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The slam of the front door jolts me awake.

The TV is still playing but the room is colder than before, a draft drifting through from the entryway.

"What the fuck?" A voice says quietly. It's deep and velvety and has a rasp to it that sends a shiver through me. I stay frozen under the blankets, staring at the ceiling above as I hear him move around near the front door.

Noah does exist then.

He shuffles towards me quietly, his shadow looming over the room.

"Matt's sister, I presume?"

God, his voice is like fucking butter. It's melting over my body and making the blankets stick to me. I push myself up with my arms, craning my neck over the back of the sofa to see him standing in the opening between this room and the open plan kitchen.

If he hears my intake of breath he doesn't say anything.

From the reflection of the TV screen, his olive-skin is glistening. The contours of his face are deep rivets that I want to reach out and run my fingers down, and he's staring at me with cerulean eyes that models would die for. Long stray pieces of his brown hair lay over his forehead, the rest covered by an over-sized hoodie with black stains over the front.

He walks towards the couch and my eyes widen. He's tall. I thought I was tall but this man could tower me, and when he reaches a hand towards me, there's an intricate clock tattooed on the back of his hand and his fingers have bones tattooed over them. There's a skull on his neck. And wings.

Fucking hell.

My hand reaches out by itself.

"Uh huh," I drawl, watching as his hand gently takes mine and squeezes.

He smiles, still looming over me. His hand drops from mine and returns back to his side.

My eyes sink to the joggers covering his legs and back up to his eyes, feeling my cheeks heat up. This man is not human. He's tall and angular and dripping with sex appeal. Christ, I'm dripping just looking at him.

He clears his throat and steps away.

"Well," he says, "what's mine is yours."

I sit up as he walks over to the kitchen, eyeing his frame as he walks away. My mouth might even partially be open. This boy is hot. Capital H, capital O, capital T. I don't think I've ever seen a human being so attractive.

I know for sure that my jaw has never physically dropped for a man, and yet here he is. With golden skin and blue eyes and a voice that's liquid gold.

I can feel my entire body filling with heat, my breath visible in the cold room. I wet my dry lips and give him another once-over, seeing how the cotton of his joggers shapes around the muscles of his thighs. I put my thumb into my mouth to bite down on it.

He steps behind the counter again, pottering. Cutting up onions and boiling water on the stove. I can't take my eyes away from his frame, worried that I've hallucinated this man who's suddenly cooking in my brothers kitchen.

"You're going to burn holes in me," he chuckles without turning around.

My cheeks flame.

"Sorry," it comes out meek, like a whimper.

"I'm going to make some pasta if you'd like some?"

"You cook, too?" It falls out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

He turns around then, smiling at me gently. A dimple popping in his left cheek.

"Too?" He asks.

I am truly, sincerely, royally fucked.

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He tells me his full name when I ask.

Noah Laurier. It rolls from my tongue, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

With his back to me, I continue to watch him cook. Wishing he'd take off the hoodie. Wishing he'd take off everything.

Fuck - there's no way I'm already thinking about Matt's best friend naked, my brother would kill me. But then again, Matt didn't tell me his best friend was a walking, talking epitome of sexual allure. He conveniently left that out every time he talked about Noah.

"So what is it you do?" I call to him.

"I'm a mechanic," he answers, turning with a spoon in his mouth, tasting the tomato sauce he's creating. "It's not fancy like accounting, I know."

And he's a mechanic. Who works with his hands. He's spends all day getting dirty underneath cars.

Possibly, he's a walking cliche of masculinity and I didn't think this 'alpha-style' man would've made my breath hitch and my panties wet just by standing in the same house as me.

(But I can't deny that my panties definitely are not as dry as they were ten minutes ago.)

He's certainly not the type of person I've embarrassed myself for in the past. Although I don't think I've ever been this close to someone who could be a model for Vogue or Sports Illustrated, so perhaps I've just never had the opportunity.

"I think that's pretty cool," I reassure. The reply sounds lame to my ears but I can't think straight watching his arms stretch the fabric of his hoodie as he reaches up into one of the cabinets.

I kick one of the blankets off and start subtly fanning myself.

As if Matt had sent this man to test me, suddenly his hand is pulling at the hood on his head. My eyes blow wide. It almost happens in slow motion.

He pulls on the hood, lifting it over himself; his white t-shirt rides up his frame, following the hoodie like a dog on a lead. A sliver of tan skin is first revealed and then more of his toned back, also covered in tattoos, as he pulls it completely off in one smooth maneuver.

There are dimples in the smooth olive skin of his lower back, symmetrically lying there, begging me to kiss them. I would take so many shots off you.

I need to cool off.

I throw more blankets away from my legs, continuing my eye-assault on his body as he throws the hoodie to one side and pulls his t-shirt black into place.

His arms are littered with tattoos. There isn't a patch of skin on them left to be covered. I find myself gulping as I flit between the images on them, straining to see him around the counter.

His biceps are pressed against his t-shirt.

"And you?" He asks. "You work in marketing, right?"

I blink, nodding frantically even though he's not looking at me.

"Yeah - yes. In sports."

"Cool," he smiles, turning around. "Do you play?"

"I used to play rugby at university," I admit. "I could probably tackle you."

I choke at my own confession.

Why would I say that? What evil spirit has possessed my body and put this man in front of me tonight? This man, may I add, that I probably could not tackle; considering he looks as if he's about 6 inches taller than me and a regular at the gym. His bench press is probably double my fucking body weight.

(My God, is my vagina fluttering?)

His laughter rings in my ears.

"Oh yeah, sweetheart?" His tone is warm and the grin is evident in his words. "I think I'll take your word for it."

I turn back to the TV with wide eyes, willing myself not to look back at him as he continues to cook. Eventually he begins humming a tune so I start to pay attention to the re-run of Friends playing on the TV.

She's your lobster, Phoebe is saying.

"What position did you play?"

"What?"

"In rugby?" Noah asks, still pottering around the kitchen.

"Oh. Hooker." The word makes me blush, a spoon clattering in the kitchen. "Do you play anything?"

"No, nothing serious anyway." He replies. "I do a lot of weightlifting though, if that counts."

It certainly counts in my book, especially with biceps like that.

The click of the kitchen light going off startles me. Noah approaches holding out a bowl with a fork tucked into the side. I scrunch some of the blankets towards myself to give him room to sit on the couch, accepting the bowl with open arms.

Trust Matt to only have one couch. The stars truly have aligned to plan this meeting for me, though I'm not sure how I'm supposed to react to the Gods dangling an actual deity in front of my nose; one who I no doubt could not get in a million years.

At least it's a three seater couch - there'll always be an empty seat between myself and temptation.

"Smells great," I tell him quietly, picking up the fork. He sits down and stretches his legs out in front of him, sending me a killer smile - one that I'm sure he doesn't even realise is killer. "You met Matt at University?"