Page 43 of They Are Mine

Noah.

One room away.

Lying in a bed that isn’t mine.

I drag the washcloth over my chest, slow, teasing, like his hands could be the ones holding it.

I squeeze my breast, thumb flicking over my nipple, breath hitching when I think about his lips closing over it instead.

How he’d kiss it, suck it, roll it between his teeth.

I drag the cloth lower. Over my stomach. Between my thighs.

I can’t stop imagining.

Can’t stop seeing it.

Noah’s fingers.

Sliding into me, stretching me open, moving slow at first, then deeper, firmer, curling just right.

His mouth.

Sucking at my clit, tongue flicking, teasing, relentless.

His voice, groaning against me, telling me how good I taste, how wet I am, how much he needs to be inside me.

I moan.

My legs weaken, my stomach tightens.

I brace myself against the tile, shivering despite the heat.

I can’t take much more of this.

I shut off the water.

Towel off.

Pull on something light, soft, easy to slip off.

And then, I step into the hallway, pad toward his room.

Because I’m done waiting.

And if he won’t come to me?

I’ll go to him.

Along the way to his room, I notice the dishes are gone. The kitchen is spotless.

He cleaned up after dinner.

That’s so damn sweet.

He didn’t have to do that. I would’ve handled it.

But he did it anyway.

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