#enchanted!noah

It’s one of those rare mornings when you have the day off and he doesn’t. He has a full schedule of meetings pulling him away for the next few hours, but when he wakes, he finds you in the kitchen—bowl tucked beneath your arm as you whisk the eggs you’ve meticulously cracked.

You’d shown him the trick not long after you started staying over, back when breakfast in bed became a thing for the both of you—one bowl to crack each egg into, and a second to pour it into afterward.

“It’s easier to fish out eggshells from one egg than from a whole mix,” you told him, a little tidbit he’s tucked away and kept using since, especially when you’re not around.

You’re humming as you go—a melody that doesn’t sound familiar but is soft enough to lull him into a sense of peace. He watches the slow sway of your hips, the way you seem dreamlike, lost in your own little world. You look too serene for him to disturb, but when he does, he’s careful—stealthy—as not to catch you off guard. His hands settle at your hips as he steps up behind you, and your hum shifts into one of quiet acknowledgment as you instinctively lean back into him.

He gives your hips a gentle squeeze in greeting, hands sliding around to meet at your front, settling just over your stomach as his head dips. He can’t resist the bare glimpse of your shoulder, where your oversized tee slips off slightly, revealing skin he’s already kissing—nipping gently before trailing his lips up the column of your neck.

“Morning to you too,” you muse, your smile bleeding into your voice. His lips curl into a grin against your warm skin, pressing one final kiss to the nape of your neck as he moves to nuzzle beneath the messy bun you’ve tied up to keep your hair out of your face.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and unused until now. You’d slipped out of bed before he even woke—a small, selfish disappointment in waking to cold sheets after becoming so accustomed to your warmth beside him.

“What’s for breakfast?” he asks, peeking over your shoulder as you pour the egg mixture into the pan, completely unfazed by the way he clings to you, holding close, just breathing you in—a scent and comfort that makes his chest flutter.

“Omelette,” you reply, turning your head just enough to catch his eye and press a light kiss to his jaw. “I figured you’d be hungry and want to eat before you left.”

Ideally, he would eat. Usually, he’s dragging himself out of bed closer to noon than early morning, and while his stomach grumbles, the idea of actually eating something this early doesn’t sit right with him.

Still, he presses his mouth to the side of your head, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you,” before slipping his arms from around you and stepping aside.

“Coffee?” he asks, reaching up into the cupboard for his usual mug.

“In the pot. I made some fresh,” you reply with a nod, folding the omelette in half and flipping it completely to finish cooking through.

It all feels so domestic, watching you move around his kitchen. Not that it’s an unfamiliar sight, he’s seen it before, even in your own home, but something about it stirs something deeper in him today. You usually spend your Sunday mornings wrapped up in bed together, dragging out the time before finally rolling out for a slow, lazy lunch—time you both savour, and yet now, watching you like this, he realises he wants more of it. More of this. More of you.

He’s already managed to convince you to take your first vacation together—something real couples do, and most days, he finds himself seesawing between what might be ‘too fast’ and what simply feels right, because with you, even the things that should feel fast don’t. They feel natural. Safe. He’s never experienced anything like it before. Never allowed himself to let his guard down like this, not with anyone else, other than you—you make it easy. You make it feel safe to be known.

“Noah!”

You calling his name snaps him out of his thoughts, pulling him back from wherever he’d drifted. That’s when he notices the coffee spilling over the counter.

“Ah, shit,” he mutters, grabbing a nearby rag to wipe it up. Just as he finishes, a car horn blares from outside, drawing his attention to the front window.

“That’s Jolly—he said he was gonna swing by and grab me,” Noah explains, tossing the now coffee-soaked rag into the sink.

“But… your breakfast?” you ask, your voice small as you hold up the plate, presenting the omelette to him like it’s an award, and in his mind, it is one. The gesture alone makes him regret having to dip out so early.

“You have it,” he says gently. “I’ll be back after lunch—we can go out for something together, yeah?”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then slips his fingers beneath your chin to tilt your face up, stealing the many kisses he needs to sustain him while you’re apart. More than food or air, he’d argue—this is what he needs.

Another blare of the horn breaks the moment, and he pulls away with a reluctant groan. “Okay, I gotta go.” And just like that, the three words tumble out—soft, uncalculated, and entirely unintentional:

“I love you.”

It doesn’t hit him right away—what he said or the gravity of it. Not until he’s already in the car.

He doesn’t even know he left you standing there, dumbfounded, the words still swirling in your head. Spoken like a reflex. Like they’d always been sitting there, waiting for the right moment to fall into place.

For the entire duration of his meeting, Noah is unable to focus. His eyes keep flickering to his phone, and the lack of a message from you sends him into a quiet spiral.

Did you hate that he said it? Was it too soon? Had he come on too strong? Did you not feel the same way?

He wouldn’t blame you. It’s a lot—he’s a lot. He knows he can be hard to love. Maybe you haven’t reached that point yet. Maybe you weren’t ready.

Except he has.

He’s been falling for a while now, even if he hadn’t said the words out loud until this morning. He’s felt it in his chest—the way being near you makes him feel both peaceful and fluttery, a quiet storm of butterflies beneath the surface, but it’s the calm that stands out most. The sense of normalcy.

You’ve never asked anything of him. Never expected the version of him that exists onstage, the performer, the persona. You’ve never demanded he be some dancing monkey just to earn your affection. You’ve seen through all of that.

You’ve accepted the softer, less put-together parts of him with a grace that catches him off guard, and more than that, you’ve offered yourself in return. You lean on him when your days are heavy, and he carries that with a quiet pride.

He’s your safe place, the same way you’ve become his.

By the end of the meeting, he’s out like a shot, nerves stretched thin with the need to come home. The silence from you feels too loud now, too heavy. He’s convinced he has gone too far.

Noah even tells Jolly he’ll Uber home—he doesn’t want to waste a single second letting the Swede take him on one of his infamous detours.

When he finally arrives home, he steps through the door tentatively, calling out for you, but there’s no response. A part of him aches, worried that maybe you’d left, but then he sees your shoes still neatly placed by the door, and relief settles in his chest. He takes the stairs two at a time, following the muffled sound of the TV coming from his room.

When he gets there, he opens the door to find you tucked back into his bed, wearing one of his shirts, the soft glow of the TV illuminating your form. One of the anime series you’ve both been watching recently is playing quietly in the background.

As Noah steps into the room, you shift, moving toward him. Your eyes are wide as you settle on your knees near the center of the bed, watching him approach. He walks to the edge and reaches out for you.

“I was worried you’d left,” he confesses, voice soft, his gaze flicking away from yours.

But you reach out and take his hands in yours, gently tugging him closer. His hands are larger, easily enveloping yours, but it’s a comfort to you both, how naturally you fit there, like you belong.

Finally, you take a steady breath and ask, “Did you mean it? What you said?”

And without missing a beat, Noah replies, “Every word.”

The spoon analogy comes to mind. You’re juggling too many, and they’re all on the verge of clattering to the floor—if they haven’t already.

When the doorbell rings, it’s almost the final straw. You weren’t expecting anyone, and truthfully, you don’t feel like seeing anyone either. Your friends wouldn’t understand—or worse, they’d take it personally. So, it’s been easier to go quiet for a few days. Send the occasional message here and there, just enough to let them know you’re thinking of them, even while you’re fighting a war inside your own head.

With a deep, heaving sigh, you open the door, only to find yourself face to face with a broad chest and a familiar shirt. Your eyes travel upward, closing the height gap until they settle on Noah’s face. Your mouth opens, ready to say something—maybe an apology, but nothing comes out. You’re speechless as he looks down at you, something soft and unreadable in his expression.

“Hey,” he says gently. He leans into the doorframe, reaching out to idly tug at the string of your pyjama pants. You hadn’t bothered changing into real clothes, just swapped one set of pajamas for another after your shower. It’s not like you had plans to go anywhere.

“Noah.” You breathe his name, and suddenly you’re flooded with the urge to hand him a barrage of excuses, one after the other, but nothing comes. Instead, you watch as he dips his head slightly, leaning in closer.

“I came to see if you knew where my girlfriend was,” he says, voice light but laced with concern. “It’s been a few days, and, well… she’s about yay high.” He lifts a hand to mimic your height. “Prettiest eyes, terrible sense of humor—but amazing taste in food.”

You look at him, frozen for a beat, before you throw yourself toward him, arms wrapping tightly around his waist. His own arms engulf you easily, pressing you against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble against his shirt, feeling the nuzzle of his nose against the top of your head.

“Why?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused.

Maybe it was your own doing. Being stuck in your head, caught in the spiral that convinced you that needing time alone—without explanation or contact—somehow made you a bad person. It made you stretch yourself beyond your limits, again and again. Or maybe you’d just spent too much time around people who demanded more than you could ever give.

“Because I haven’t seen you or spoken to you,” you mumble, face pressed to his chest. Your breath staggers as the emotion rises, eyes burning with the press of unshed tears.

“Baby, it’s okay,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head as his arms tighten, keeping you close.

“Shall we go and help you relax a little?”

You nod without a word, still refusing to pull away. He shuffles you back through the door before scooping you into his arms. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, arms looping around his neck as you nestle into the crook of it, grounding yourself in his warmth.

“I can’t promise I’ll be much fun,” you mumble against his neck, your nose brushing his skin as you breathe in the familiar scent of him. It envelopes you instantly, grounding you, soothing you—like being pulled back under a warm blanket of safety.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he assures you, and it feels like a weight slowly lifting.

“Really?” You pull back slightly to look at him just as he reaches the couch and gently lays you down on it.

“Yeah.”

“Even if it means not wanting to talk?”

“Even then.”

He leans in, his lips brushing your forehead before pressing a tender kiss there. Your eyes flutter shut, and the heaviness that clung to you just moments ago lifts—just enough for you to breathe again.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt like a security blanket, like you need to keep him close.

Noah doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to. Instead, he shifts beside you on the couch, gathering you into his arms and resting you against his chest. One large hand cradles the back of your head, his fingers gently rubbing your scalp, slow and comforting. The warmth of him, the rhythm of his touch, the quiet—all of it begins to blur, the fuzzy feeling pulling you under until sleep takes hold.

When you wake, it’s definitely not a pretty sight. You can feel the dry drool at the corner of your mouth, and you blink sluggishly as you try to push yourself upright. Noah’s long limbs are no longer wrapped around you, but you hear the distinct sound of his voice singing in the kitchen, accompanied by the soft hum of a radio in the background.

Your vision blurs as you come to, but once you’re awake enough to focus, a smile slowly spreads across your face. He’s moving around your kitchen with a familiar grace and ease—something he’s done more and more since he started coming over. He knows the layout well enough to plate something up without even thinking about it, and that’s exactly what he’s doing now.

“Oh, you’re awake!” he calls out, licking a bit of sauce from the pad of his thumb before flashing you a playful grin. “Someone had a good sleep, I see.” He nods toward you—specifically your hair, which is standing up, messy and wild.

“Yeah, well…” you mumble, huffing softly as you try to pat it down. Whether or not it helps, you’re not sure, but all thoughts of bedhead vanish when he walks over, bearing two plates.

“I got you some food for sustenance,” he says, setting them down on the coffee table in front of you. “Looked like you were living off those leftovers longer than you should’ve.”

You duck your head, guilty as charged, eyes falling to the food in front of you. “Thank you,” you murmur, a tired smile pulling at your lips. Then you pucker them slightly, wordlessly asking for a kiss.

Naturally, he obliges the moment he sees you. He leans in and presses a tender kiss to your lips before sinking down onto the couch beside you. “It’s from your favourite place,” he adds, balancing his plate in one hand as he leans back against the cushions. “And maybe after, I can run you a bath—or a hot shower?”

“Are you trying to say I smell?” you ask, turning your head to raise a brow at him.

Noah just laughs, shaking his head. “Well…”

You scoff and nudge him with your shoulder, but the smallest smile tugs at your lips at the thought. A small, sweet gesture. One you didn’t realize you needed.

“I’d like that,” you say softly.

As promised, Noah runs you a hot shower, and to your surprise, even when he steps in behind you to join, there’s no funny business—no ulterior motive to his gesture. Just sweetness and him. He leaves the gentlest kisses along your shoulders and the back of your neck as he lathers you up, his touch tender and unhurried.

His fingers glide across your skin, caressing every dip and curve with reverence, taking in every inch he passes. It’s soft and worshipful, a kind of care that makes you feel deeply loved. You easily melt back into his chest, letting yourself sink into the solid feel of him and the warmth of his body against yours.

When he lathers your hair, his fingers gently massaging your scalp, it sends a shiver down your spine, goosebumps rising across your skin. Your head tilts back instinctively, and he dips forward—pressing one kiss, then another, trailing along your neck and up to your jaw until you turn and meet his mouth with yours. All the while, his fingers continue working through your hair, still massaging, still gentle.

“How does that feel?” he whispers.

A soft, pleased sound escapes you. “Good,” you nod, your hands pressing to his stomach as you steady yourself, leaning into him while he guides you back under the stream of water.

He takes his time—rinsing the bubbles out, working in the conditioner, then rinsing that out too, and when he finally turns off the water, he steps out with you, reaching immediately for a towel and wrapping it snugly around your body.

You slip your arms around his waist, pressing your face to his still wet chest. You breathe him in—the faint scent of your shared body wash mixed with that distinct scent that’s just him. It makes you melt, makes butterflies stir in your stomach, fluttering in a way you don’t think could ever stop, especially not when he scoops you up bridal style and carries you off to the bedroom.

There, he picks out another set of pyjamas for you to slip into, something soft and comfortable, and once you’re dressed, he climbs into bed beside you, pulling you into his chest like you belong there, because you do.

Truthfully, he loves these moments: when he gets to steal time with you. No obligations, no emails or phone calls, which have interrupted many a morning with you both, but not this morning. This morning, it’s just the two of you.

You promise to bring him breakfast in bed if he lets you go. It takes a little extra bargaining, a few more kisses, before he actually lets you slip free.

“Did all that catering give you culinary skills?” he teases.

You glance back at him, a flicker of a teasing smile on your lips. “Maybe,” you shoot back, and then you’re gone. Wearing his shirt, which barely covers past your ass, you slip out of the bedroom and wander down the hall of your apartment until you reach the kitchen. It’s small, but quaint—and all yours.

Strawberries, fresh cream, and pancakes. You have less in stock than you anticipated, but enough to make something to share. Grabbing two mini cartons of orange juice, you run back to the bedroom to surprise him with your culinary delight.

“I thought we said no phones,” you scold him, setting the plate down on the nightstand as you catch him sitting up against the pile of pillows, scrolling through his phone.

“Unfortunately, I don’t turn into a pumpkin when the clock strikes midnight.”

“And I do?” you gasp, reaching for the plate and scooping up some of the cream, smearing it onto the tip of his nose in retaliation. A hum of laughter rumbles in your throat as you lick your finger clean.

“Never,” he beams, hands sliding to your hips, gripping the fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing, and dragging you closer, back towards the bed.

You push the covers aside and climb on top of him, straddling his lap. Reaching over, you begin cutting a piece of the pancakes with the side of your fork. “Well, lucky for you, Cinderella here can cook too,” you tease, bringing a forkful of pancake, strawberry, and cream to his lips, watching him closely as he happily accepts it, soft satisfied moans escaping him.

“Delicious,” he mumbles, and you lean in, stealing a kiss—wiping away the smudge of cream coating his lips in the process.

“The strawberries are especially sweet.” You reach over, setting the fork down, this time using your fingers to pick up a piece. Lifting it high, you feed it to Noah, his eyes eagerly fixed on you as his mouth closes around your fingers, his tongue swiping at the remaining juice.

This time, he can’t resist another kiss, pulling you in, one hand cradling the nape of your neck as his mouth meets yours. It’s soft, sweet, and sets off an eruption of butterflies in your stomach.

You get to wake up to this—to him—every single morning so far. He’s refused to leave, your side, your bed, you. It’s been beyond perfect, the two of you creating a bubble you never want to escape from.

“My turn,” he declares proudly, reaching for a piece of strawberry and scooping up some cream in the process, but instead of offering it to you right away, he trails it down his bare tatted chest, letting it rest just above his navel.

Shuffling back, you happily dip down, leaving a trail of kisses as you follow the path he created. When you reach the strawberry, your tongue rolls over the spot, slow and deliberate, and you hear his breath hitch beneath you with every teasing movement.

You let out a squeal the moment his arms wrap around you, pulling you down against him as he rolls you both over. His head dips to capture your mouth in a kiss, sharing the sweet mixture still lingering on your tongue. It’s slow and sensual, his mouth soft against yours, each of you savoring the moment, just like you have ever since you locked yourselves away together in your little apartment.

“I love being here with you,” he whispers, his mouth soft against your skin as he trails light kisses down your throat, tucking into the crook of your neck. His hands edge beneath the shirt—his shirt—you’re wearing, large palms brushing against the soft skin of your back. The heat of him makes you tremble. He’s always had that effect on you, from the very first moment you met—his touch subtle enough to set you on edge and set your body ablaze, all at once.

“Would you stay here forever?” you ask. It’s cliché, but he indulges you.

He nods, whispering a soft "In a heartbeat" against your pulse before pressing a kiss there, feeling the way it thrums beneath your skin.

You can’t think of anything more idyllic than hiding away in your apartment together, shutting out the world—a world so incessant in its curiosity about him: where he is, who he’s with. Enough time should’ve passed for the “mystery woman” to be forgotten—she was, to you, and yet somehow, the rumors pull him into new assumptions, linking him to another artist, with whispers of secret proposals and declarations of an engagement.

None of it’s true—except maybe his desperate attempts to get you to come with him to every show, and his constant pleading for a trip to Paris.

“You’re still on that?” you tease, just as he lifts his head and brushes his teeth lightly against your chin in a playful bite.

“It’s romantic,” he insists. And it is—beyond romantic. Almost too romantic for two people who’ve only just met, who are still in the early stages of something so new, something not yet defined, but Noah is falling, hard, harder than he ever has, and the soft look in his eyes when he finally pulls back to gaze down at you tells you everything.

“You’re crazy,” you whisper, shaking your head as your fingers rake gently through his hair.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “About you,” no cheek, no cockiness, just pure adoration, like no truer words have ever been spoken.

“What would we even do out there?” you ask.

As usual, that question transforms him into his walking tour guide self, listing off everywhere you could go—his voice low and easy—while his mouth charts its own path along your jawline and neck, leaving soft, lingering marks behind.

“There’s a hotel that overlooks the Louvre,” he murmurs, “and at night, it shimmers so beautifully.” His body presses closer against yours, and your head grows cloudy at the thought. He talks about the view, about the city, about the hotel room and all the possibilities it holds for you both.

Breakfast on the balcony. Dinner while watching the Louvre light up at night. All of his sweet words slowly dissolving into soft filth as he whispers them against your skin. “And I can watch the city lights reflect in your eyes as I fuck you over the balcony.”

You think a soft ‘yes’ slips from your lips between quiet moans and the frantic effort to shed the only article of clothing between you—his shirt, and when he sinks into you, it’s full and deep, a feeling that spreads through every inch of your body, like he’s sinking home, as though this is exactly how you belong—together, completely entwined.

Every morning has followed the same pattern on the days you refuse to leave the bed, falling into slow, lazy morning sex. The kind that feels like the perfect start to the day simply because it begins with him inside you.

It’s the slow drag of him between your walls that you love—the way he stretches you, the way pleasure ripples through every inch of your body, the way he stays pressed close, like all he wants is to remain right here, wrapped around you.

Your mouths move together in slow, teasing kisses. A flick of your tongues, playful at first, until he grows greedy and presses his tongue into your mouth, seeking out the taste of you. There’s a faint trace of strawberries and cream on your tongue—just enough sweetness to deepen the kiss, to make him crave more.

Your hands roam his body—his biceps, his back, his hair. You comb your fingers through the strands and tug gently, arching your hips to meet the slow, deliberate rhythm of his own.

He draws out the pleasure for you both. You feel the way he twitches and pulses inside you, the tremble in his stomach as he leans into you, holding steady, refusing to give in too soon. Even when he does, he doesn’t stop. Half-hard and sensitive, he keeps moving—thrusting into you with slow, determined strokes until you feel him hardening again, like your body is the answer to everything for him.

There’s no clear edge where he ends and you begin. Your bodies feel made for one another—perfectly in sync—and he whispers as much against your skin, each word soft and reverent as he kisses along your body.

“It’s like you were made for me.” It’s a quiet murmur, but it makes your stomach ripple with butterflies, a slow build of pleasure trailing behind it, because it feels exactly like that. Like you were made for each other—soul to soul, body to body.

“You’re all mine,” he whispers, and the words have an instant, heated effect. You clench around him, your body responding without thought.

“All yours,” you echo, breathless, affirming what you both already know. You are his—in a way you’ve never belonged to anyone before.

“Just like I’m all yours.”

That’s what sends you over the edge. The words, the truth of them, hit with unexpected force—your climax erupting slowly but deeply, spreading heat through every nerve. You tremble beneath him as he cradles you close, moans spilling into his mouth as he kisses you through it.

He’s all yours. He belongs to you—just as you belong to him. There’s never been any doubt. From the moment you met, he made it abundantly clear: there’s no one else for him, only you.

𝐕𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐧ⵑ𝐍𝐨𝐚𝐡 : He’s gotten more confident, and it’s endearing, you can feel it in the way he touches you, the way his fingers skilfully move inside you, experimenting with slow and quick strokes. You hear it in his voice too, when he manages to coax another moan from your lips, your back arching off the bed as he slowly runs his finger along your velvety walls, stroking that one sweet spot.

“You like that?” he asks, but there’s no doubt in his tone—just the slow crawl of a grin across his lips. “Yeah, you do,” he purrs, mouth pressed against your thigh, his brown doe eyes fixated on you, watching the way you writhe and respond to every movement.

“What about if I do this…” His voice trails off, and a deeper sound is pulled from your throat as his fingers stroke the back of your cunt, the sensation driving something unfamiliar through you—a heat that makes you tighten around him.

“Oh, you’re more sensitive there?” he murmurs, and it’s as though he’s mentally saving that thought. His fingers keep exploring, stroking you from the inside, searching for the spot you like the most.

“I think this is the one you like the most though, right?” His fingers switch back to the front, curled and buried deep as he presses into the spongy-soft point behind your clit, making you practically purr in his hands.

𝐕𝐀ⵑ𝐍𝐨𝐚𝐡: “You like that? Yeah, you do,” Noah croons into your ear, and you gasp, the wet sounds that follow his voice sending a shiver down your spine. His own moans bleed into the audio as he continues feeding the most obscene filth into your ears, crafting a dreamlike, vivid image in your mind.

“What if I go a little deeper?”

You’re following his words, and when he speaks them, it’s like a command—the toy inside you mimics the motion, driving deeper. The sensation spreads through you like wildfire, making you arch off the bed with a deep moan.

“What about if I lick your clit just like this while I finger you, huh?”

Right then, he starts making the sloppiest mouth sounds—wet, messy, deliberate. You know it’s just a prop, some toy he’s licking into for effect, but it doesn’t matter. Your fingers fumble for the Satisfyer, switching it on before pressing it in place against your aching, sensitive clit. You’ve purposely avoided stimulation under his guidance, and now you’re almost shaking from need.

“Tell me how good that feels, baby. You gonna tell me how good?”

And you do, soft, broken mewls slipping from your lips as your back arches again. You grind your hips down against the toy buried inside you and hold the Satisfyer firmly to your clit, the sensation sending wave after wave of pleasure rippling through your body.

“You gonna be good and cum for me, hm?” he continues to croon between exaggerated licks. “Fuck, you taste so fucking good, you know that? I wanna feel you cum all over my tongue. Give it to me, baby.”

His words coax you closer, pulling you right to the edge until you feel it, that taut coil snapping as heat rushes through your trembling body, sending you careening over into ecstasy.

𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭ⵑ𝐍𝐨𝐚𝐡 : It’s a pretty sight to see—Noah sprawled out beneath you, long hair framing his face like a halo. You don’t take your eyes off his as you slowly roll your hips, circling them intentionally to feel the thick weight of his cock buried inside you, rubbing against all your most sensitive areas.

Your nails graze down along his tattooed chest while his hands grip your waist, guiding your movements. His hips lift just enough to add the pressure you’re seeking—until they buck, sending a jolt of pleasure through you that makes you moan faintly, grinning down at him.

“You like that?” he asks.

You nod slowly, a soft purring “mhm” slipping past your lips as you lean forward, half laying over him to meet his mouth in a kiss. Just as your lips touch, he bucks again, catching you off guard and making you quiver atop him, clenching tighter around him. His words melt into the kiss, his teasing smirk pressing against your lips.

“Yeah, you do.”

For a subby little thing, he can be quite the cocky brat.

𝐄𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝ⵑ𝐍𝐨𝐚𝐡 : Sunday mornings are possibly the best, even if the creeping shadow of Monday means losing Noah to his work schedule, he always makes up for it with a slow, lazy morning in bed, which often leads to an equally slow morning shower.

It’s no surprise you both end up there: your back pressed to his chest, his mouth trailing kisses, nips, and marks along your shoulder and neck as his hands roam freely, tracing every curve and dip, drinking you in while the water cascades over you both.

When your head tips back, he meets your mouth with a soft kiss, something so tender it draws a soft sigh from you. His fingers trail lower, slipping past your stomach, daring and teasing all at once.

What you expect to happen doesn’t—at least, not fully.

His fingers push between your folds, circling your clit in a slow, deliberate motion, as though he’s testing how wet you are for him, as if he’s just getting a feel for your body. You let out a quiet moan against his lips, and the corners of his mouth pull into a slight grin as he murmurs, “You like that? Yeah, you do.”

He coos it softly, like he already knows the answer.