Cruel Intentions: Chapter 19

After the shower, I follow Noah back to the laundry room, already pissed at myself for letting this happen again. Why can’t I fucking resist him? The second he touches me, it’s like every rational thought evaporates, and my good intentions crumble.

But damn, that was the most intense sex I’ve ever had. Those orgasms hit so hard, I forgot everything—who I was, all the shitty things weighing me down.

And yet, I let him do it without a condom.

Again.

Noah walks ahead of me, completely naked, and despite everything, my gaze drifts over him. The long, lean lines of his legs, the curve of his ass, the defined muscles of his back—it’s like he was sculpted by some divine hand just to torment me.

Fuck.

The heat starts pooling low in my belly again, and I hate myself even more for wanting him.

As much as my body begs for more, my mind knows better. I have to stop this. Sex has always meant something to me—more than just a way to get off. But Noah… he makes it so easy to forget that. The way he touches me, the way he knows exactly how to completely unravel me—it’s fucking maddening.

Still, there are those moments—those fleeting moments—when he looks at me like I’m his entire world. Like he sees something in me no one else does.

When we reach the laundry room, he strides in without a glance back. His movements are effortless, each one a reminder of his confidence, his control. He grabs my clothes from the dryer and hands them to me without a word.

I pull my shirt over my head and shimmy into my jeans.

Noah rummages through a basket, pulling out a pair of gray sweatpants. He slides them on with that same easy confidence, then grabs a hoodie, zipping it halfway before turning to look at me.

For a moment, his expression softens. It’s so brief I might have imagined it. I hate that I want to believe there’s something more to him, to us. But the truth is, I’m probably just another girl who fell for his charm.

And yet, I can’t stop wishing things were different.

“I’ll meet you at the front door. Then we’ll head over there together,” Noah says, his voice steady and unexpectedly comforting. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head. The gesture is so small, so out of character, that it leaves me frozen for a moment. Before I can even begin to process it, he’s already gone.

As I finish getting dressed, I can’t stop the thoughts swirling in my head.

Noah coming with me to see my dad—will it make a difference? Will his presence change anything?

A part of me clings to that hope, that maybe having him there will make my dad finally see reason. But then, the memories return of all the times Noah witnessed my dad’s rage before. My dad didn’t care then, and I doubt he’ll care now.

When I step out of the laundry room, I see Noah waiting at the front door, leaning casually against the frame with his arms crossed. His sneakers are already on, and he looks so sure of himself, so solid. I hate how much I need him in this moment. Hate how much I want to believe he’ll stay.

I grab my boots and quickly put them on, the damp leather stiff from last night’s storm. The laces fight me, refusing to cooperate. “Shit,” I mutter, my fingers fumbling as frustration bubbles to the surface.

Noah doesn’t say a word. He just watches, that infuriating little smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Finally, the stubborn knots give, and I stand up straight. Without a word, Noah pulls the door open, holding it for me. I step out into the brisk morning air, the coolness biting at my skin.

This is it. Time to face my dad, with Noah at my side.

I’m so nervous. My stomach churns, nerves twisting into tight knots. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might burst. I don’t know what he’ll say, what he’ll do—and the thought of it terrifies me. I’m not ready to hear what he thinks, to deal with his anger. And what if he won’t let me get my stuff? I need my things—my birth control, especially after last night and this morning. The thought sends a cold spike of fear through me, and I mutter a curse under my breath. What the fuck am I doing?

The aftermath of the storm is everywhere. Twigs and branches litter the yard, turning it into a chaotic mess that mirrors the tangle of my emotions.

Noah strides ahead, calm and controlled, bending occasionally to toss a branch aside like it’s nothing. His movements are effortless, so unlike my clumsy, frantic energy.

“What time is it?” I ask, realizing I left my phone behind in the rush.

“After nine-thirty,” he replies, his voice even.

His eyes meet mine for a brief second, catching the edge of my nerves. I quickly glance away, forcing myself to act like I’ve got it together. But I don’t. Not even close.

I keep my gaze fixed ahead, trying to summon whatever strength I have left as we approach the house. Each step closer feels heavier, my chest tightening with every inch of distance erased.

When we reach the front step, Noah raises his hand and knocks firmly.

The sound cuts through the quiet morning, echoing down the street. I can already picture the nosy neighbors peeking through their curtains, their need for gossip outweighing any sense of shame. The thought of them whispering about me—about us—makes my skin crawl.

The house remains silent. No footsteps, no muffled grumbles of movement. My dad’s never been quick to answer the door, but the weight of this silence feels different, heavier.

Noah doesn’t hesitate. He pounds again, harder this time, his palm slamming against the wood with force. The noise reverberates, loud and demanding, and I wonder if it’ll wake him—or just piss him off.

Still nothing.

My eyes flick to the driveway where his car sits, exactly where it was last night. He’s in there, no question—probably passed out, too hungover, or just too spiteful to give a shit.

I fight the urge to say, screw this. Instead, my gaze darts to the windows, scanning for one that might be cracked open now that daylight makes everything clearer.

Just as I’m about to move, Noah’s hand catches my arm, stopping me. “Wait,” he mutters, his tone low but firm. His grip isn’t rough, like he knows I’m seconds from doing something stupid. His intense gaze keeps me rooted, but before I can ask what he’s waiting for, the unmistakable sound of the lock clicking open freezes me in place.

The fucking lock. The one my father never bothered with before. Not until yesterday. That simple sound is its own kind of answer, but it’s one I don’t want to face.

The door creaks open a fraction, the hinges groaning like they’re mocking me. My pulse pounds in my ears, each beat syncing with the rising dread in my chest. I try to steady my breathing, but it’s useless. All I can hear are his cruel words from yesterday replaying in my mind.

The door swings wider, revealing my father’s face. His bloodshot eyes dart between Noah and me, his expression already twisted with anger.

‘What the hell do you want? I told you yesterday—you don’t live here anymore,” he snaps, his voice a venomous growl. Before I can muster a response, he pushes the door forward, ready to slam it shut. Ready to erase me from his life all over again.

But Noah’s quicker.

He throws out his arm, catching the door and holding it steady before it shuts. “So that’s how it is, huh?” Noah growls, his voice low and razor-sharp. “You don’t give a fuck about your own daughter?”

The words hang in the air, heavy and damning.

My dad’s face hardens, but Noah doesn’t flinch. Instead, he doubles down. With a surge of force, he shoves the door open, forcing my dad to stumble back a step.

Noah strides inside without hesitation, his presence commanding the small entryway, every movement deliberate and unapologetic. He glances back at me, jerking his head toward the door. “Come on,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

For a moment, I hesitate, caught between the gravity of what’s happening and the fear of what’s going to happen.

My father’s face twists, his lips tightening and fists clenching at his sides. The fury in him is a living thing, pulsing and ready to explode. The air between him and Noah crackles with tension, but Noah doesn’t so much as flinch. He stands firm, calm, and unyielding, staring my dad down like he’s daring him to make the first move.

“Go grab your stuff, Aub,” Noah says, his tone steady. “You’re getting the fuck out of this dump.”

I hesitate, shooting him a confused glance.

Go where?

My stomach knots as the weight of the situation crashes down on me. What’s his plan? Where the hell am I supposed to go?

But Noah doesn’t look at me—his eyes stay locked on my dad, his expression resolute. There’s no room for argument, no time to question him. My dad’s silence is like a gathering storm, his fury simmering just beneath the surface, waiting to erupt.

I don’t wait for it. I turn and sprint down the hall, my heart pounding.

My hands tremble as I throw open my bedroom door, the familiar scent of the space rushing over me. It’s not comforting anymore—nothing here is. It’s just a reminder of everything I’m leaving behind.

From the front of the house, the sounds of rising voices seep through the walls. My dad’s booming threats clash with Noah’s calm, razor-sharp retorts. Every word feels like a spark in a dry forest, threatening to ignite something I can’t control. My chest tightens with every second that passes, but I keep moving.

My bag lies crumpled in the corner, and I grab it, shoving clothes and shoes inside in frantic handfuls. Essentials. That’s all I need.

My fingers fumble as I yank open the dresser drawer, snatching my birth control pack. I pop one into my mouth and swallow it dry, the bitterness scraping my throat. My eyes dart around the room, scanning for anything I might have missed.

The clock on the wall ticks like a countdown, pushing me forward.

Then I hear footsteps. I glance up, my pulse spiking, but it’s just Noah. He steps into the room, his gaze sweeping over the mess like he’s taking it all in.

For a second, something flickers across his face—a shadow of memory, maybe, of all the times he’s been here before. But he doesn’t linger.

“Got everything?” he asks, his voice cutting through the buzz of anxiety in my head.

I nod, zipping the bag shut with a sharp tug. Before I can say a word, Noah slings it over his shoulder and reaches for my hand. His grip is firm, grounding me in a way I desperately need right now.

“Let’s go,” he says, and I let him lead me out of the room. My legs feel like they’re moving on autopilot, my thoughts too scattered to keep up.

The hallway feels longer than it should, each step stretching out into an eternity. As we near the living room, I expect to see my dad looming there, ready to blow his shit. But the space is empty. He’s nowhere to be seen.

Noah doesn’t stop. He pulls the front door open, the sunlight spilling in and hitting my face. The brightness blinds me for a moment, but I keep moving, following Noah as he steps outside, his hand still wrapped firmly around mine.

The door slams shut behind us, the sound ringing in my ears like the end of something. Reality sinks in: I’m out. Out of that house, out of the chaos, out of the life that’s been crushing me for so long.

But as Noah’s grip anchors me, leading me into the unknown, a new kind of fear sets in. Because while I’m free of that house, I have no fucking idea what comes next.

As we walk toward Noah’s place, uncertainty swirls, tightening its grip like a noose.

Where will I go?

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

This feeling of belonging nowhere is too familiar, an ache I thought I’d buried long ago. If I could rewrite my past, I would erase the night I left with my mom, rewrite every choice that led to this. Maybe then, I wouldn’t be here now. Lost. Stuck. Clinging to the one person who hopefully still gives a shit about me.

Noah.

He walks beside me, my bag slung over his shoulder, his hand steady around mine. Like it’s no big deal. But fuck, it is a big deal. It’s everything. He’s the only steady thing I have right now, and even his presence isn’t enough to quiet the panic buzzing in my chest.

I force myself to focus on the basics: finding somewhere to crash until my college scholarship kicks in next year. Survive the next few months, one shitty day at a time. That’s all I can handle right now.

When we step into Noah’s house, I hesitate just inside the doorway, my feet rooted to the spot. Everything feels too loud, too still, too much. I don’t know what to do next, and the air feels heavier in here, pressing down on me like it knows I don’t belong.

Noah doesn’t stop. He strides down the hallway like this is just another day, carrying my bag, his broad shoulders carrying all the weight I can’t.

Staying here? That’s not happening. Seeing him every day, being in his space—it would fuck with my head in ways I can’t even begin to unpack. I’ve already let him get too close, and every time he’s near, my walls feel a little weaker. And then there’s his dad. No way he’d be okay with me crashing here.

I hurry down the hall, my steps quick and unsteady, trying to catch up with him. My mind spins with questions, doubts, and the gnawing fear that this isn’t going to work.

When I reach his bedroom doorway, I stop short. Noah is standing there, my bag in his hand, his eyes on the bed as he tosses it onto the mattress without a second thought. Like he’s already decided this is where it belongs. Like this is where I belong.

Noah grabs his phone from the table beside the bed, his fingers moving quickly over the screen. He looks calm, collected—like this is nothing to him. Meanwhile, my world feels like it’s falling apart.

When he finishes, he glances up, his eyes locking onto mine.

“I’m starving. Want something to eat?” he asks casually, like we’re not standing in the middle of this disaster. Like my life isn’t a complete fucking mess.

Before I can answer, he brushes past me, his shoulder grazing mine, and heads down the hall without waiting for a response.

I stand frozen in the hallway, torn between following him and doubling back to grab my phone from his room. My thoughts are a tangled mess, but one thing stands out. I need to let my mom know what happened.

Maybe she’ll care enough to help, though deep down, I’m not sure why I keep clinging to that hope. And Sam—she might know someone willing to let me crash on their couch. Just long enough to get through this shit.

I quickly dash into Noah’s room and grab my phone off the bedside table. My hands shake as I type out the message.

I stare at the screen, willing those bubbles to appear—the ones that mean she gives a damn. Seconds stretch into what feels like forever.

The silence is deafening, the screen unchanged, and with each passing moment, my heart sinks lower. She’s not answering. Of course, she’s not. Why would she?

When I step into the kitchen, Noah is standing in front of the fridge, the door wide open, peering inside. He grabs a carton of milk, his movements casual, and I notice he’s already set out two bowls and a box of cereal on the counter.

I hesitate for a second before slipping onto one of the stools at the kitchen island.

Noah doesn’t say a word as he pours cereal into both bowls, the sound of it hitting porcelain strangely settles my thoughts. He follows it with milk, sliding one bowl toward me without looking up.

Reaching into a drawer, he grabs two spoons and hands me one.

“Thanks,” I mutter, taking it from him.

He picks up his bowl, leaning against the cupboard, and shovels a big scoop of cereal into his mouth. He chews slowly, thoughtfully, his eyes locked on me the entire time. It’s like he’s waiting for something but fuck if I know what.

“Noah, what the fuck are we doing?” I blurt out, breaking the tense silence. My voice comes out harsher than I intended, but I can’t help it. “I appreciate you helping me get my stuff, but I have no idea what the hell is going on.”

He doesn’t even blink. Just keeps chewing, swallows, and replies, “Having breakfast.”

He takes another spoonful, shoveling it into his mouth like I didn’t just drop a loaded question in the middle of the room.

“Not this,” I snap, my frustration bubbling over. “Why did you take my bag into your room?”

Noah shrugs, maddeningly nonchalant. “I don’t know. I just did.” His words are muffled as he talks with his mouth full. “Now hurry up and eat, because I’m taking you somewhere.”

‘Noah,” I snap, cutting him off mid-chew, my frustration reaching its boiling point. I can’t deal with his games right now. My mind’s spiraling with uncertainty, and I need answers. I need fucking clarity.

I’ve always been the kind of person who needs a plan, who needs to know what’s coming next. These past three weeks back in this shit hole of a town have been nothing but chaos, and it’s messing with my head.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his phone pings, breaking the silence. He steps forward, setting his nearly empty cereal bowl on the counter before grabbing the phone. His expression doesn’t change as he checks the message, his thumb moving quickly over the screen. Then, without a word, he darkens the display and sets the phone face down on the counter like it’s nothing.

“Eat,” he says, his voice steady but tinged with a strange urgency, like eating is the most important thing in the world right now.

I glance at his phone, my eyes lingering on it for a moment longer than I should. Is it a girl? Someone he’s been texting late at night, someone I don’t know about. The thought sends an unwelcome pang through my chest, but I shove it down.

With a resigned sigh, I grab my spoon and dig into the cereal. It tastes like cardboard in my mouth, each bite harder to swallow than the last. I feel his eyes on me, steady and unrelenting, but I can’t bring myself to meet them. Instead, I let my gaze drift out the window, focusing on the backyard where fragments of our childhood still linger.

The old treehouse his dad built towers over the yard, weathered but standing firm—a monument to countless summers spent hiding from the world. The swing set leans slightly, its chains rusted, a casualty of time. Worn patches of grass mark the places we used to chase each other until we collapsed, laughing and breathless. The memories feel like they belong to someone else, some other version of me. A version who hadn’t learned yet that things fall apart.

I force another spoonful of cereal into my mouth, the soggy flakes sticking to my tongue. Noah hasn’t said a word about whatever plan he’s cooked up, and I’m too drained to ask. If he’s got something in mind, I’ll hear about it eventually. For now, I just need to get through this moment without losing my fucking mind.

When I finally finish, I glance around and realize Noah isn’t in the kitchen anymore. At some point, he slipped out, and I was so caught up in my thoughts that I didn’t even notice. Gathering our bowls, I carry them to the sink, rinsing them quickly and setting them in the drying rack.

As I place the last bowl down, I hear his footsteps.

Turning, I see him stroll back into the kitchen. He’s changed—his gray sweatpants swapped out for black jeans, a fitted black shirt that clings to his shoulders, and scuffed boots that look like they’ve been through hell and back. The casual confidence in his stride is irritatingly magnetic, and I can’t help but check him out.

Fuck.

And there it is—that damn smirk. Cocky and knowing, like he’s already pieced together exactly where my mind went.

He doesn’t say anything but still I try to keep my expression neutral. I can’t let him have the upper hand, not after earlier. Not after catching me staring like some lovesick idiot when he was in his room—when he was stroking his cock.

I can’t go there right now. Not when I already feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, and one wrong step will send me plummeting.

He steps closer, holding out a motorcycle helmet, the smooth black surface gleaming under the kitchen lights. “Here,” he says, his voice steady. “You’ll need this. It’s my dad’s.”

“What are we doing?” I ask, hesitation thick in my voice as I glance between him and the helmet.

“I want to take you somewhere,” he replies. “Somewhere to clear your head of all this worry and crap, so you can relax and think straight.”

I hate that he still knows me so well. Knows exactly what I need even when I barely recognize it myself. Of course, he sees through all my walls, sees the cracks I’ve tried so hard to patch. And it pisses me off that he’s right.

“I don’t have time, Noah,” I say, my voice harsh. “I need to figure out where I’m going to crash.”

“You’re staying here,” he says firmly, like it’s already decided.

“No.” My response is instant, cutting through the air between us. I shake my head, folding my arms tightly across my chest. “I can’t, Noah.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Not directly. Instead, he thrusts the helmet into my hands with a clipped, “Let’s go.” His tone leaves no room for debate.

He turns and strides toward the doorway, grabbing a bag he’d tossed on the kitchen table earlier.

I groan under my breath, grabbing my phone from the counter and shoving it into my pocket. A quick glance confirms what I already knew—no response from my mom. The empty screen mocks me, each unanswered message a reminder of just how low on her list of priorities I am.

Why the fuck do I even bother?

I trail after Noah, my steps reluctant.

He’s already by the back door, holding it open with one hand braced against the frame. His eyes meet mine as I approach, dark and steady, a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

And then his gaze dips, just for a second—lingering on my chest before dragging back up to meet my eyes. It’s not subtle. The weight of his stare is almost physical, like I can feel every dirty thought running through his head. And fuck, I know he can sense mine, too.

I force myself to move past him, brushing by as I step outside. The cool air hits my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off him. Even without looking, I know his eyes are on me. I can feel them, burning a path down my back, lingering on the sway of my hips and devouring every curve of my ass.

At the bottom of the steps, I stop, unsure of where to go next.

Noah doesn’t pause. He strides past me, heading straight for the old garage tucked at the edge of the yard.

I watch as he grabs the garage door and shoves it open, the sound of metal scraping against metal breaking the quiet. Inside, a sleek black motorcycle gleams under the dim light spilling in. It’s the kind he used to dream about when we were kids, back when everything was simpler.

Back then, it was all promises and big plans. Now, it’s real.

Even though Noah’s a bed-hopping, cocky asshole, it’s painfully obvious that he’s got his life together more than I ever will.

He strides into the garage, muscles flexing beneath his shirt as he pushes the motorcycle into the yard. I can’t take my eyes off him as he swings a leg over the seat, moving with the kind of effortless confidence that makes it look like he was born for this.

With a few swift kicks on the foot lever, the engine roars to life, a low, guttural growl slicing through the quiet of the backyard. He twists the throttle a few times, clearly enjoying the low growl of the machine beneath him. This is Noah—wild, unpredictable, and infuriatingly magnetic.

As I approach, he pulls the backpack from the handlebars and hands it to me. “Wear this,” he says, his voice rising over the steady rumble. “Then put the helmet on. I’ll help with the straps.”

I nod, the vibrations from the bike thrumming in the air around us as I sling the bag over my shoulders. He moves with practiced ease, sliding his own helmet on and securing the straps with a fluid motion. His gaze shifts back to me, waiting for me to follow suit.

I fumble with the helmet, my fingers clumsy against the unfamiliar straps.

“Here, let me,” he says, his voice softer now. His hands brush against my skin as he adjusts the straps, and I freeze under the weight of his attention.

His eyes stay locked on mine, steady and unguarded, and for a moment, it’s like everything else falls away. The noise in my head, the mess of my life—it all fades under the quiet care of his touch.

“There,” he says, fastening the strap securely. “You’re good.”

I swing a leg over the bike and settle into the seat behind him.

He doesn’t rush me, just waits with that infuriating patience of his, like he has all the time in the world.

The moment I wrap my arms around his waist, I’m hit with a rush of adrenaline. The solid warmth of him against me, the strength in his back pressing into my chest—it ignites something dangerous and thrilling. My fingers tighten around him instinctively.

Noah twists the throttle, the engine growling louder beneath us. Over his shoulder, he calls out, “Hold on tight.”

Then we’re moving.

The sudden burst of speed sends a jolt through me, and I tighten my grip, my heart pounding against my ribs. It’s my first time on a motorcycle, and it’s as terrifying as it is exhilarating.

As we race through the streets, my thoughts drift to when we were sixteen. He used to talk about this—about owning a bike, hitting the open road, and leaving all the bullshit behind. Back then, his dreams always included me. Him and me, taking on the world together.

Even now, it feels like he’s trying to pull me into that world, trying to remind me of those dreams. But I know better. No matter how far we ride or how fast we go, the chaos in my life won’t disappear. The worries, the what-ifs—they’re still there, waiting.

The city fades behind us, the harsh lines of concrete and chaos giving way to rolling hills and open fields. The wind rushes past, cool and sharp, and the hum of the bike beneath us is almost soothing.

For a moment—a fleeting, fragile moment—the noise in my head quiets. The trees blur into streaks of green, the open sky stretching endlessly above us, and I let myself sink into the stillness of it all.

It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t solve the mess of my life. But it gives me a moment to breathe.

And for now, maybe that’s enough.