“I’m really glad you came with me,” I start again, hardly any louder than a whisper. I can’t quite seem to find my voice right now. “I’m glad it was you.”
Noah doesn’t say anything immediately, and when I peek up at him, I notice him studying me, his eyes moving across my face and his lips pressed tightly together, like he’s trying to find the correct words. There’s a flicker of anxiety in my belly at what he might be trying to say; is he going to tell me that this thing between us is getting too difficult? That we should end it? Do I not want him to say those things? My feelings are so mixed up, even more so with the murky aftermath of my dwindling heat, and I can’t seem to pin down one singular emotion to focus on.
“Me too,” he finally settles on, and I am unable to discern a single thing from those two words.
I watch as Noah pushes away from the bed, moving to his feet and stepping across the carpet to the dresser on the other side of the room. He’s slipped into his boxer briefs—which leave little to the imagination when it comes to his sculpted ass that might almost make me envious—but mostly I find my eyes tracing the hard lines of muscle in his back, pink lines scattered here and there from what I assume are my fingernails. It makes me blush looking at them, and that heat spreads down into my chest and lower as it dredges up memories of everything we’ve done these last few days.
He grabs a water bottle from the dresser, bringing it back as he takes his place at the side of the bed again and, with a concerned expression, reaches out to hand over the bottle. “You need this,” he urges. “You barely ate any breakfast this morning and I’ve been having to practically force you to drink something.”
“Okay, Mom,” I laugh, taking the bottle. I unscrew the cap and take a heavy swig, gulping down a good bit of the bottle before replacing the cap and holding it up for him to see. “Happy?”
“Yes,” he deadpans. “The last thing we need is for you to get dehydrated.”
This makes me laugh harder. “Wow, that would be a great one to explain. Noah Taylor fucked all the nutrients right out of me.”
“I . . . probably could have been a little better about taking care of you.”
“What?” I frown, scooting away from the headboard, bringing the sheet with me and keeping it wrapped around my chest (which seems almost silly, given everything Noah has seen). “Noah. Seriously. My heats weren’t a picnic before this, but this one . . .” I make a face. “It would have been a real bitch without you. Like, completely miserable. You did great taking care of me.”
I see a bit of the tension in his face soften then as he nods lightly. I can tell he’s been worried about this, and that he needed reassurance. With everything I’ve seen of him in the last few days, I can undoubtedly assume that it’s an alpha thing. Especially if the strange urges to please him I’ve felt while we’ve been here are any indication.
“Good,” he answers warmly. “I’m glad.”
I’m realizing that this is the longest conversation we’ve had in days, and that it is just more proof that my heat is waning. Knowing this for certain makes me uneasy, because those unsure feelings are pushing their way back into my brain, wheedling their way into my subconscious to make me wonder about all sorts of unnecessary things. Things like: What will we be after this? and Do I even want to be something?
I realize that through this entire train of thought I’m staring at him, just as I’m noticing that he’s staring back at me in the same way. I wish I knew what he was thinking, wish I could read him just enough to help me figure out my own muddled thoughts, but all I can see in Noah’s face is the clear blue of his eyes, the strong line of his jaw, the plush curve of his lips—all the things that make it hard to look away from him. When I met him they were simply nice things to look at, but now just a glance is enough to give me butterflies. When the fuck did that even happen?
“Mackenzie,” he says suddenly, making me jump a little.
I meet his gaze, finding a warmth in his eyes now that makes the butterflies worse. I can tell he wants to say something, can practically see it stuck to the tip of his tongue, and for some reason I am desperate to know what it is. Whether it’s the hormones or this place or just Noah himself—my entire being seems hinged on whatever he is about to say.
So it’s surprising when he says nothing, but only for a moment, since he leans in instead to brush his lips with mine. That frenzy that has always come after his kiss seems less now, and in its place is a slow, molten burn that starts just below my navel and spreads deeper until it’s pulsing between my legs. It seems impossible that I could still get aroused after the amount of times we’ve been together just today—and yet his fingertips at my skin are like sparks of electricity, and his mouth on mine is sweet like wine, making me just as dizzy.
I feel his finger hooking into the sheet over me to ease it away, his palm covering my breast after and squeezing gently. He catches my gasp against his tongue when his thumb teases my nipple, and I unconsciously arch into his hand to chase after more of his touch.
“You’re so soft,” he rasps against my mouth. “So beautiful.”
My head falls back when his mouth wanders, reveling in the sensation of it on my throat, my collarbone, lower to capture my nipple. His tongue swirls there before he sucks it deeper into his mouth, and the sensation zings straight down to my core, making me want more.
“Noah,” I breathe.
His hand skims over my belly, his fingers curling between my legs to slip inside me. I’m embarrassingly wet even from just this, and the sound of his fingers sliding in and out of me is lewd and loud and yet all I can worry about is how to get more. He’s taking his time now, the frenetic pace I’ve become used to long gone as Noah seems to be intent on taking his time.
He pumps his fingers inside slowly, only to withdraw at the same tortuous pace, just to repeat it all over again, all the while teasing and nibbling at my nipple until my skin tingles all over. I can’t decide if I want him to keep doing this, keep teasing me at this pace that seems designed to drive me crazy, or if I want to beg him to get on with it, to give me more than just his hand.
His body covers mine as he touches me, his wide shoulders the perfect place for my hands as I keep him close against me. He licks at the swell under my breast, pressing his teeth there afterward, and my back bows as I let out a soft cry, feeling like I’m on fire in ways that have nothing to do with my heat.
So it’s almost painful when he stops, when all of it ends suddenly as he lifts his head to look at me with glazed eyes, and I’m panting my protest as I lean up to meet his gaze.
“Go on a date with me,” he says in a rush.
I blink, still keyed up and frustrated that he isn’t still touching me. “What?”
“A real date,” he says.