by Kendall Ryan
I just had the orgasm to end all orgasms, but part of me does want more. I want to touch Noah. I want to feel our bodies moving together. I want that huge cock inside me, fucking me until I can’t walk straight. I want to see him come undone—it’s only fair, isn’t it? He got to watch me while I melted into a babbling, shaking puddle.
Almost of its own accord, my mouth opens to reply. The potential for enormous pleasure rests on the tip of my tongue. Tonight can go so much further, and all I have to do is reach out for him . . .
But then what will happen? What will “more” mean in the morning?
This is far from the first time that sleeping with Noah has crossed my mind. How can it be, with a sex god strutting around me all day every day? But now that the moment has actually arrived, staring me in the face, I find myself shrinking away from it. If I say yes, there’s no going back from this decision. That awareness paralyzes me with uncertainty. What if I lose my head, my heart, my company? All over a man . . . who’s a known player.
Now that I’ve started overthinking, I can’t stop. As far as I can tell, there are only two possible outcomes. Either tonight is just casual fun, where we’re nothing more than fuck buddies, or . . . sex will change everything between us. I don’t know how I feel about either option. I’m not ready for love, but I don’t like the idea of non-committed screwing either.
And then there’s the matter of how we came to be here in the first place. We’re in an arranged marriage, for Christ’s sake. Maybe our emotions have developed along the way, but that doesn’t change the fact that our relationship was originally rooted in business. This isn’t real. It almost feels like we’re using each other—even though it’s for the greater good, we’re still sacrificing our chances of finding real love with our real soul mates in the future while we each play the role we’re supposed to.
Things have already gotten way out of hand. Fuck . . . tonight was a mistake. I never should have let Noah tempt me. I should have told him to knock it off, and gone to bed.
I’ve paused for too long. Sensing my hesitation, Noah pulls back to look into my eyes. “You okay?”
I resist the impulse to drop my gaze. “Yeah. I just . . . I’m not sure.”
Noah is silent for a moment. Almost, anyway; he’s close enough for me to hear him sigh through his nose. As if he’s debating something with himself.
Finally, he says, “Then let’s stop.”
“But you never got a chance to . . .” I can still feel that huge, rock-hard bulge against my inner thigh.
“Hey, I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.” He winks at me.
Oh, believe me, I know. My cheeks heat up, remembering what happened the last time I left him unsatisfied. But there’s a strained note in his voice, and I can’t help feeling guilty.
“I’m sorry,” I say reflexively. This isn’t fair. He made an effort to put together this cute date night, he gave me one of the best orgasms I’ve ever had, and now I won’t return the favor. I’m just going to leave him with blue balls. God, I feel like a royal bitch.
His reply comes quick and sharp. “Hey. Never apologize. I don’t want anything to happen just because you feel obligated.” Before I can blink, his serious tone melts away and he gives me his cockiest smirk. “Noah Tate doesn’t need pity fucks. When we finally do this . . .” His lips graze my neck, one last kiss, and I shiver. “I want it to be because you’re begging for it. For me.”
Then he pulls away to stand up and help me to my feet. I sway a little, still slightly unsteady. Jesus, that orgasm floored me. Maybe I should change my mind again . . .
No, I can’t. I’m not ready for more. Definitely not yet, possibly not ever.
We get ready for bed, both of us quiet. As I brush my teeth, I tell myself firmly that I made the right decision. As fun as tonight was, it will be better for us to keep our laser focus on business.
And unlike our first night at our new penthouse, I’ll plug my ears and not go snooping around if Noah’s out of bed for too long. This time I’ll know exactly what he’s doing.
Am I a bad wife? I shouldn’t care so much—it’s not like I ever wanted to be his wife in the first place. But like it or not, we’re married. And Noah is my friend. Whatever our legal relationship is, I owe him what friends owe each other.
How does Noah feel about what happened tonight? He backed off so quickly. I know he’d never pressure me into sex or make me feel obligated, but I expected a little more good-natured grumpiness. He did sound frustrated, but something about it felt different from the other times I’ve shot him down before. Almost like he was . . . ashamed? Did he think he’d hurt or scared me? Or was it just because we’d been drinking? The idea that both Noah and I might feel guilty about this doesn’t make me feel better.
I sigh. Tonight’s pleasant atmosphere has turned so sour so quickly. I have no idea what to feel here. I wish . . .
I wish Mom were still alive.
She’d be able to give me advice. She would know how a marriage is supposed to work. How to be a good wife. Dad can tell me his side of their story, but there are some things a woman can only ask another woman about. And Camryn’s just as inexperienced with marriage as I am.
Noah and I get under the covers, facing opposite directions. The few feet separating us feels like a mile. I curl up on my side of the bed, lying still and silent, and wait for sleep to take me out of this awkward situation.
• • •
The next day at work, I’ve engaged full ice-queen mode. I have to keep my defenses firmly in place, but somber thoughts from last night keep playing through my mind. As sexy as Noah is, as incredible as he made me feel, I can’t let anything distract me. All business, no nonsense.
If I start sleeping with Noah, who knows how my feelings might change? Office romances are risky for a reason . . . someone always gets hurt, and then the workplace atmosphere is ruined. No fucking thank you. Saving Tate & Cane takes top priority. My life has enough stress without adding in all the emotional entanglements that come with sex.
I’m not overthinking this, I tell myself yet again as I rinse out my coffee mug in the break room’s sink. It’s the right decision.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. “You have a minute?” Noah’s voice asks.
Crap . . . just who I wanted to deal with right now, the center of all my turmoil. But I keep my tone cool and professional as I turn around. “Yes? What is it?”
“Remember how I played a few rounds of golf with Red Dog’s CMO last week?” When I nod at him, Noah says, “He offered to refer us a new client.”
Something about Noah’s tone makes me frown. “Then why don’t you seem happy?”
“Well, he put me in touch with their campaign project leader and I talked to him—”
“You accepted his referral without asking me?” I blurt, interrupting him. By now he ought to know how much I hate being out of the loop.
“Relax. I was just putting out a feeler, nothing that would imply we’d take the gig. Anyway, they’re definitely a big fish. Willing to pay very well . . . but they would want us to partner with their in-house marketing staff.”
“Oh, Christ.” That would take away our creative autonomy and clog everything up with bureaucracy and constant check-ins. “Why even contract with an outside firm if you’re just going to hamstring them?”
“Maybe this new client is a control freak.”
I pointedly ignore Noah’s teasing wink. “In my opinion, you should find a nice way to tell them to go fuck themselves.”
“I don’t know about that,” he says with a shrug. “We stand to make a lot of money.”
“We also stand to waste a lot of time and effort wrestling with their bullshit restrictions. These guys clearly don’t trust the judgment they’re paying for—and that’s a big red flag. We have other prospective clients who’ll yield better returns on our investment.”
“We don’t know for sure that the referral is bad news. And if we can play nice with t
heir peanut gallery for this project, maybe they’ll let us have more freedom in the future.”
“You wanted my opinion and now you have it. Do whatever you feel like.” Normally I would keep arguing my point, but I just want Noah out of my hair so I can go hide in my office and get my mind off last night’s awkwardness.
“Duly noted.” Noah’s lips quirk into a mischievous half smile. “I know I’ve said this before, Snowflake, but you’re cute when you’re a hard-ass.”
“Then I guess I’m always cute. Glad we can agree on something,” I retort frostily. I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. Shit, I meant to cut him off at the knees, but I got sucked into his stupid flirtation game instead. Why does that always happen?
Before I can anticipate it, Noah darts in for a peck on my lips. My mouth drops open and I stare at him, blinking wide-eyed. Over his shoulder, I can see Dad passing by. He pauses to give us a fond smile, as if to say, Ah, young love . . . how sweet.
Fuck no. Noah does not get to manipulate the situation like this. He can’t derail our conversations whenever he gets bored. He can’t dismiss my concerns like I’m just some silly girl playing Business Barbie. And kissing me in front of Dad makes me uncomfortable. It’s too much PDA for the office. It’s too much PDA for my family. And it’s too much PDA for my current state of mind—confused, conflicted, defensive, maybe even a little scared, if I’m being totally honest.
Drawing myself up, I give Noah my best disapproving scowl.
My annoyance deepens when Noah’s only reaction is a quizzical blink. Like he has no idea what I mean. Like I’m acting crazy and he’s being the reasonable one.
“I’m trying to have an important discussion with you, and you’re not taking me seriously. Besides, I don’t like PDA.”
He raises his hands slightly in a gesture of mock surrender. “Jeez, Snowflake, I was just playing around. What’s the problem? I didn’t think you’d still be wound so tight . . .” He lets the end of that thought—after last night—go unspoken. Which is good, because if he ever talked about our sex life at work, I might just have to kill him.
I scoff. “Right, as if one little O would turn me into your swooning cheerleader. It takes a lot more than that to make me fall—” I stop myself before I say in love.
He cocks his head, then shrugs. “A man can dream. But I’m offended that you called it just a little O.” His voice drops, all low and silky. “The way you were screaming and clawing my back . . . I could tell that wasn’t little. They probably felt the aftershocks in China.”
I’m stunned. I open and close my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Call me unprofessional if you want. I’m willing to dial things back during the workday. But nighttime is for fun, and you can’t deny that you had a whole hell of a lot.”
I finally find my voice. “I hate to cut you off there, Mr. Tate,” I huff, “but some of us don’t have time to play grab-ass all day.”
Without giving him a chance to respond, I turn on my heel and storm away. This drama is just too much to deal with, especially on top of my responsibilities and deadlines.
I shut myself away in the safe, peaceful cloister of my office, intent on getting some serious work done and forgetting all about Noah. But almost an hour later, I haven’t accomplished anything. I’ve just been staring blankly at my computer screen, not registering any of the words or numbers or figures, utterly lost in thought.
Noah is a confusing, sexy jerk-face. However, as much as I hate to give him any points, he’s right about one thing—I can’t deny that last night was amazing. And the longer I think about it, the less sense it makes to even try denying it, and the more I wonder . . .
Why am I fighting this?
The only man I’ve ever slept with was Brad, and those encounters were always boring at best and horrible at worst. Poking at my insides with his little stick while I tried to climax and failed miserably. Maybe my bad experiences have made me more skittish than it’s reasonable to be.
If last night was anything to go by, Noah is clearly determined to get me off. And he knows exactly what he’s doing in the bedroom. If he’s that good with his mouth, I can only imagine . . . Just the memory makes me feel a little too warm. Noah can easily make up for all my years of no sex and bad sex, frustration and inexperience.
And we’re stuck with each other for the foreseeable future. At the very least, we’ll have to keep up this marriage charade long enough to get the company back on stable footing and turn it profitable again, which will be no small feat. It can take months. Long, grueling hours, incredible pressure, exhaustion, and stress. Why not take advantage of the fact that we’re in this situation together? Why shouldn’t I have a treat to look forward to at the end of the workday?
Sex has been on the horizon from the beginning. We’ve already experimented with making out, and that went pretty great. I won’t even have to swallow my pride—not too much, anyway—since Noah’s bet about seducing me in four days has long since expired.
So, what exactly am I waiting for? What’s the point of a “trial period” that never graduates into the real thing? And when have I ever gotten anywhere in life by hanging back? Sure, I’m hardly a daredevil like Noah, but there’s a difference between reasonable caution and paranoia. If I always play everything so safe, nothing will ever change. I’ll just be stuck in neutral forever. I need to take the plunge. Toss off my big-girl panties and just say screw it for once.
I give myself a decisive nod to cement my resolve. So . . . that’s that. I’m going to start fucking my husband. There, I said it. I’m going to enjoy some marital sex. I’m a mature, responsible woman—I can totally handle this. And I can always call the whole thing off if I try it and I don’t like where it’s going.
Someday, I still want my soul mate and my happily-ever-after romance. But that true love story isn’t going to happen anytime soon. Right here, right now, what I have is Noah. And that’s nothing to sneeze at. He’s one of the hottest men I’ve ever met, and more importantly, he’s good to me. Our friendship is solid; I trust him to show me a fun time and never hurt me.
What’s the worst that can happen? With that thought in mind, I set out for Noah’s office, my heart beating fast and hard.
He’s left his door wide open. When I peek in to see him sitting at his desk, he glances at me over the top of his computer screen.
“You need something?” he asks.
I come inside, closing the door behind me. This is definitely going to be the strangest proposal I’ve ever made at work. Taking a deep breath, I face Noah with as much cool confidence as I can muster.
“So,” I say casually, “I’ve been thinking. Maybe that orgasm wasn’t so bad after all . . .”
Chapter Seven
Noah
Barely an hour after she tore me a new asshole and stormed off, Olivia is standing in front of my desk. And underneath her nervousness is a mischievous glint in her eye.
“No?” I tease her, pretending to be surprised. “I thought you said it was just a little O earlier.”
She shakes her head. There’s a tiny crease between her brows, and I know that whatever she’s about to propose, she’s given it a lot of thought.
I rise to my feet and come around the desk so we’re standing facing each other. I can’t help pushing her buttons a little more. “Excellent, because there’s plenty more where that came from.” I love when she blushes. She looks beautiful when she’s fully relaxed and carefree. This is my favorite version of her.
“That’s good, because I’ve been thinking. Maybe this whole husband arrangement might come in handy,” Olivia says.
“Indeed it can. I have a big dick and I know how to use it. We’ve proven that even you, Snowflake, like orgasms. We have six hours between when we get off work and bedtime . . . that’s more than enough time to make you scream my name.”
“God, you’re crude.” Her cheeks flush even pinker.
Bingo.
“How
would you prefer I behave, Olivia? Like your little lapdog from accounting, polite and well-mannered and hanging on your every word? You’ll have to neuter me first.”
She raises her chin. She didn’t think I noticed that shriveled prick sniffing around, but I did.
“Sorry, Snowflake, but I’m a man. A speak-my-mind, fight-for-what-I-believe, bleed-for-my-country, red-meat-eating man. I don’t bow down to anyone. You want to fuck around and blow off some steam? Fine. It’ll be fun. But I’m not handing my balls over to you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Just don’t talk and we’ll be fine.”
I chuckle. It’s so fun to see her flustered.
“No, seriously, don’t speak.”
Nodding, I make a show of tightening my lips and zipping them shut.
Even I’m smart enough to know when to stay quiet. And when sex with Olivia is on the line, I’m more than willing to play along. All this teasing banter is melting my little snowflake, slowly but surely . . . just according to plan.
• • •
“What is all of this? I’m pretty much a sure bet. You understand that, right?” Olivia’s tone is amused, maybe even a little chastising. But there’s a huge smile on her face.
I asked her on an official date tonight. I’ve filled our penthouse with pale pink peonies from floor to ceiling—every counter and table topped with a crystal vase or a small water bowl of fragrant blossoms. I’ve even drawn her a bath with petals floating on the warm water.
“We’re not really dating. You didn’t have to do this,” she says, her tone teasing. “It’s just business. And sex. That’s it.”
I won’t admit it, but I’m a little hurt. If I did all this for any other woman, she’d be impressed and dazzled. But winning over Olivia is a challenge unlike any other.
“Go get ready. We have a seven-thirty reservation.” I give her ass a playful swat.
“Yes, sir,” she murmurs, sauntering past me.
Damn . . . I’m sure she only meant that sarcastically, but I like hearing those words more than I ever imagined.