His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
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C A M I L A
Pacing is totally normal.
I do it now in my room, barefoot on the carpet. Back and forth, back and forth, in baggy black sweatpants and an equally loose hoodie.
My hair is pulled back, clean from the shower, and I've brushed my teeth twice, maybe three times. I've lost count. My skin smells like the coconut cream I've slathered on in an attempt to calm down. It hasn't worked. I'd use Maddie's lavender stuff, but it's disgusting.
Billy Idol's Eyes Without a Face filters through the walls, the old stereo in the kitchen offering a soundtrack to my internal meltdown.
I press my back to my door and slide down, pulling the strings of my hood until my field of vision closes up.
I'm either going to cry until I can't breathe or jump out the window. It would be dramatic, sure, but it's not like I haven't considered worse plans tonight.
Noah's here, and he's real, and he's waiting.
The music shifts, the next song coming through, sensual and soul-pounding guitar. Wicked Game by Chris Isaak.
I groan, falling onto my side.
He's trying to kill me.
I can't lay here all night. Maddie will be back soon, with greasy bags of fast food that I won't eat and a new story to add to the night's chaos.
With a deep breath, I get to my feet, shrugging off my hood.
Stepping into the hallway, my heart hammers against my chest, a rhythm out of sync with the soft, sensual guitar now drifting from the kitchen.
I inch closer, my steps silent in the hall, until I can see him—Noah. He's at the sink, damp purple sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands working under the stream of water.
This is like a crush on speed. Ecstasy.
Noah is unaware of me, focused on scrubbing a blackened pan. Everything else is pretty much done. God, how long was I in the shower?
There's a slowness to his movements, a carefulness that's at odds with his broad shoulders and the strength I know lies in his arms. His hair is pushed back, a few strands falling over his forehead, and I'm drunk on the urge to touch them.
Drunk on the urge to let him touch me.
He hums along to the song, off-key but endearing. Well, actually, he's very off-key. So off-key that he must not even know he's off-key.
I add tone-deaf to my mental Noah Map.
His magenta shirt clings to his back, outlining muscles that shift with every movement. There's another small scar on his neck. And a little dark beauty mark next to it.
