World Apocalypse: Apocalust

Chapter 51: Chapter LI - Am I Interrupting Something?

As Noah’s body adjusted to the unfamiliar strength coursing through him, he flexed his fingers and rolled his shoulders, still trying to understand just how different everything felt. There was no lingering fatigue from the integration process, no soreness from the ordeal he’d just endured. If anything, he felt better than he had before it started.

The bathroom door opened behind him.

Noah turned his head and froze.

Sage stepped back into the attic, her long red hair still damp from the shower, dark and heavy as it clung in wet strands to the delicate curve of her neck and the flushed skin of her cheeks.

Tiny droplets traced glistening paths down her throat, slipping lower, disappearing into the shadowed valley of her cleavage where the thin collar of his oversized black T-shirt gaped slightly—his shirt, the one he hadn’t remembered leaving in that bathroom, now hanging loose and unclaimed over her bare skin.

The hem rode high on her thighs, barely brushing the swell of her hips; with every movement, the fabric shifted against her, revealing the unmistakable press of her nipples beneath the cotton, unbound and commando.

Noah’s gaze dropped to where the black jeans had been, now vanished—replaced by bare skin and speculation.

What was she wearing beneath it?

The question burned through him, illicit and electric. Perhaps nothing at all. The thought itself made his pulse stutter, his imagination supplying possibilities that left him warm, restless, and suddenly very aware of how small the attic had become.

Half the distance was crossed on silent feet, the plush shag swallowing each step until she stood close enough that he could smell the scent of whatever shampoo she used on her skin, still warm from the shower. She caught him staring, caught the hunger in it, and her brow arched, slow and knowing, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

"...Am I interrupting something?" she asked.

Her gaze briefly dropped to Noah’s shirt, now soaked through and clinging to him, revealing the definition of the muscles beneath.

The answer didn’t come right away. It couldn’t—his mouth had gone dry, his thoughts scattering like sparks against the reality of her standing there, wearing nothing but his shirt and a smile that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing to him

"Depends," he finally managed, his voice rougher than he intended.

He turned fully to face her, the new strength in his body coiling tight, suddenly eager for an entirely different kind of exertion.

"What were you hoping to interrupt?"

Sage’s lips parted on a soft laugh, breathy and warm. She took another step, closing the small distance until her damp hair nearly brushed his shoulder, until she could see the flecks of amber turning gold in her green eyes, the flush still high on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the hot water she’d left behind.

"I borrowed your shirt," she said, not an apology but an invitation.

Her fingers found the hem, tugging it lower with a futile modesty that only drew his gaze back to her thighs. Now that he was closer, he could see the freckles scattered across them as well, delicate specks against her skin that he hadn’t noticed there before.

"Hope you don’t mind."

He smiled down at Sage, slow and hungry, his voice dropping to a rough whisper against her lips.

"Keep it," he murmured, pulling her in until her body heat bled through the thin fabric, until he could feel the soft press of her against him, unbound and real.

"Consider it a trade."

"For what?" she whispered.

Her palms slid up his chest, lingering, if not exploring, the new topography of muscle and strength beneath his damp shirt.

Noah dipped his head, his mouth grazing the shell of her ear, his voice slipping to something raw and honest.

"For the only thing I’ve been able to think about since you walked out here."

He felt her shiver, felt her fingers curl into his shoulders, anchoring herself as the attic seemed to tilt around them. The air between them thickened, charged with possibility, with the promise of finally crossing the line they’d been dancing around for too long.

"Then maybe," Sage breathed, tilting her face toward his, close enough that he could taste the sweetness of her breath, the warmth of her exhalation, "you should stop thinking, Noah."

And she closed the final inch between them, her lips meeting his with a certainty that made the thought—and the attic, the System, and everything else around them—fade into irrelevance.

The kiss unraveled something in him. A careful restraint fraying at the edges as Sage made a soft, approving sound against his mouth. Her lips parted, inviting, and he took what she offered, his tongue sliding against hers with a slow, exploratory hunger that made her fingers tighten in his shirt.

Noah’s hands found her waist again, then drifted lower, palming the bare curves of her thighs where his shirt had bunched. Her skin was fever-warm, still carrying the shower’s heat, and she shivered as his thumbs traced inward, teasing, testing.

"You’re wearing—" he started, breaking the kiss to drag his mouth along her jaw, down the column of her throat where water had traced earlier. He tasted salt, soap, her.

"Mm?" She arched into him, her head falling back to grant him access, her hips rolling in a subtle, seeking motion against his.

"—my shirt," he finished, the words muffled against the hollow of her collarbone. His hands slid upward, beneath the cotton, skimming the bare expanse of her ribs.

"Nothing else."

Sage laughed, breathless and wicked, her own hands pulling against the hem of his shirt with fumbling urgency. It slipped over his head, catching his hair, before it fell at their feet.

"You noticed."

"Hard not to."

He caught her mouth again, deeper this time, swallowing her gasp as his palms finally crested the swell of her breasts—full and heavy. The cotton bunched between them, an obstacle he was already considering removing.

Her nails dragged light, electric trails down his chest, his abdomen, until her fingers found the waistband of his pants and hesitated—not from uncertainty, but from anticipation. The air in the attic had gone thin, charged with their breathing, the rustle of fabric, the soft, wet sounds of mouths and tongues.

"Noah," she whispered against his jaw, his name sounding like permission. Like please.

He answered by lifting her, his new strength making her weightless, effortless. Sage’s legs wrapped his hips instinctively, and the cotton shirt finally rode up high enough to confirm what he’d suspected—what he’d hoped.

It was bare. Warm and ready and waiting.

"Tell me to stop," he managed, his forehead pressed to hers, their breath mingling, his restraint hanging by a thread. "If this isn’t—if you don’t want—"

Sage silenced him with another kiss, her hips rolling to grind against the hard line of him through his clothes, her answer physical and undeniable.

"Don’t stop," she breathed. "Don’t you dare stop."

And the attic faded away entirely.

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