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
I'm somewhere in sleep, my cheek pressed against the worn fabric of the old library couch. I can vaguely feel the way my body has curled into itself, knees drawn up close, arms wrapped around my middle.
The library is quiet, the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead dulled by the thick silence. I've been here too long, and now it's dark. The lamps on the tables cast a warm, golden glow, but it only accentuates the shadows creeping in from the corners of the room.
Then, something warm and soft touches my face. It's so gentle that for a moment, I think I might be dreaming.
Noah.
He's kneeling before me, a hand on my face, fingers tracing the curve of my jaw.
"Hey, Rocky," he murmurs, his voice as soft as his touch.
I frown, trying to remember how long I've been sitting in this spot. I was supposed to go to their place tonight. I made a mistake.
He's got a book—it looks a million years old—his fingers brushing over the spine. Easing my shoulders up, he slips onto the seat and lays me back down. My head rests on his thigh.
"The Count of Monte Cristo. This is Dayo's favourite book, you know."
"Are you going to read it to me?" I ask, my lips barely moving.
"I am," he says.
Noah begins to read, his voice weaving the words into something magical, something that pulls me under like a riptide. The sentence structure tells me enough—the book is a million years old. And confusing. But it sounds nice.
"Take the tie from my braid," I murmur, my eyes closing.
After a really, really long pause of silence, he does. His fingers are gentle and hesitant, unravelling the braid until my curls spill over his leg, down to the floor, a wild, untamed mess.
"Can you touch my hair?" I whisper. "Just... gently?"
And he does. His hand moves through my hair with a tenderness that unravels me. Like I was one big knot and he finally found the end of the string. Like he's working his way to the center, spreading all the threads out so they can't tangle again.
His strokes are so soft and soothing they might as well be whispers of affection. He continues to read, but the words blur into the background, his touch the only thing I'm aware of.
Time slips away from us, or maybe we slip away from time. The sun, the moon, the stars, and their darkness—it all stops for us. I blink up at Noah, the dim light casting shadows on his face, making his features softer, more blurred.
Noah's eyes search mine, his brow furrowing slightly as he studies me. "Cam, baby." His hand slips from my cheek, moving down to cup my chin, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "Talk to me."
