It is much harder than it should be to leave Noah’s Jacuzzi tub. It’s big enough to be used as a small swimming pool, which makes sense, given that Noah’s legs are of the Olympic swimmer variety. I’m toweling off my hair when I step out of his bathroom around lunchtime, wondering again if it’s weird that I stayed behind at his place while he went into work. It had seemed like a lovely idea in the early hours of the morning when I’d been tangled in his sheets and blissed out from a full night of orgasms—but now that I’m a little coherent, I’ve been questioning if it’s crossing some sort of line. Though to be fair, the lines of this agreement have never been very clear. And as much as I hate to admit it . . . the sex definitely doesn’t help matters.
Although . . . one might argue that sex with Noah is worth it.
I sigh as I fall back against Noah’s gigantic bed, trying to distract myself from thoughts of my quiet fake mate. His bedroom is exactly like I expected it to be (his entire house, really, for what I’ve seen of it). Save for the furniture and his very wide, very roomy bed—there wasn’t much to explore in Noah’s room after he’d left this morning. There’s a moderately sized flat screen resting atop his chest of drawers, and above his bed, one lone painting of soft colors that remind me of quiet water and breezy trees. It’s a surprising burst of color in his otherwise dreary-looking bedroom, and had I been able to notice anything other than Noah’s mouth and hands and body last night—I might have commented on it while he’d still been here.
I throw an arm over my face as my skin tingles with the memory of the night before. Noah’s hands on my skin and his voice in my ear have been right there waiting every time I let my thoughts stray this morning—something that seems like it might get worse every time we’re together. Every tiny reminder has me pressing my thighs together as everything south of my navel begins to pulse with arousal.
It’s not enough for Noah to be the most capable person at work; no, of course he would be an absolutely wonderful lay. I’m starting to wish I could pick out a flaw just so I didn’t feel inadequate. A slight curve to his dick or an unsightly mole on his ass or something. A fruitless wish, since I can confirm that he has a perfect dick and an even more perfect ass. I don’t see myself finding any flaws in the foreseeable future.
Not to mention the way having sex with Noah feels a lot more . . . intimate than it should. I’m not an expert at the whole friends with benefits thing—in fact, I’d say I’m still at apprentice level at best—but I have to assume that most hookup buddies don’t look at you like you’re some kind of goddess and whisper sweet things in your ear while they give you mind-blowing orgasms.
I don’t have to imagine anything.
I press my lips together as my stomach flutters with the memory of his low voice, sounding entirely sincere when he’d looked at me last night.
You’re fucking beautiful.
I sit up with a sigh. The room is too warm. Feeling flushed seems like it might be becoming my base state, if the last couple of days have been any indication.
“Damn it,” I grumble to the air.
I think it’s probably a smart move to grab my (hopefully) dry scrubs from Noah’s dryer and start getting ready for work—and I have every intention of doing that. At least, until I get two steps from the bed, and my foot hits Noah’s dress shirt he’d shucked off last night. I pick it up with only a little hesitation, biting at my lip as I test its weight.
I picked it up with mostly innocent intentions, running my fingers over one sleeve and caressing the fabric that feels too fine, too pretty for me. I can imagine that same material wrapped around his bicep, curling my fingers there to hold on as he pulls me closer, as his mouth descends to—
I shake away the thought, startled. I don’t pine for anyone, and yet here I am waxing poetic in my head about a fucking shirt. What the hell is wrong with me today? Even as I scold myself, I can smell the material still in my hands, tempting me. It smells like detergent and the clinging bit of Noah’s scent—something fresh and masculine that makes me want more. It isn’t even a conscious thing when I press the fabric against my nostrils and breathe in deep. It’s become somehow thicker since we first agreed to all this, even the faded bit clinging to his shirt from yesterday is enough to make my eyes roll back.
I feel a prickling sensation in my skin, like it’s being stretched too tight—the tingling feeling becoming almost uncomfortable as the throbbing between my legs worsens. How can I be horny again after spending most of the night losing sleep with Noah? What’s worse—despite having just spent an hour soaking in Noah’s too-large tub, I can feel a bit of slick trickling out to wet my thighs. Almost like my body is hoping he’ll pop out of the closet and come take care of us.
You said you wouldn’t get all dickmatized, I remind myself. Remember, this is all temporary.
The thought sobers me a little but does nothing for the throbbing between my legs.
I push my fingers inside one sleeve to feel the soft material against my skin, tempted briefly to put it on, to feel its weight on my shoulders like an embrace.
Too tempted, as it turns out.
I drop my towel as I push my arms into both long sleeves, my body almost sighing with relief when I am fully enveloped in the scent of him. I can’t explain it, can’t even begin to make sense of it—but being wrapped up in something of Noah’s seems to soothe that odd sensation in my skin. Almost like it’s calming me.
It’s probably a bad idea (not to mention uncouth) to touch myself in Noah’s bed while he’s away, but I reason that it’s his fault that I’m so worked up only an hour before my shift starts, so that assuages my guilt a little. It makes it a lot easier to crawl back into his bed wearing nothing but his shirt.
Like this, the smell of him is more overwhelming, giving me the illusion of pressing my nose to his chest, his throat, maybe. I close my eyes as I imagine thick arms wrapped around me; an innocent fantasy, really, but the effect it has on me less so. I press my thighs together as I imagine his weight settling over me, as I imagine that same scent of him surrounding me as he pushes me into this big, big bed of his—and it’s easy, wrapped in his shirt, to remember how he covers me. He’s so big, after all.
My throat is dry now, and there’s an obvious slickness between my legs forcing me to spread them a little just to ease the sensation. A mistake, I realize, given that I’ve somehow become wet enough just from imagining him touching me for it to make the inner creases sticky.