Page 106 of Crown of Thorns
Everything in me howls to life. My brain, my body, my heart, my soul. Everything.
He stimulates me in ways no one else can. No one else ever will. And I crave it. I crave him. Because he’s my enigma, he’s making me feel like a mastermind with every layer of his mind he exposes, only for me, with every word, every shaky breath against my mouth. Every secret spilled.
Only for me.
“Say that again, please.”
“My one and only? My treasure.”
“That’s so pretty,” I breathe. I spill against him, my muscles relaxing, my mind drifting into oblivion.
“You make me be the man I want to be.”
“Fucking hell. I’m so… turned on. You make me so happy.”
“I can feel it. Your dick is hard again.”
“Can’t…stop myself.” I’m breathing harshly, letting my body accommodate his size. It’s a moment he always gives me, usually kissing and praising me. “Tell me what I’m fighting, Noah. Tell me of your demons.”
“Acceptance.” Noah’s thrusts speed up. His eyes blaze with fire, whatever haunts him visible through his blown pupils. His breath hitches, but he goes faster, and I think the bed might break. “Fucking love,” he snarls. Wrapping my arms tightly around his neck, I feel his muscles tense and shudder. “Sick.”
I shake my head, our foreheads pressed together. “Not sick. Perfect for me.”
His groan is guttural, his internal fight feral. “You’re not alone,” I whisper, tightening my grip on him. His thrusts are a wanted punishment that makes my body sing with desire. I don’t let go. From now on, we’re together.
“You feel so good. Fuck, you feel so good.”
“Come with me, baby.”
He lets out another unhinged groan, then his hand is on my dick and he strokes it. It doesn’t take much; I’m already so pent up. Eight, nine strokes, and my toes are curling. Noah groans, his lips pressed against mine, his tongue invading my mouth. I want to suck out all his fears, all those lies he has carried with him for so long—like the belief that love makes him weak, or that desire must always be punished.
Everything. He’s the beginning and end of my day, my dream and the future I didn’t know I wanted. He’s the only thing that makes sense.
Once the waves have calmed, I lie, tangled up under the sheets, wrapped in Noah’s strong arms, with my eyes closed.
“My father caught me when I was sixteen,” Noah murmurs against my hair, his breath tickling my temple. “He’d always been strict. We didn’t get along. I don’t know, we just…I was never good enough for him. I didn’t perform well enough at school, didn’t have any cool friends, played volleyball instead of football…just, we just weren’t a match.” My thoughts pause at his words, my heart clenching for him. “Pascal was my best friend. I never planned on kissing him. I never planned on touching his dick. Or for him to touch mine.” His hand rubs over my arm absentmindedly. I barely dare to breathe, afraid to break the spell of him opening up to me. “We were curious. A little turned on. Pascal was sweet, and his hands felt so good.” He smiles against my skin, causing goosebumps to rise. “Dad came barging in, like he’d been waiting for the moment. He was furious. His face was red like it might split open. He shoutedso loud my ears rang. And I—I felt so exposed, like I’d been dragged into the light naked. He said it was wrong. Sick. That I was disgusting. That desire between men was filth. And I believed him, Louis. I believed him, even though everything in me screamed that what I felt was right. It was soft. It was tender. It was mine.”
“Hmm. That’s when you left?”
“He gave me ten minutes to get the hell out and never return.”
“Shit. That’s brutal.”
“Yeah.” I hear the bitterness in that one word. The hurt. It makes me want to clutch my arms around him tighter and love him a little more. Fuck. I bury my face in his neck. Not to hide, but to grieve. For the boy who learned to hate his own softness. For the boy whose truth was met with exile. I kiss that hurt like I’m branding it with love. “Where did you go?”
He snorts. “Far away. I remember peeking through Melo’s door and seeing her sleeping so peacefully in bed. She was still so young. Then I took the night train to Paris, determined to show them I could live by myself.”
“How old was she when you left?”
“She had just turned five. She was such a sweet girl. And then there was Mom. She wasn’t at home when I left. I never saw her again.”
“I’m so sorry.” I reach a trembling hand for his cheek, stroking the stubble on his jaw. “You had every right to discover your sexuality at your own pace, and your father took that away from you. He…came out for you, if that’s a thing. Put a label on you. He had no right to reflect his own insecurities on you.”
“Yes. I know that now. I wish I could go back in time and tell my younger self that. Thank you.” He strokes my hair. Two simple words, yet my heart feels like it’d burst, enlargingand engraving each of his truths inside its walls—such precious revelations.
“So, you stayed far away from the fire and dated women?”
He huffs. “Something like that. Though I’d sometimes pay for men. Mostly blowjobs, the occasional penetration.”
