Read Online The Best Man: Part Two by Lola Carson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lola Carson
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lights are dancing in his eyes as he stares at Noah, and once again his gaze flicks down to Noah’s mouth, only he’s not drunk this time, has no excuse for it.
“If you’re gonna apologise for anything, Noah,” he says, almost whispering, the words hushing out beneath his breath, “it’s not for walking in on me.”
Noah swallows, and he tries to level out his breathing. “Then what?”
Patrick looks him dead in the eye, doesn’t give Noah the ability or the desire to avoid him when he says, slowly and with intent, “What do you think put me in the mood in the first place?”
“Is it…” Noah’s voice cracks, and his stomach squirms, and he wants to walk away from this conversation almost as much as he wants to lean in to Patrick’s heat. “You can’t say it’s ‘cos I was dancing for you,” he croaks. “I look stupid when I dance.”
Patrick’s eyes glint with something dark and unrecognisable, and his lips twist like he wants to grimace, or smile, or something that shows what’s just raced through his head. “No you don’t,” he says, breathy. “And don’t let Connor hear you say that.”
“He already knows I can’t dance.”
“No.” Patrick pins him with his eyes now, and there’s nothing disguised there. Noah can see it all. “That you were dancing for me .”
The words sit between them, and they stare at each other, and in this darkness, this blanket of night, it feels like it’s just them, that Connor’s not in the next room, that there’s nothing stopping Noah from voicing those dangerous thoughts lurking on the edges of his consciousness.
“I didn’t mean to say that,” he says instead, not denying what Patrick said, but not owning up to it either. Safe ground, far removed from what he really means.
Patrick smiles, but it’s mirthless. Then he breaks the look at last, and he sits back in the couch, and he brings his mug to his lips. “And I didn’t mean to watch you,” he says before taking a sip. “We all do things we shouldn’t sometimes.”
There’s so much veiled significance in Patrick’s words and tone that Noah’s head spins with it. All he can do now is get away from it all. “I need to get to bed.”
“Yeah,” says Patrick, gaze fixed firmly on the television now. “Goodnight, Noah.”
It doesn’t feel like the end of the conversation at all. It feels like the start of something that goes beyond words.
Noah doesn’t fall asleep until dawn.
* * * * *
Noah’s woken up by the exquisite torture of wet, sucking heat on his dick. As soon as he opens his eyes, arching into it on instinct, the heat disappears, and suddenly Connor’s smiling face is in front of him.
“Morning.”
“Uh…morning.” Noah blinks in confusion. This has never happened before. “What are you doing?”
“Giving my sexy fiancé his wake-up call,” Connor drawls before slithering back down his body.
There’s noise coming from the kitchen, and Noah feels a moment of panic piercing through the wash of arousal. “Patrick’s out there.”
“So?”
“He might hear us.”
“I’m sure he won’t care,” Connor says, before taking Noah’s dick in his hand and licking a stripe up the underside. “Just lay back and let me make you feel good.”
The pleasure overrides his indecision, and he does what he’s told. It’s such a novelty—Connor initiating sex in the morning—that he doesn’t want to say anything that might put him off, lest it lead to him never being this spontaneous again.
When they eventually make it into the kitchen, Patrick is gone, but the untouched, steaming cup of coffee on the counter says he left only recently, and apparently in a hurry.
Noah tries not to read too much into it, and he tries not to think about last night, or the night before, or any other moment that’s twisted him up ever since Patrick walked into that restaurant and tipped him upside down.
The wedding. That’s what matters now. And Connor.
He pours a cup of
“If you’re gonna apologise for anything, Noah,” he says, almost whispering, the words hushing out beneath his breath, “it’s not for walking in on me.”
Noah swallows, and he tries to level out his breathing. “Then what?”
Patrick looks him dead in the eye, doesn’t give Noah the ability or the desire to avoid him when he says, slowly and with intent, “What do you think put me in the mood in the first place?”
“Is it…” Noah’s voice cracks, and his stomach squirms, and he wants to walk away from this conversation almost as much as he wants to lean in to Patrick’s heat. “You can’t say it’s ‘cos I was dancing for you,” he croaks. “I look stupid when I dance.”
Patrick’s eyes glint with something dark and unrecognisable, and his lips twist like he wants to grimace, or smile, or something that shows what’s just raced through his head. “No you don’t,” he says, breathy. “And don’t let Connor hear you say that.”
“He already knows I can’t dance.”
“No.” Patrick pins him with his eyes now, and there’s nothing disguised there. Noah can see it all. “That you were dancing for me .”
The words sit between them, and they stare at each other, and in this darkness, this blanket of night, it feels like it’s just them, that Connor’s not in the next room, that there’s nothing stopping Noah from voicing those dangerous thoughts lurking on the edges of his consciousness.
“I didn’t mean to say that,” he says instead, not denying what Patrick said, but not owning up to it either. Safe ground, far removed from what he really means.
Patrick smiles, but it’s mirthless. Then he breaks the look at last, and he sits back in the couch, and he brings his mug to his lips. “And I didn’t mean to watch you,” he says before taking a sip. “We all do things we shouldn’t sometimes.”
There’s so much veiled significance in Patrick’s words and tone that Noah’s head spins with it. All he can do now is get away from it all. “I need to get to bed.”
“Yeah,” says Patrick, gaze fixed firmly on the television now. “Goodnight, Noah.”
It doesn’t feel like the end of the conversation at all. It feels like the start of something that goes beyond words.
Noah doesn’t fall asleep until dawn.
* * * * *
Noah’s woken up by the exquisite torture of wet, sucking heat on his dick. As soon as he opens his eyes, arching into it on instinct, the heat disappears, and suddenly Connor’s smiling face is in front of him.
“Morning.”
“Uh…morning.” Noah blinks in confusion. This has never happened before. “What are you doing?”
“Giving my sexy fiancé his wake-up call,” Connor drawls before slithering back down his body.
There’s noise coming from the kitchen, and Noah feels a moment of panic piercing through the wash of arousal. “Patrick’s out there.”
“So?”
“He might hear us.”
“I’m sure he won’t care,” Connor says, before taking Noah’s dick in his hand and licking a stripe up the underside. “Just lay back and let me make you feel good.”
The pleasure overrides his indecision, and he does what he’s told. It’s such a novelty—Connor initiating sex in the morning—that he doesn’t want to say anything that might put him off, lest it lead to him never being this spontaneous again.
When they eventually make it into the kitchen, Patrick is gone, but the untouched, steaming cup of coffee on the counter says he left only recently, and apparently in a hurry.
Noah tries not to read too much into it, and he tries not to think about last night, or the night before, or any other moment that’s twisted him up ever since Patrick walked into that restaurant and tipped him upside down.
The wedding. That’s what matters now. And Connor.
He pours a cup of
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