Page 42 of Reunited with the Hometown Hero
A low growl is his only response as he shifts our positions, laying me back on the cot and covering my body with his. The weight of him is delicious, grounding, the heat of his skin against mine burning away everything but the present moment—this cabin, this man, this rediscovered hunger.
His mouth maps a trail down my body, learning new contours, remembering old preferences. When his lips close around my nipple, I arch off the cot with a cry that would embarrass me if I had any capacity for embarrassment left.
One large hand splays across my stomach, holding me in place as he lavishes attention on each breast in turn, reducing me to incoherent pleas.
"Noah," I finally manage, fingers tangled in his hair. "Please."
He looks up, eyes dark with desire but still seeking confirmation. "Tell me what you want, Riley."
"You," I say simply. "All of you. Now."
The remaining barriers between us fall away, hands fumbling in their urgency to reach bare skin. When we're finally naked together, Noah pauses, braced above me, his expression a mixture of desire and something deeper, more profound.
"I never stopped wanting you," he confesses, the words raw with honesty. "Never stopped loving you, even when I tried."
The admission catches me off guard, tears pricking behind my eyes. I pull him down to me, sealing my mouth to his rather than examining too closely the emotions his words stir within me.
Our bodies remember this dance, falling into rhythm with instinctive ease. His hands map every inch of me, finding places that make me gasp, that make me arch against him, begging for more. My own explorations are equally thorough, learning the new landscape of his body—the scar near his ribs that wasn't there before, the increased breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his thighs as they press against mine.
When his fingers finally slip between my legs, finding me wet and ready, the sound he makes is primal, possessive. I bite his shoulder to stifle my own cry as he strokes and circles, building pressure with devastating precision.
"Noah," I gasp against his skin. "I need?—"
"I know," he murmurs, his voice a rumble against my throat. "I've got you."
He reaches for his discarded backpack, retrieving protection. The brief pause does nothing to cool the heat between us—ifanything, the moment of anticipation only intensifies the need coiling tight in my core.
When he finally pushes into me, slow and deliberate, we both freeze, overwhelmed by the sensation of being joined after so long apart.
His forehead rests against mine, our breath mingling in the scant space between us. For a suspended moment, we simply exist together, connected in the most intimate way possible.
Then I shift beneath him, an invitation, a plea, and he begins to move. Slowly at first, with careful control, then with increasing urgency as the tension between us builds. His hands seem to be everywhere, tangled in my hair, gripping my hip, sliding beneath me to change the angle in a way that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
"Look at me," he murmurs, and I open eyes I hadn't realized I'd closed.
The intensity of his gaze as he moves above me, inside me, is almost too much to bear—too intimate, too knowing. But I can't look away, caught in the blue flame of his eyes as the pressure builds toward something inevitable and shattering.
"That's it," he encourages, feeling the tell-tale trembling that signals I'm close. "Let go, Riley. I've got you."
Release crashes through me like a wave, radiating outward from where we're joined to the very tips of my fingers and toes. I cry out his name, nails scoring his back as he drives me higher, extending the pleasure until I'm gasping for breath beneath him.
Only then does he chase his own completion, his rhythm growing more urgent, more primal. I watch his face as he comes apart, memorizing the way his eyes close, the way his jaw tightens, the raw vulnerability as he pulses inside me with my name on his lips.
Afterward, we lie tangled together in the afterglow, my head on his chest listening to his heartbeat gradually slow, his fingerstracing idle patterns on my bare shoulder. The small cabin feels different now—not confining but intimate, a world of our own creation separate from reality and its complications.
"That was..." Noah's voice trails off, apparently at a loss for adequate description.
"Yeah," I agree, pressing a kiss to his chest just because I can. "It really was."
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly beneath my ear. "Very articulate. Aren't you supposed to be a professional wordsmith?"
"Temporarily out of service." I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him properly. His hair is delightfully mussed, his lips slightly swollen from our kisses, a look of satisfied contentment softening his features. "You seem to have short-circuited my vocabulary."
"Happy to be of service." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the tender gesture at odds with the playful banter. "Though I hope your linguistic abilities recover before your editor expects that article."
The mention of my article—my job, my real life waiting back in Chicago—casts a shadow over our cocoon of contentment. Noah notices, his expression turning more serious.
"Too soon?" he asks quietly.
