning,” I mumble. I’m almost embarrassed to be seen this way. It seems too intimate for what we are. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten.” Noel proffers the mug to me when I sit back up. “I made you coffee,” he announces. “To apologize for last night. And to thank you, for, you know. Helping me. I hope you like mocha,” he adds. “I wasn’t sure.”

I accept this offering. “I’ve never met a cup of coffee I didn’t like,” I say, taking a cautious sip. The foam is divine, flecked with cocoa, and it’s more sugar than is good for me this early in the morning but it’s hard to care in the moment. “You made this, Noel?”

His shirt slips off one narrow shoulder as he shrugs. “I worked as a barista when I was a teenager,” he tells me. “I sorta got into it after that.”

He crawls onto the bed between my legs and into the circle of my arms, and it feels so natural for him to be there that my free hand settles around his waist before I realize what I’m doing.

And I keep doing it. I sort of like him here, tucked against me like this, his head against my chest as he scrolls through his phone. He’s a perfect fit.

Something about our dynamic has subtly shifted since the night before.

“I fed Amelia,” he tells me without looking up. “And I took her out. ”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I hope that’s okay. I found instructions taped to the inside of the food bin. She was whining at the door when I got up, and you were out like a light. I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“It’s fine,” I assure him. “Thank you.”

My fingertips trace absent circles on his hipbone as I look around his room, and now I have the time to appreciate what I’m seeing.

It’s not the sort of slum I’d expect from a college student: the furniture is clearly secondhand, but its has a lovingly restored antique sort of feel, and though the pieces don’t match the effect is homey.

It’s a little cluttered, but not messy, with artworks and loose sketches either stacked on various surfaces or leaned against the wall.

There’s a pin board with more sketches tacked up, including notes and reminders for appointments and classes.

A few prints, too, probably thrifted judging by the state of the frames, though I don’t recognize the artists.

It’s a nice room. Lacking the sort of messy chaos I would expect from someone like Noel. I’m so curious about him, the gorgeous boy in my arms, even after last night—especially after last night. Is it wrong that I want to know what it is that makes him tick?

Noel dips his tongue into my coffee’s foam while I’m distracted. “Hey,” I say, pulling it away.

“I’ll drink it if you don’t want it,” he offers.

“I do want it.”

But I want him more. Because he’s pressed up against me like this, and it feels good. And surely he can feel my burgeoning erection against his backside, But he hasn’t said anything about it yet. He’s still pawing through Instagram or something with his eyes glazed over.

I gulp the coffee and set it aside. “When do you have class?” I say. My fingers are working their way between his shirt and the waistband of his jeans, seeking bare skin.

He looks up at me. The morning light brings a brilliant clarity to his amber eyes, rendering them almost orange. “In a half-hour.”

“That’s not a lot of time,” I murmur with regret, kissing his cheek. My hand does not cease its wandering, though, moving beneath his jeans and stroking the skin there. His head lolls back against my shoulder.

I suppose we don’t need a lot of time. I unzip his jeans and he’s eager to help, lifting his hips so that I can slide them and his underwear down along his thighs.

His cock is just as pretty as I remember it, pink and soft, twitching as I skim my palm over it.

My other hand goes over his eyes, covering them, and he makes a soft sound.

“Cute,” I say, wrapping my fingers around it as he squirms. He’s assaulting his lower lip and when I tell him to cut it out, he reluctantly lets it go.

There’s pre-come beading at the tip already when I work his cock slowly, spreading it out and down along his length.

He’s shuddering and impatient, throwing his hips roughly upwards to seek more friction than I’m giving him.

“Easy,” I tell him.

“No,” he whines .

My hand clenches him in a sudden death grip.

“No?” He shrinks back against me and says nothing at all.

He’s trembling the way he did before so I know he’s close already, somehow.

I’ve barely touched him. “Behave,” I murmur into his ear, “and I’ll let you finish.

If you don’t, you’ll have to go to class like this. A frustrated fucking mess.”

“Oh,” and his voice is breathy, pleading, “Luca.”

I press my face alongside his. I can feel his lashes flutter beneath my palm where it covers his eyes still, and he’s already panting like he’s just sprinted a whole 5k, lips parted.

I really do like seeing him like this—on the brink of collapse with a touch and a few words.

I press myself up against his ass and groan softly, which makes him gasp.

My tongue traces the delicate shell of his ear. “Gonna be good?” I ask him.

“ Yes. ” His hands dig into the sheets.

“Let me hear you beg for it.” I nose his jaw.

“Please, Luca.” Noel’s voice is tremulous and thin. “Please, I need it, please, I want it so fucking bad —” He’s practically mewling. He’s so hot, going to pieces in my arms like this. I adore it.

I stroke him faster this time and his adorable moans replace the unhinged begging.

My thumb rubs circles along the wet head and I can tell just how hard it is for him to not start bucking, to resist the need to fuck himself into my hand.

Every exhale is a whimper, higher pitched than the last, his flanks heaving and hips twisting.

“Alright then,” I whisper to him. “Come for me, stunt girl. ”

Doesn’t seem like it can be that easy but it is.

With one thrust and an obscene cry he’s doing just that, all over my fingers and onto his belly and shirt.

I dig my chin into his shoulder as he spasms and against me and watch as he makes one big shivery mess.

All too soon he’s gone almost limp in my arms, but when I bring my wet fingers to his lips he doesn’t hesitate to suck on each and every one.

I slide my other hand away from his eyes and his unfocused gaze meets mine as his pink tongue swirls my thumb clean.

My stomach seizes and my cock gets even harder. If possible.

“Good,” I say hoarsely to him. “Good boy.”

And then my fingers tangle in his hair as I kiss him roughly, tasting what’s left of him on his tongue and lips.

He’s languid, boneless, breathing hard through his nose still as his chest stutters and I desperately wish we had time to fuck, I want him so bad.

I want to tie him to the brass headboard and torture him in a million little ways until he’s thoroughly wrecked.

I don’t really want to be quick. I want to take my slow, sweet time.

There’s something in me that’s yawning awake, wide and hungry like it never has before, a need that’s never ever been sated.

I do want to explore this thing with Noel, I do.

I want to exert this control he’s given me, take the leash he’s offered.

My imagination is running wild with half-formed possibilities.