Page 33 of They Are Mine

The tattoos on his arms shift and flex, ink stretching over thick, powerful muscle.

I wonder how they’d feel beneath my hands.

I wonder how they’d feel beneath my teeth.

My stomach tightens.

I shouldn’t be here.

I should be home, waiting for Noah.

Instead, I can’t look away.

And then, just as I adjust into another stretch, he looks at me.

It’s brief, a flicker, a second too fast to be intentional.

But it’s enough.

Enough to tell me I have his attention.

And soon?

I’ll have all of it.

When I leave I don’t go straight to Noah’s apartment or home.

I stop at the coffee shop.

The bell chimes as I step inside, the warm scent of espresso and vanilla curling in the air. It’s comforting, familiar, safe.

Noah’s behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, apron tied snug around his waist.

He doesn’t see me at first, too focused on steaming milk, the sound of frothing filling the space.

I take my time.

I make sure I still look post-gym. A light sheen of sweat, leggings hugging my curves, my hair pulled up just enough to look casual.

Because Noah notices things.

Because he needs to know where I’ve been.

I wait until he turns, until he finally catches sight of me.

And when he does?

His whole face softens.

“Hey,” he calls, his voice warm, pleased.

Like I just made his whole day better.

Poor thing has no idea what’s about to happen.

He slides my cup across the counter, but I don’t reach for it immediately. Instead, I tilt my head, eyes drifting over him, soft, affectionate. “You look tired,” I murmur.

Noah exhales a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Long shift.”

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