by Kendall Ryan
Trying to act natural, I reply, “I got some dinner for us and thought we could take the night off from spreadsheets and numbers.”
She shrugs. “Sure. Let me grab a quick shower, then I’ll be right out.”
I expected more of a fight. Maybe the gods are looking down on me tonight with pity.
Toeing off her hot pink tennis shoes, Olivia heads toward the bathroom. When I hear the spray of the shower, I head into the kitchen to finalize everything.
The food arrives by the time I hear the shower shut off. I arrange the contents of the takeout containers on a couple of small plates, to keep with the tapas theme.
There’s goat cheese with roasted figs, seared scallops, and a potato-and-gruyere gratin. It smells great. I pour two glasses of cabernet sauvignon and carry everything to the coffee table in the living room.
I hear Olivia’s footsteps on the wood floor and look up. Fresh out of the shower, she’s dressed in a pair of black leggings that hug every last curve of her shapely legs and round ass, along with a gray sweatshirt that’s cut to hang off one bare shoulder, exposing her lightly freckled skin. She looks dewy and flushed from the shower, and I want to touch her to see if she feels as warm and soft as she looks.
“Wow. What’s all this?” she asks, sitting down beside me on the couch.
“Just a casual dinner. I thought we deserved some relaxation, considering the pressure we’re under at work.”
She accepts the glass of wine I hand her, and takes a sip. “How thoughtful.”
The sweet scent of her honeysuckle-and-vanilla body wash hits me square in the face, making me want to lean in and taste her skin, her lips, her breasts.
Shit.
I need to get it together. My plan is to win her over, to woo her, not to push myself on her with unwanted advances.
She may have a tough exterior, but I’m starting to learn that she’s actually a little timid when it comes to getting physical with me. Which is not at all what I’m used to. Most other women would love a ride on Noah Tate.
Olivia helps herself to a portion of each dish—cutting off a little bite of sea scallop, letting out a little murmur of pleasure as she chews, blowing on a steaming forkful of potato gratin before closing her lips around it.
“So good,” she says with a moan. “How did you know I love tapas?”
I shrug. “I may have pumped Camryn for information.”
Her eyes flick over to mine as she takes another sip of wine. “Why would you do that?”
Returning her gaze, I decide to make myself vulnerable. “Because I like you, Olivia. I want this to work.”
And I don’t just mean that in the sense of taking back our company and making a fuck-ton of money. I genuinely think that if she is willing to try, we can have a shot at being a real, happy couple. But I don’t clarify all that extra stuff. Olivia appreciates honesty, but there’s such a thing as baring too much too soon. Or possibly at all.
I already know we’re compatible when it comes to the major stuff—politics, religion, and work ethic—but I’m starting to think that together in the bedroom, we’d be explosive. She tries to deny it, but the way her body responds to me is ridiculous. Not to mention the desperate way I crave her luscious ass and her perky tits, even her smart mouth is ridiculous. I’m normally a hit-it-and-quit-it type of guy. Once I’ve had a taste, I’m done and on to the next course. But something tells me that with Olivia, once wouldn’t be nearly enough.
First, though, I need to know how she’s feeling about all of this. With the threat of Brad’s blackmail looming over us, demanding all our attention, I’ve barely gotten a chance to talk to her about the wedding, the contract, and especially the baby-making that needs to happen. We need to discuss this elephant in the room like mature, responsible adults.
“So, how do you feel about kids?” I ask.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Kids?”
I nod slowly, now confused as well as nervous. Why is she so shocked?
“I, um . . . well, I guess I haven’t really thought about them,” she stammers.
My stomach grows uneasy. How in the fuck has she not thought about it? This is Olivia, the woman who weighs every decision with a list of pros and cons. Her childhood letters to Santa were probably formatted in official memo style with bulleted requests.
“Why? You’re not thinking about . . .” She’s so flustered that she leaves the rest of her sentence unfinished.
Of fucking course I’m thinking about it. We have a contractual obligation to fulfill. Period.
Then realization slams into me all at once.
Holy. Fuck.
“On the day of our wedding, did you read the contract or did you just sign it?” I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral.
She shrugs, curling her legs under her on the couch. “Signed it. I already knew what it said. Dad and Prescott must have explained everything a hundred times at all those meetings we had.”
I never expected Olivia of all people to sign a contract without reading it. I’m so stunned that I just stay quiet as the minutes tick past and we continue sipping our wine.
I try to calm down and think through this. But I’m stumped. The contract is finalized now—we’re legally bound. We’ve been legally bound for almost a week at this point. And now that I’ve been quiet about it for so long . . . how do I tell her without making it seem like I was lying all along?
Plus, I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’ll rip up the contract and storm off, and the deal will fall apart. I can’t let that happen. No inheritance means no second chance from the board. Which, in turn, means that everyone at Tate & Cane—innocent people like Rosita, who depend on the jobs we provide—will be royally fucked.
I can’t let anything happen to jeopardize this deal. I can’t afford to take even the smallest risk. I’ll just have to win Olivia over with my charm and let it all happen naturally. Well, as natural as impregnating your fake wife can be.
Besides, even if I told her about the heir clause and she miraculously didn’t go nuclear, that would just put pressure on her to get pregnant for our company’s sake. Having a kid wouldn’t be a free choice. It’s better if I pitch her the idea on its own merits.
I’m up to the task, right? I’ve already done something similar; she used to hate my guts, and it took me less than a month to woo her into marrying me. Changing her mind about kids will be a lot tougher, but I just have to take things up another notch. Really put my back into it. Be my most charming, appealing self. If anyone can make a woman fall in love, deep enough to start a family . . .
But Olivia isn’t just any woman. I suppress a despairing groan. Fuck me sideways . . . I’ve got my work cut out for me.
What in the hell do I do now?
“So, what else is on the agenda, Mr. Tate?”
Olivia smiles warmly at me like she has no idea about the inner war I’m waging. I’ve refilled her wineglass twice, and something tells me she’s feeling tipsy and carefree.
That makes one of us.
I stack the empty plates, carry them into the kitchen, and pile them in the sink. Then I just stand there, my hands gripping the edge of the countertop. I need a minute. I feel like the apartment is closing in on me.
Before I make any big decisions about how to approach this problem, I need to think carefully. But with my head spinning and Olivia waiting expectantly in the other room, I can’t do that here. I have to take things one step at a time.
So the question is: what the hell do I do right now?
“Noah? Are you coming back?” she calls.
I take a deep breath and return to her side. Realizing I can’t let this unpleasant surprise distract me from my plan, I decide to push forward. Tonight was supposed to be about getting her to relax, unwind, and trust me. There’s no point in ruining the whole evening by thoughtlessly blurting out everything. I’ll figure out a graceful way to tell her later.
“You’ve been so wound up from work. We both have,” I say as I sit back
down.
She nods, agreeing.
“Tonight I was hoping we could set all that aside and chill together.”
She smiles at me. “Very good idea. I don’t chill nearly enough.”
Part of me is almost shocked that she’s going along with this so easily. The rest of me is still busy reeling from the realization that she has no idea I’m supposed to get her pregnant within the next three months. Actually, it’s more like two months now.
Olivia sets her wineglass on the table and rolls her shoulders, sighing softly.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Just a little tight, is all.”
I inhale through my nose. I have to shove the pregnancy stuff to the back corner of my brain. We’re a long way off from Olivia letting me pump her full of my semen anyhow, so why am I stressing about it now? The first step is showing her how compatible we can be.
And that starts now.
I smile at her. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”
I grab a bottle of massage oil from the hall closet and return to the living room. The soft jazz music seems to float in the air, creating a pleasant buzz in the atmosphere.
Olivia’s eyes widen when I rejoin her on the couch, but she doesn’t question me.
“I’ll give you a massage,” I suggest. “Take off your sweatshirt.”
Olivia flinches, chewing on her lip while she watches me. “But I’m not wearing anything underneath.”
That’s the idea. “I promise not to look.”
She hesitates for another second, then turns her back to me and pulls her shirt over her head, dropping it to the floor. The creamy canvas in front of me is one to be admired. The twin dimples in her lower back near the band of her leggings would make lesser men weep.
I warm a few drops of oil between my palms and rest my hands on her stiff shoulders.
“Relax. Okay?”
She gives me a swift nod.
I work my fingers into the knots I can feel under her skin, and when I press my thumbs in next to her spine, she moans.
“Dear God, that feels good.”
“Been a while?” I ask, just a hint of mischief in my voice.
“Since I had a massage? Yeah.”
I meant to ask if it had been a while since she enjoyed a man’s touch, but at the last second, I decide not to clarify my question. The last thing I want to hear about is my wife’s past conquests. No fucking thank you.
I continue caressing her tense muscles and feel her slowly begin to relax. Knowing her breasts are bare and just out of my reach is practically a cardinal sin. Trying to figure out a way to entice Olivia for more, I say, “If you turn around, I can reach the front of your shoulders better.”
Total lie. I’m hoping she can’t read my mind.
When she hesitates for a few seconds, I lean in and kiss the back of her neck. “You’re my wife, sweetheart. It’s no big deal.”
Those words hang between us, blossoming into something more than I think either of us ever dreamed.
She swallows, then slowly begins to turn toward me.
Catching her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes glossy with desire, Olivia faces me on the couch.
Without saying a word, I drizzle a few more drops of oil into my palms before rubbing them together. I massage the front of her shoulders, her upper arms, and fight off the erection pressing against my zipper.
Olivia’s breathing has changed—the entire mood surrounding us has changed. My gaze dips down briefly, and I watch as her nipples harden into little pebbled knots.
Unable to resist the temptation she’s placed before me, I cup the weight of her breasts in my palms and rub my thumbs across her nipples.
Olivia draws a shuddering breath, her lips parting in surprise.
My fingers, slick from the fragrant oil, glide easily over her skin as I rub her nipples in small, circular movements.
A tiny groan—just barely audible—slips past her lips, and I dive in for a kiss, knowing she’s silently aching for more. My tongue pushes past her lips and she kisses me back, hard and passionate. I’ve got her right where I want her. Wet. And ready for me.
As we kiss, I move my body over hers until she’s lying on the couch and I’m balanced over her. Her thighs part, inviting me even closer, and I nestle in until my steely shaft finds her warm center. Olivia gasps, breaking apart from the kiss. The contact is deliciously frustrating—so close and yet so far, separated only by a few layers of clothes. But if I have my way, they’ll be gone soon enough. My mouth moves to her neck as I continue circling my hips, bumping against her clit with each movement.
“Is this okay?” I murmur and wait in agony as she pauses, her eyes searching mine.
“Don’t stop,” she breathes, her hips lifting to find that friction once again.
I lean down and take one ripe nipple in my mouth, rolling my tongue over it and sucking on the firm tip.
Olivia cries out in pleasure. “Noah . . .”
My name on her lips, in that sweet, gravelly voice laden with desire, snaps the last thread of my restraint. I kneel and grab the sides of her yoga pants, peeling them and her panties down her legs until she’s bare to me.
Christ. My cock surges, leaking pre-cum in my boxers. Olivia’s body is perfection. Soft milky curves, full breasts, and a bare pussy with a pink clit peeking at me from between her juicy lips. I want to wrap my lips around it and suck until she screams. I won’t—not yet, anyway, but I can’t help reaching down to touch her. Running a fingertip down the length of her cleft, I stroke the soft, swollen bud lightly. Olivia lets out a tiny, pleading whimper.
I’m trying to go slow, I swear I am, but with Olivia naked and writhing on the couch, looking up at me with those huge blue eyes of hers, it’s nearly impossible. Fighting with myself to slow down and remember my manners, I stroke her clit with one careful fingertip, while my other hand caresses her breasts, thumbing her nipples.
Is there a polite way to say, Ride my face until you come all over my tongue?
“Everything okay, princess?” I ask instead, my voice husky with desire.
“It feels so good.”
She watches my hand as I continue my slow, torturous movements, lightly rubbing her clit, wanting to draw out her pleasure. I can feel how wet she is for me, and use the moisture to sweep across her swollen bud, back and forth, back and forth.
A whimper of frustration rises up her throat, and I know I have her right where I want her. There’s no way she’s walking away from this—from us—until I’ve given her what she needs.
Olivia’s thighs open wider as she brings her heels up toward her butt. My view is fucking perfect. I can watch every shuddering breath that racks her chest, every heartbeat that makes her pulse riot in her throat, and every tiny quiver as I tease her pussy with light touches.
“You’re beautiful like this,” I say. “So responsive and wet.”
She moans again, circling her hips to meet my touch. “Noah . . . it’s been so long . . .”
When I think she can’t take any more of my teasing, I slide off the couch so I’m kneeling on the floor. Then I tug her hips until her ass rests on the edge of the sofa and her knees are spread wide enough to accommodate my shoulders.
“I’m going to make you come with my mouth. If you don’t want that, you better tell me now.”
We’re so close that I know she can feel my hot breath between her legs. She nods, her breasts heaving with anticipation.
Then I seal my lips around her swollen clit and suck—hard.
Her hips jerk up, her body trembling at my onslaught of erotic kisses. I have to hold her in place, clamping both hands around her thighs to keep her spread for me.
“Come on, baby, let go,” I whisper against her slick flesh, and then continue devouring her.
She’s breathing hard and whimpering softly, her moans so fucking sexy. Her taste, her scent, her cries of pleasure are all so intoxicating. It unleashes something inside me.
I can do this all night . . . but soon her entire body goes as rigid as an arrow and her hands push into my hair.
I lick her, over and over, smiling when she cries out.
“Oh God, yes!”
In a frenzy I lick her, my rhythm too fast, but I couldn’t slow myself down right now if I wanted to. She’s so close, and I want to be the one to take her there.
Olivia shouts my name as tremors ripple through her whole body. Just as she starts to come, I push one finger inside her, unable to resist the feel of her tight body gripping and squeezing around me.
Chapter Six
Olivia
Ho. Ly. Shit.
Abruptly boneless, I collapse back onto the cushions, hot and sweaty and out of breath. Noah’s mouth just blew my mind all over our living room sofa. I’m still trembling with the intensity of my release.
Noah sits back on his heels, smirking like the cat who ate the canary. Well, eating and pussies were involved, but not quite in that way . . . He makes a show of licking his bottom lip and then wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
“Wow, Snowflake. Did that feel as good as you taste? It sure as hell sounded like it.”
My brain is too scrambled to come up with a snappy retort. Or any coherent words whatsoever, really. I just nod slowly at him, admiring him anew, like he’s not just Noah anymore but some strange, exotic species I’ve never encountered before. And shit, maybe I haven’t. Just the man’s tongue sent me into a spiraling orgasm so strong I saw stars.
His grin broadens. Damn, he looks so good, I don’t even care that I’m stroking his already overinflated ego. His handsome face is flushed, his dark eyes dilated and heavy-lidded, his hair mussed from where my fingers tangled in it. And if I look down, I can see an obvious bulge straining against the zipper of his slacks—complete with a wet spot at the tip.
Kneeling up, he slides his trim, toned waist between my thighs until our chests are pressed together. His damp lips brush the shell of my ear as he murmurs, “If you want it, there’s more where that came from.”
His clothed erection rubs into my bare, oversensitized clit and I gasp aloud. Unbelievably, a tendril of new heat curls through me.