Page 4 of Off Limits Daddies
"Whiskey, neat."
His voice is quiet but clear. There's something calming about it.
I finish my vodka tonic faster than I should and order another. The alcohol is starting to work, softening the sharp edges of my anxiety.
"You're not from around here." His voice startles me. I look over to find him watching me with curious green eyes.
"What makes you say that?"
"Small town. I'd remember seeing you before." He pauses. "That sounded less creepy in my head."
I laugh despite myself. "It's fine. You're right. I'm not from here. Just passing through."
"Business or pleasure?"
"Neither. Family stuff." I take another sip. "You?"
"I live about twenty minutes from here. Needed to get away from my own head for a while." He picks up his whiskey and moves to the stool directly next to mine. "I'm Noah."
"Mia." I inwardly wince. Maybe I shouldn't have given my real name. But then, why not? It's not like I'm hiding or afraid I'll run into him again.
"Nice to meet you, Mia." He extends his hand and I shake it. His grip is warm and firm. "Can I buy you another drink?"
I should say no. I should finish this one, go back to my motel room, and get some sleep before facing my parents tomorrow. But Noah's green eyes are kind and his presence is comforting in a way I didn't know I needed.
"Sure."
We talk for the next hour. He tells me he's a teacher, that he moved here two years ago for a better position. I tell him I'm starting a new job, that I'm nervous about it. We keep the conversation surface-level, both of us clearly avoiding the deeper wounds we're carrying.
But there's something between us. A pull I can't quite explain.
"Do you want to get out of here?" The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Noah's eyes darken slightly. "Are you sure?"
"No." I laugh. "But I'm going to do it anyway."
We walk across the street to the motel in charged silence. My hands shake as I unlock the door to my room. This isn't me. I don't do one-night stands. But tonight, I need to be someone else.
Noah closes the door behind us and turns to face me. "We don't have to do anything. We can just talk if you want."
"I don't want to talk."
I close the distance between us and kiss him. His lips are warm and taste like whiskey. He responds immediately, his hands coming up to frame my face, and I feel the warmth of his palms against my cheekbones.
My fingers find the hem of his shirt and I tug it upward. He breaks the kiss long enough for me to pull it over his head, and the sight of him makes my breath catch. He's broader than I expected, shoulders muscled in a way that suggests he spends time in a gym or doing something physical. His chest is defined, pecs carved with clean lines, and there's a trail of dark hair that runs down the center of his stomach, disappearing into his jeans. His abs aren't the exaggerated six-pack of a fitness model. They're the real kind, the functional kind, visible ridges that flex when he breathes.
I run my hands over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin. The muscles are firm under my palms, shifting as he moves. There's a small scar near his left shoulder, pale and thin.
"What happened here?" I trace it with my fingertip.
"Basketball. Freshman year of college." His voice is rough, distracted, because his hands are already working the buttons of my blouse.
He pushes the fabric off my shoulders and it falls to the floor. His eyes roam over me, pupils dilated. His hands move to my waist, fingers splaying across my ribs, and I can feel his fingers splayed across my skin.
I reach behind me and unhook my bra, letting it drop.
His breath comes out in a rush. Then his hands are on me, cupping my breasts, and his palms are warm and slightly rough. His thumbs brush over my nipples and I gasp, arching into his touch. It's been so long since anyone has touched me like this.
