My teeth clatter. “Okay.”
Despite my response, Noah keeps moving straight, his pace picked up a little more. Thirty seconds later, I’m sitting on his tailgate and he’s tearing into the cab of his truck, coming back with a pile of clothes in his hands.
“These are compression pants. I wear them under my gear when it’s cold. They might be a little loose, but they’ll fit you better than my sweats.” He sets a T-shirt and hoodie beside me, a pile of dry clothes for himself bunched under his arm.
He pushes his shoes to the side, doing a double take when I lift my arms and wait.
His brows draw together slightly, the items in his arms quickly forgotten. He lets them fall to the ground and steps toward me.
He starts at the cuff of my sleeves, gently tugging them over my wrists, and moves to the hem next. The wet material has molded to my T-shirt beneath it, so as he slowly lifts it up and over my head, it takes it with it.
My wet hair falls to my bare back then, sending a shiver down my spine, or maybe it’s the beaming approval in Noah’s gaze that does it. He doesn’t look away as he hangs my wet items over the side of his truck, nor when I lean back, my palms pressing into the tailgate, my torso stretching.
He understands, his jaw flexing with his heavy inhale as his hands find the button of my jeans.
My pulse pounds as it’s popped open, the soft hum of my zipper creating goosebumps along my legs. He waits, eyes on me, so I lift my hips in request, and he answers, cautiously freeing me of them altogether.
His arms fall to his sides, his body going still as he peers at me, his expression a pensive mix of uncertainty and conviction.
I push up into a sitting position, scooting closer to the edge once more, and grab a handful of his soiled sweatshirt. My legs part, and he steps in until his thighs meet the cool metal. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move, other than the way my freeing him of his clothes requires.
My lungs swell as his body comes into view, his chest on full display for me for the very first time. Even on the beach, he wore a shirt that hid it.
“You should take your shirt off more often.” My breath is a throaty, desire-filled mess, and I’m pleased when his chuckle sounds just the same.
My eyes fly straight for the tattoo I’ve admittedly fantasized about.
I wondered how it would curve, what it would hold and how far it reached, but seeing it along his skin is like nothing I could have cooked up.
It’s fascinating, dark and defined.
It spans from his upper arm and stretches along his left peck. There’s a goal line, and a football that looks as if it’s tearing through from inside his skin, but it’s the script curved along the threading of the ball that calls to me. It’s foreign, Latin maybe, and beautifully scrolled.
“What does this mean?” I wonder, hesitantly lowering the pads of my fingers to his skin, tracing over the words in slow motion.
“Can’t tell you.” He shivers, and my lips twitch, my palms flattening over him as I lean closer.
“Can’t or won’t?” I peek up at him as I press my lips to his chest, scooting more to the edge so I can skate them higher.
I glide along his collarbone, to his neck, pausing when I reach his ear. I take a deep breath and Noah’s forehead falls to my shoulder, his hands finding the space at my sides.
I don’t say anything, just breathe against him as my touch dares to go lower. I trace the ridges of his abs, getting acquainted with every cut of his masterfully constructed muscles.
He’s hard in all the right places, and I’d bet if I went lower, I’d find him hard there too.
I can sense it in the way his abdomen clenches, in the short puffs breaking along my bare chest.
My nipples harden in my bra and now I’m the one shivering.
That gains Noah’s attention, and his head lifts, the heat in his eyes almost unbearable. “It’s getting colder.”
“I don’t feel cold.”
His nostrils flare, and he dips down, gripping my hair in his hands and twisting it over his fist, water dripping down his forearm and splattering onto my spine. I jolt forward, and Noah twists to catch my lips with his own. He kisses me hard this time. It’s almost in punishment, and completely fucking addicting.
“It’ll be my fault if you get sick.” He speaks between swipes of his tongue. “I can’t have that.” He reaches for the hoodie beside us, the one he brought out for me, but I dart my hand over his to pause his movements and snag the one he intends to wear first.
He gives a small warning glare, but when my husky chuckle follows, his need to know what comes next has him relenting. With a tight frown, he allows me to pull his over him.