The Sweet Talker (Boston Hawks Hockey #1) - Gina Azzi Page 0,12
on to my fingers, his thumb drawing lazy circles over my knuckles. He doesn’t let go until we pull up in front of a sweet brownstone in Beacon Hill.
“Wow.” I glance at him. “You live here?”
“Me and East.”
“I didn’t know you lived with your brother,” I say, sliding from the back seat and shivering from the breeze. While it’s not yet winter, it’s a hell of a lot colder than I’m used to. I moved to Boston in April from the heat and sun of Florida. My southern roots aren’t well-adjusted to the cold yet.
Noah wraps an arm around me, as if the bulk of his muscles could block the wind. Hell, they probably could. He exchanges a few words with the driver and then guides me up to the front entrance.
“East and I bought this place together years ago. He was living here solo for the past two years when Courtney and I bought a home.” He grimaces and I suddenly wish I didn’t say anything about him living with Easton. “But I sold it after…”
I nod, not needing him to elaborate on that sentence. “It’s beautiful.”
He shoots me a grateful look. “Thank you.” He punches in the code for the front door and pushes it open. I step inside and Noah enters quickly behind me, turning off and resetting the alarm.
He flips the lights on and my breath lodges in my throat. His home is more than beautiful. It’s like stepping into the spread of a design magazine.
The bones of the house, old and charming and historic, have been well-preserved and blended with contemporary materials and functional amenities. Exposed brick blends with industrial-style lighting. A real wood fireplace is bookended by built-in shelves with hockey awards and classic literature. An open floor plan is created from the history of over a hundred years of separated rooms, each with a specific function.
“This is amazing,” I say, spinning around in a circle.
Noah blushes and it’s the sweetest thing ever. “It was mostly East.”
I push at his chest playfully. “Stop being so modest.”
He chuckles, grabbing my hand and pulling me closer until I crash into his chest, my breasts pushing into his abdomen.
He glances down, his eyes sparking as they catch on my now pushed-up cleavage, before he drags his gaze up to mine. One of his hands settles on my waist. “I should get you some pajamas. And water.” He doesn’t make a move to do either and I don’t say anything to encourage him to remove his hand.
Because right now, I want nothing more than to feel his hands on me. To feel his fingers caress my skin, to know what it tastes like to have his tongue coax in between my lips and dance with mine.
A small sigh escapes my mouth and Noah’s jaw tightens, his gaze sharpening.
I reach up and my hand curls around his forearm, keeping his hand anchored to my hip.
We stare at each other, our elevated breathing mixing in the space between us.
“You don’t date hockey players,” he reminds me, his words a whisper but forcefully said, like he’s trying to remind himself too.
I lick my bottom lip and his eyelids drop to half-mast.
“You don’t really date at all,” I reply, my voice huskier than I’ve ever heard it.
He closes his eyes, dropping his forehead to mine. “I can’t do this with you, Indy. Not tonight.” He rolls his forehead gently and I shuffle even closer.
“Not tonight or not ever?” I ask, not caring how desperate I sound. I’m grateful for the liquid courage pumping through my blood. It’s been too long, maybe even my entire life, since I’ve felt desire like this. It’s thick in my veins, swimming like molasses. But my mind is made up, my head clear that Noah Scotch could make me feel like I’ve never felt before.
I know with certainty that his kiss would put all of Chris’s to shame, that his touch would erase any memory of Jace, that his body shadowing mine would be the greatest ecstasy I’ve ever had.
Right now, tipsy and needy, I want it more than oxygen.
I tip my chin up a fraction, lining up our lips until they nearly touch. Our breaths are like sweet caresses, our fingers still digging into each other, holding on to the thread of control that frays with each exhale.
“Fuck,” Noah swears right before he frames my face with his large hand and presses his lips to mine.