Chapter 36: First Kiss

I looked at him.

At this wreck of a man, sprawled across the couch like he belonged in pieces, yet somehow, impossibly, he had burrowed under my skin.

“That’s enough sentimental bullshit for one night.”

I snapped upright, yanking Noah off my lap. He grunted, a half-hearted protest, but didn’t move.

“Come on,” I said, bending down to grab his arm. “You need to sleep.”

I tried to lift him.

He was like a sack of wet cement, completely dead weight, his head lolling, arms dangling uselessly.

I sighed, staring down at him. The lines of his face softened even in unconsciousness, teasing me with vulnerability I didn’t know what to do with.

“You’re making this difficult.”

No response. Of course.

I bent again, sliding one arm under his knees and the other around his back, lifting.

Then stopped.

This was too intimate. Too much like carrying a bride over a threshold or some other nauseatingly sentimental crap.

I adjusted, flipping him over my shoulder like a sack of grain instead. Much better.

Noah made a muffled grunt, probably a protest, but it came out as nothing more than sound.

“Shut up,” I muttered, though the corner of my mouth twitched.

I carried him through the suite, down the hallway, and toward the bedroom. His weight, surprisingly manageable despite his limpness, pressed against me in a way that made my heart beat a little too fast.

The bedroom was dark, only the city’s ambient glow filtering through the glass. I didn’t bother with the lights. Didn’t need them.

I strode straight to the king-sized bed and dumped him onto it. He bounced once, groaned, and rolled onto his side.

I straightened, rolling my shoulders. I needed a shower. A stiff drink. Maybe a cigar. Anything to drown out the weird, restless ache this night had planted in my chest.

Barely had I turned when I felt it.

His hand. Clenching in the back of my shirt again. Yanking hard.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I seemed to have picked up a velcro baby.

I stumbled backward, caught off guard, and suddenly I was off balance, falling toward him.

One hand slammed against the mattress, the other braced against the headboard. My body hovered over him, our faces inches apart, and I realized just how intoxicatingly close we were.

His breath hit my lips, hot, sharp with alcohol, bitter, and somehow unbearably intimate. His eyes were half-open, glassy with drink, but fixed on me with a determination that made my chest tighten.

“Bold, aren’t we?” I murmured, voice low and amused, though a flicker of heat tickled my gut.

I shifted my weight, trying to pull away.

Noah didn’t loosen. His fingers tangled in my collar, nails pressing just enough to sting.

“Let go,” I said, voice firmer this time.

He didn’t.

Instead, his other hand shot up, wrapping around my shirt, anchoring me in place.

“S’your fault…”

Oh, this again.

I almost laughed.

“Can’t even… can’t even jack off properly,” he slurred, yet there was a stubborn fire in his tone. “S’all your fault…”

I did laugh this time. Low, dark, amused, more hunger than humor.

“Your switch from sad to horny is… impressive,” I said, rolling the words off my tongue like smoke. I tried again to pry him off, but his grip didn’t waver.

“But you don’t get to blame me for your own desires.”

His eyes found mine for a heartbeat. Really found mine. And it hit me, sharp, urgent, impossible to ignore.

Then he yanked. No warning. No hesitation. Just a sudden, violent pull that slammed our mouths together.

Heat, alcohol, and want exploded between us. His lips were soft but demanding, his body twisting beneath mine. His hands tangled in my shirt, claws of desperation and need that made my pulse hammer in my ears.

I froze.

Just a heartbeat, sharp, stunned, because Noah Bennett—timid, obedient, perpetually terrified Noah, the same man who flinched when I looked at him too long, was suddenly on my mouth like he’d been starving for me all along.

And then instinct kicked the door down.

I grabbed his jaw and kissed him back, hard enough to steal the breath right out of his lungs.

His mouth crashed into mine again, desperate, messy. Our teeth knocked from how urgently he chased me. His tongue slid against mine in a hot, drunken sweep, no rhythm, no skill, just raw, frantic want. The kind that hit me in the spine.

He tasted like the whiskey he’d drowned himself in, sharp and bitter, but underneath it was something warm and obscene, his need, thick on my tongue.

His hands moved without aim, gripping whatever part of me they caught, my shirt, my neck, the curve of my ribs. He wasn’t touching me with intention; he was touching me because he couldn’t not. Fingers dragging, clutching, clawing, trying to pull me deeper into him like he needed me to breathe.

I shifted, bracing a knee between his legs, and he gasped against my mouth, then his hips jerked up. Reflex. Want. Pure instinct. And suddenly there it was: the hard, pulsing press of him grinding against my thigh through fabric.

A punch of heat shot through me.

Mine.

It wasn’t a thought, it was a verdict. Immediate. Absolute.

He couldn’t even control his body without dragging me into it. Couldn’t get hard without my name carved into the back of his skull.

I gripped the back of his neck, thumb pressed under his ear, dragging his mouth open for me. He melted into it, breath shuddering, kiss turning wetter, sloppier. He tried to keep up and failed spectacularly, but God, he fought. He pushed into the kiss like he was clawing his way out of drowning.

His tongue brushed mine again, hesitant, then bold, and the sound he made when I answered it was ruined, needy. His whole body arched, chest to mine, thighs tense, pushing for friction he couldn’t hide anymore.

I angled his head and took the kiss deeper, swallowing the little sounds he tried, and failed, to hold back. His fingers fisted in my shirt so tightly the fabric strained, dragging me impossibly closer until I could feel every shiver of him, every tremor, every desperate grind of his hips.

Heat coiled low in my gut, dangerous and familiar, dragging an answering pulse through me. I shouldn’t have let it. I knew better. But he kissed me like he’d break if I stopped.

And for a moment, just a moment, I didn’t want to stop.

But I did anyways.

I pulled back just enough to breathe, chest heaving, heart hammering like it wanted to escape.

Noah’s lips were swollen, wet, trembling, and his dark, hazy green eyes were locked on mine, searching, pleading. Every shallow breath he drew was shaky, shallow, and desperate, and his hands still clutched my shirt like he could hold onto me forever if he tried.

But I didn’t let him.

I hovered over him, knees braced, body tense, all control stretched thin. Heat pooled low in my gut, thick and relentless, the pressing hardness against my leg reminding me just how badly he wanted me, how badly I wanted him.

A low, rough chuckle escaped me, more instinct than amusement. “I love your boldness,” I murmured, teeth grazing the shell of his ear as I tugged lightly at his hair. His gasp was immediate, broken, needy.

He rolled slightly, hips pressing, grinding, searching for more friction. I had to grit my teeth against the urge to make a complete mess of him right here, like I’d give in to that craving I wasn’t supposed to acknowledge.

“But,” I added, voice low, dark, clipped, “I can only enjoy it when you’re sober enough to be humiliated by it.”

Carefully, deliberately, I pried his fingers off my shirt. One by one. His grip loosened only reluctantly, his hands falling to the bed with that helpless, lingering tension that made my chest tighten. He looked up at me, lips wet and parted, eyes full of lust and want.

“Cassian…”

My name. On his lips. Sounding soft, urgent, desperate. It hit me like a jolt, and I had to step back. Had to put space between us. Had to steady the mess of my body and thoughts.

“Sleep it off, Bennett,” I said, voice low but firm. I straightened my clothes, hands still trembling from the friction, the heat, the pull of him. I moved toward the door without looking back.

I couldn’t look back. If I did, if I let myself see him fully, see the want and need that he had for me, and that I had for him, I might not leave. And leaving was the only thing that made sense. He was drunk. Vulnerable. Emotional. This wasn’t about me. Not yet.

I reached for the door handle.

And then it hit me.

The sound.

Wet. Harsh. Violent. Horrible.

I froze, stomach twisting. Slowly, I turned.

Noah was bent over the side of the bed, one hand bracing the mattress, the other clutching his stomach. He was vomiting, violently, retching onto the carpet. Every heave shook his body, wracking him with the rawest, most human kind of vulnerability I’d ever seen.

I just… stood there. Watching. My chest tightened. My hands itched to do something, anything, but I didn’t move. He was a mess, entirely exposed, completely unguarded.

I closed my eyes. Took a long, steadying breath.

“…Ah, fuck,” I muttered.

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