Breaking Noah

“Guess so,” he agrees, his blue eyes resting on mine. I bite my lip and open the door, the car lighting up. As I’m stepping out, he reaches over and grabs my arm. “Wait.”

I turn, and I’m greeted with his soft lips on mine. I’m shocked, because I honestly didn’t think he had it in him to make a move. I drop my purse and reposition my body so I’m facing him and delve deeper into his kiss.

His arm snakes around my waist, riding up the center of my back. I jump, a tingle racing through me when his fingers hit the bare skin of my neck. I gently caress his face, my tongue massaging his. He pulls away from me, our hands breaking contact. I feel my cheeks heat as he stares at me, and I find myself wondering what he’s thinking.

“I better go.” I drop my gaze and then get out of the car, closing the door. Stepping back onto the safety of the sidewalk, I watch as he drives off. My arms are crossed tightly over my chest and I’m not sure if it’s the freezing air on my naked arms or that kiss that’s causing my heart to race and my bare flesh to pebble.

Inside the warmth of the apartment, I walk through the living room, chuckling as I see Dillon sprawled out on the sofa, empty bottles covering the carpet below him. I flick the light off and stalk to our bedroom where I unzip my dress, letting it float to the floor. I step out of it and walk into the bathroom, the sudden urge to shower impossible to ignore. I scrub my body viciously, as if I’m trying to wash away any trace of his scent on me.

How could I have enjoyed myself so much? I’d forgotten, just for a moment, the reason that I’m even bothering with this. I can’t afford to be so absentminded. That’s probably how Karly had fallen into his trap. It’s easy to fall for a gentleman and be screwed into loving a douche bag. I just can’t help but feel that he’s not the jerk I’m painting him to be. Even Dillon at first, as gentlemanly as he was, still had a faint resemblance to an asshole. There’s nothing about Noah that leads me to believe he’s anything but perfect. Maybe that’s part of his game?

—

After my shower, I hang my towel and walk over to the bed, pulling back the sheets. I climb in and snuggle into the warmth. I reach for my phone and pull up Noah’s number.

Me: Thanks for taking me out. Is it wrong that I get more excited spending time with you than I do with my own boyfriend?

Noah: You already thanked me, remember? And no, it’s not wrong, especially when you’re dating an asswipe like Dillon.

I laugh and switch my phone off. He’s right there. Charles Manson would provide better company than Dillon. Still, I can’t deny I enjoyed tonight, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, that kiss felt pretty impressive. I’m getting to know Noah and it’s throwing me off my game because I’m seeing sides to him that I wasn’t expecting.

I need to stay focused, because even though I’m pissed and hurt, I’m still a woman. And he’s doing all the things that women fall in love with. If I don’t watch my step, I’ll be falling right into his trap instead of the other way around.

Chapter 8

Noah

I had her lips on mine. I finally got to feel what I had been imagining since our phone call. I now know what that type of guilt feels like. I took advantage of her and enjoyed every damn second of it. God, what the fuck is wrong with me? How do I come back from this? What’s going to happen in class? If she tells the dean? Fuck.

I didn’t see Zara on campus yesterday. I waited in my office, thinking that she’d eventually come by and actually be tutored this time. I’m really hoping that my disappointment is because she is losing time catching up with the other students and not because I didn’t get to see her. All of these emotions are catching me off guard and I might need to take this weekend to figure them out. Thank God for Fridays, right?

After the final bell of the day, I don’t bother sticking around until the early evening like I’ve been doing every afternoon since school began. The students all file out extremely fast, which is typical for a Friday, and I’m not far behind. Turning off the lights in my classroom, pulling my door shut, I’m in my car before the last of the students clear the parking lot.

To make it the absolute best possible day ever, Shannon sent me a text earlier that she was going to Chicago for the day with her sister and would probably stay the night. She also informed me that she already ordered some pasta from the Italian restaurant up the road and it was in the fridge waiting for me. If that’s not wife material, I’m not sure what is, I think to myself, rolling my eyes.

As I’m about to pull onto the street, Zara catches my eye. She’s standing next to a beat-up old Mustang with the hood propped. That’s not the attention-grabber, however. It’s what she’s doing—leaning over the bumper, staring at something near the motor, her skirt raised a few inches in the back, and even from here I can tell you her underwear is the same color as her skirt.

Whipping my car around, I pull into the spot next to hers and climb out, moving to stand in front of her so I’m not tempted to learn any more intimate details about her undergarments.

“Is everything okay, Ms. Hamilton?” I ask, forcing my eyes to focus on hers and not down her ill-fitting tank top. My resolve weakens as I remember how her lips felt pressed against mine. I’m like a horny teenager. I have to stand on the other side of the fender just to conceal my growing erection.

“The fucker won’t start. I don’t get it. I just did a tune-up last week. Everything should be fine,” she says, slapping her hands on the raised hood, peering farther into the motor.

“You can use my phone to call your boyfriend if you’d like,” I offer, digging my phone from my pocket.

“He’s at work until seven. If you could give me a ride, I’ll have him stop on his way home to see if he can figure it out.”

“No problem. Come on.” I climb back into the driver’s seat while Zara gathers her belongings from the Mustang. She pulls out her backpack and purse, puts the keys under the seat, and pulls out her phone, presumably to text her boyfriend to let him know where her keys are so he can fix the problem.

When Zara’s situated and buckled in my car, I pull out of the lot, careful to not let my gaze divert to her legs again, or to her breasts, which are being accentuated by the seat belt currently cutting across her chest. Hell, I’ve already gone through puberty, so I shouldn’t still be feeling like a teenage boy who’s seeing boobs for the first time. This is insane.

“Why weren’t you in class today? You were obviously at school,” I ask, trying to cut th

e tension and remind myself she’s a student.

“Lady troubles,” she responds, not giving anything further.

The rest of the ride’s quiet until we pull up in front of her building. As I put the car in park, Zara reaches toward the backseat to grab her stuff, forcing her body within millimeters of mine, and I have to hold my breath so we don’t actually touch. When everything’s in her hands, she sweetly smiles and thanks me for the ride. I nod in response. I’m such a damn tool.