Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“No.” I slid my hand around his nape and held him close so we were nose to nose. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t hide from me. I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”
His eyes welled. “I’m not…I can’t be what you need.”
I brushed the moisture away with my thumb and pressed my lips to his brow, his nose, his chin, and finally…his mouth. “Trust me. You are.”
The kiss was tender and sweet. No demand, no sense of urgency, just a need to be connected. I caressed his jaw, ran my fingers through his hair, and deepened the kiss. Noah hummed and melted in my arms, licking my lips and trembling when I pushed my tongue inside.
We made out for a few minutes with lazy, twisting tongues. My glasses were foggy and my cock pulsed in my khakis. We broke for air eventually, staring at each other in a kind of daze.
“You’re a very good kisser, Professor. I’m dizzy and on the verge of melting into a puddle of goo and I have no idea where I parked. I should get a ride and figure it out in the morning.”
I kissed him again. “I’ll take you home.”
We were mostly quiet on the drive to Noah’s place. He gave directions and occasionally pointed out his favorite landmarks along the route…coffee shops, bistros, a bead shop.
He tapped his window when I pulled onto his street. “The Spanish hacienda-looking complex on the right is mine.”
I glanced over at the stucco building covered in ivy. Tendrils wrapped artfully around the wrought iron gate and climbed toward the arched windows. Old-fashioned lamplights flanked the entrance and somehow conjured images of cinematic noir. I’d bet they’d filmed movies from the golden age of Hollywood on this street. Cary Grant or Greta Garbo could have waltzed down this very block seventy-five years ago.
It was perfect for Noah. Lovely, whimsical, and slightly mysterious.
Like him.
I parked in an empty space next to a cinder block wall draped with bougainvillea and followed Noah along a narrow path to a tiled staircase. He stopped at the corner unit on the second level and gave me a quick smile before bending to fiddle with the lock for what felt like a very long time.
“Do you need help?”
“I’ve got this. My hands are just a little clammy.” He gave a nervous laugh and continued in a rush. “You know, my condo supposedly once belonged to the mistress of a famous director from the forties.”
“Mabel.”
“Oh, that’s right. I told you about her. Mabel Rogers. She carved her initials in weird places like the closet, the medicine cabinet, and in the archway between the foyer and living room. It’s like she wanted to be sure she left her mark somewhere. Like she’d always intended to come back and haunt this place.” Noah unlocked the door and ushered me inside while he reset his alarm.
I stopped short under the archway in his foyer leading to the living area and nearly gripped the wall to give my brain a second to process the veritable kaleidoscope that was Noah’s condo.
No kidding. It was a riot of color.
Pink silk curtains with orange fringe framed the wide window next to a blue sofa strewn with a dozen or more striped, print, and floral pillows. The two comfy-looking yellow chairs were positioned to face the flat-screen resting on a low console piled high with neat stacks of books. In fact, books were everywhere—on shelves, end tables, the coffee table. Framed museum-grade posters commingled with oil paintings of fruit and idyllic countrysides.
In my own way, I was a stickler for order. The spaces where I lived and worked were tidy, organized, and tended to be monotone. Noah’s condo was the opposite. It was a chaotic color bomb that somehow made sense.
Noah joined me in the archway and leaned on the wall, fixing me with an intense stare.
I hadn’t known him long, but I knew that look. He hadn’t invited me in for a tour and a cup of tea. He wanted something else. Escape or distraction from the bad memories…or me? It didn’t matter. I wasn’t going anywhere now.
8
NOAH
The air was thick with desire.
I should have been on my knees already with my mouth on his dick. At the very least, I should have headed for my room, shucking off layers of clothing like bird crumbs to lure him to my lair. But God help me, I was nervous. None of this was supposed to happen.
Thomas was no ordinary conquest. He was charming and kind and curiously commanding. Maybe I should have been angry that he’d decided to investigate my ex and had inadvertently stumbled onto a shit-show episode starring moi. But it was exactly the sort of thing I would have done.
The difference was that I might have been scared off trusting a dude who had more baggage than a Kardashian.