My Reckless Valentine

by Olivia Dade

  He shook his head. “It feels like all coherent thought disappears.”

  “Not a surprise. For most men, I think acting on instinct means thinking with their penises, instead of their brains. And penises are notoriously bad at forming coherent thoughts.”

  “What about women and their instincts?”

  “Excellent question. Scientists have pondered the issue of women and their instincts for ages. First, they thought women didn’t have instincts at all, or that their instincts didn’t matter. Then they speculated that women’s instincts should come only from the vagina. In the last few decades, the clitoris has gained supremacy as the origin of female instincts. Most recently, there’s been talk about a so-called G-instinct. Mostly from scientists at the Cosmo Institute.”

  He raised his head to look at her. “Are you talking about instincts or orgasms?”

  “Hard to say. Science is undecided on that issue too.”

  “You’re a nut.”

  “I’m your nut. Get used to me.”

  “I intend to,” he said. “I won’t let anything pull us apart. Not our jobs. Not anything. You’re mine.”

  “You’re mine . . . too,” she said, her voice slurred.

  When he looked down again, her eyes were closed. He watched her body relax, her breaths turning deep and even. He tugged her closer, falling into sleep with one final thought.

  Nothing could make me regret choosing this woman. Nothing.

  21

  When Angie woke up Sunday morning, Grant had already left the bed. She squinted at the alarm clock. Only a few minutes after eight. The man definitely needed to learn about the glory of sleeping in, especially after two long nights—and one day—of lovemaking.

  Physically, he’d worn her out. Emotionally, he’d lit her up. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her. Even when they weren’t in bed, he was still touching her. Stroking her cheek. Kissing the tip of her nose. And if they weren’t touching, he was looking at her with such affection and warmth that she had to fight tears of incredulous joy. Or he was telling her how much he adored her. How beautiful he found her. How happy she made him.

  It all seemed unreal to her. Fragile. As if one misstep by her could strip everything away and leave her desolate and naked, prostrate in her grief. She couldn’t relax into their relationship. Not yet. Not until all the lies fell away and revealed the stark lines of what they could become together.

  She shuffled to the bathroom to take care of urgent business, and then crawled back under the covers. The cool pillow cushioned her cheek. She considered falling back asleep as she smothered a wide yawn against her hand, but decided against it. She and Grant had become a couple such a short time ago. She wanted to take advantage of every minute together.

  Her fuzzy brain refused to focus on any worrisome topic, even the ones she knew she needed to address. What would happen at work? How long would they have to keep their relationship a secret? Could she continue to hide the Valentine’s Day sex-scene contest from Grant? Should she? It was all too much for her cloudy thoughts. So instead she stared blankly at his bedroom as she struggled toward alertness.

  The room looked like what it was: the space of someone in the midst of unpacking. Neatly stacked boxes stood in the doorway to the walk-in closet. Other than the blue-and-white striped duvet covering the California king mattress and the soft, slate-blue rug positioned at the bedside, the bedroom didn’t boast many decorations. He’d chosen to keep the walls white and the wooden floors uncovered. But the mahogany-stained furniture looked sturdy. Elegant, though not fussy. The furniture all matched, which figured. Grant wouldn’t like a hodgepodge of different styles in his house.

  Everything in the room gleamed, as if he dusted every morning. Which he might very well do, for all she knew. She sleepily contemplated life with a man who did housework. All in all, she thought she could get used to it. Then again, he might expect her to do housework too, which seemed like a less positive development.

  After a minute or two, something she saw finally registered. Something odd. Something that might require her to tease him yet again.

  “Grant?” she called out, her voice husky from sleep.

  She heard his deliberate footsteps coming back down the hall, and she smiled in anticipation of seeing him. He poked his head around the door, and the smile got bigger. His dark brown curls were partially flattened on the left side—the side he’d rested on while sleeping. The side that positioned him so his face pointed toward her. From what she could tell, he’d kept that position the entire night, as if even in sleep, he couldn’t bear to turn away. In the early morning, she’d blinked awake twice, struck by a sudden fear that she’d imagined the last thirty-six hours. Each time, though, the sight of him turned resolutely in her direction had comforted and warmed her.

  Once he saw that her eyes were open, he came inside the room and climbed onto the bed. “Morning, sleepyhead,” he said as he gathered her into his arms.

  The soft flannel of his pajama bottoms and the cotton of his long-sleeved T-shirt brushed pleasantly against her bare skin as he intertwined their bodies. He smelled like toothpaste and . . . bacon? What the hell?

  “Did you make and eat bacon without waking me up?” she accused.

  He chuckled. “Yes. But I saved you half. I knew my life was forfeit if I didn’t.”

  “Damn straight,” she muttered, snuggling closer. “Grant, I have a serious question for you.”

  His hand, which had been making gentle circles on her back, stilled. “What’s wrong?”

  “I noticed the huge tub of moisturizer on your nightstand. Right next to the roll of paper towels.”

  His hand resumed stroking her spine. “Okay.”

  “And you have the same things next to your computer in your office.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Just how often do you masturbate?” she asked. “Are you on an hourly schedule? I mean, with that amount of lotion, you could basically do it full-time for a decade and still have enough lubrication left to set up a slip-and-slide on your lawn.” She grinned sleepily against his shoulder and decided to echo their first conversation. “Not a criticism, by the way. Only a question.”

  Despite her reassurance, he stiffened and pulled back a few inches. “It isn’t for . . . pleasuring myself.”

  “Right.” She raised her brows at him.

  “It’s true.” He sat up, an aggrieved expression on his face. “I have dry hands.”

  “No one’s hands are that dry. Not even in Death Valley in July while ripping open those silica gel packets they put in shoes.” She sat up too, curling her legs beneath her and tucking her hair behind her ears. Her eyes felt less heavy, her limbs less floppy with exhaustion. Apparently, teasing Grant invigorated her. Which was fortunate, since she intended to do a lot of it.

  “I like to buy in bulk, and it’s particularly cost-effective for nonperishable items,” he declared.

  Christ, how did hearing him use the phrases cost-effective and nonperishable make her squirm like this? Maybe she needed to reconsider her erotica collection and start stockpiling dictionaries and thesauruses instead.

  “Even if I accept that explanation for the lotion—which I don’t, by the way—it doesn’t address the paper towels,” she said.

  “They’re for blowing my nose. I haven’t found where I packed my tissue boxes yet.”

  “Blowing your nose? Is that what you call it?”

  He appeared to struggle with the urge to throttle her. “I have allergies.”

  “Come on.” She nudged his side, where she knew he was most ticklish, and he jerked with a little laugh. “You could have bought more tissues.”

  “Stop tickling me, woman,” he said, grabbing her wrists and pinning them by her sides. “I’m too cheap to buy more tissues when I know I have some. I’d planned to finish unpacking this weekend, but something distracted me.”

  She grinned, pleased at the thought of throwing Grant off his game. “Fine. I’ll pretend
to believe that. But then you need to come clean about something else.”

  He waved a hand in invitation. “Go for it. Ask whatever you want.”

  “You’re a big fan of spreadsheets, right?”

  He planted a kiss on her neck before answering. “Yeah. Probably because I was such a sick kid. My parents made charts tracking everything I ate and did. Eventually, I started filling them out myself. We were hoping to find patterns that would predict when I would get an infection. So by the time I started using spreadsheets for work, I was already pretty comfortable with organizing data that way.”

  “Makes sense.” Her index finger tapped him on the chest, and she smiled up at him. “So here’s my question. You’re totally making a spreadsheet about our sex life, aren’t you?”

  He sputtered, the tips of his ears turning pink in the way she adored.

  “Admit it, sweet pea. Yesterday you showed me the spreadsheet you made to document your fruit and vegetable consumption.”

  “Produce Planner.”

  “And the one you made to keep track of how long you exercise and what you do during each session.”

  “Fitness Fundamentals.”

  “That particular spreadsheet also tracks which weights you use, how many reps and sets you do, the length of your rest periods, and estimated calorie consumption.”

  “Thoroughness pays off in the end.”

  “And then there’s your spreadsheet listing all the books you’ve read, their word count, and how long it took you to finish them.”

  It was an impressive list, lengthy and varied. They might not like to read the same genres, but she couldn’t fault the man for his love of books. Seeing that spreadsheet had even turned her on a little. Really, she had no idea why she hadn’t realized it before now: She loved her men hot and geeky. Or maybe it was just Grant she adored, and he merely happened to be hot and geeky.

  “Book Basics,” he said. “My favorite spreadsheet.”

  “So, like I said: You might as well admit it. You have a spreadsheet for fucking too. Probably called something like Erotic Essentials or Dick Details.” She thought for a moment. “Or Pussy Particulars. You seem to like alliteration in your file names.”

  “I don’t have a spreadsheet for that,” he insisted.

  “How am I supposed to believe you? You’re a spreadsheet ho.”

  He sighed. “I might have thought about it . . .”

  “Aha!”

  “But then I realized I didn’t need one.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Why not? Don’t you consider our sex life as important as how much kale you eat?”

  “Obviously.” He grabbed her around the waist, pulling her body on top of his. “Much more so. But that’s my point. I don’t need a spreadsheet, because it’s too important for me to forget. I remember every time together. All the things that turn you on. Everything that makes you shiver.”

  He captured her bottom lip between his teeth, nibbled, and then sucked it into his mouth. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t suppress a shiver.

  “What makes you gasp.”

  Taking her ass in his hands, he ground her bare pussy against the ridge of his erection pushing against his thin pajama pants. At the pressure against her clitoris, she inhaled sharply.

  “What makes you come.” His voice had deepened. Grown rougher.

  Without another word, he lay down and boosted her up his body until she sat straddling his face. And after that, she forgot all about spreadsheets.

  Later that morning, Angie sat across the kitchen table from Grant and contemplated what the upcoming week would bring.

  “How are we going to play this at work?” she asked.

  Wiping her mouth with a napkin, she leaned back and took stock of his sunny kitchen. Clean countertops, of course. Lots of cabinets. Stainless steel appliances and wood flooring stained a rich brown. Spartan, as one might expect from a man who’d moved in such a short time ago, as well as someone who worshipped logic and spreadsheets. It was all very Grant.

  He took a sip of his herbal tea before answering her question. “Well, my original plan was to call Tina, announce that we’re fucking, upload a sex tape to YouTube, and send her the link. But maybe you have a different idea.”

  She almost choked on her sixth and final slice of bacon. “Jesus, Grant,” she gasped between giggles. “I think I’m a bad influence on you. Such naughty language.” She shook her head at him.

  “Body-snatcher.” He took another sip, eyeing her over the top of his cup with a wicked sparkle in his blue eyes.

  It was enough to make her want to corrupt him even more. Thoroughly and as quickly as possible. Possibly with the assistance of strategic props. The mere thought made her squirm a bit in her chair. Down girl, she told herself. We have important matters to settle first.

  “Seriously, though. Do we avoid each other as much as possible, pretend we’re just polite work colleagues, or admit we’re friends and hide the rest?”

  He put down his cup. “For better or worse, Tina has instructed me to keep an especially close eye on Battlefield. So we can’t avoid one another.”

  Angie didn’t know how to feel about that. Though the thought of having Grant nearby on a regular basis excited her, how the hell was she going to get work done in between fantasies of pinning him to a bookshelf and screwing him senseless? How could she hide her feelings toward him when he worked only ten feet away? And how the fuck would she manage to keep the sex-scene contest under wraps with him underfoot?

  That is, if she didn’t tell him about the contest before they went back to work tomorrow. Lying to Grant didn’t sit well with her. In fact, she hated it. She’d spent a good chunk of yesterday—the time not spent either beneath or above Grant, anyway—agonizing over the issue and what to do about it.

  Confessing to him about the contest would cause a slew of problems, both professional and personal. If she told him and he chose not to inform Tina, he’d put his job at risk if Admin ever discovered the contest. Learning about her prior deception would also make him angry. Maybe furious enough to change his mind about her. And their relationship was so new. She didn’t want to endanger it.

  Of course, if he found out on his own, he’d feel even more betrayed. But maybe she could manage to hide the contest and make the mess disappear after Valentine’s Day. Today was Sunday. Valentine’s Day was Thursday. After four days of work, the danger would pass them by and she’d be home free. Except for the whole hiding-a-torrid-affair-from-their-bosses thing, but that was a more long-term issue.

  She could do it. For the greater good, she could lie for less than a week and pray that he didn’t find out. It was a chance she had to take. Because the thought of Grant looking at her with disappointment and disapproval . . . No. She couldn’t tell him. Not if she had any alternative.

  “And as you’ve said before, I’m not a particularly good liar,” he continued.

  Not like me, Angie thought. I’m a good liar. To make it through this week, I’m going to have to be. Guilt churned through her stomach. Or maybe that was the shitload of bacon she’d eaten. Hard to tell.

  Grant took his teacup and rinsed it out in the sink. “Because of that, it makes sense to me that we acknowledge a friendship. That way, if we come across as too friendly for polite coworkers, we have a ready explanation.”

  “Right. That seems logical,” she said. “By the way, Penny and Mary already know about us. The parts that occurred before this weekend, anyhow. Don’t worry. They won’t tell anyone.”

  “They do?” He turned to face her, his brows drawn together in concern. “Is that smart?”

  “I told them before I knew you wanted to continue the relationship in secret. I figured we were done, so it was irrelevant whether we’d slept together before.”

  “Still . . .” He sighed. “I wish they didn’t know.”

  “Sweet pea, it would be hard to hide it from them. And it’s too late to do anything about it,” she said. “I promise, you can trust
them. They won’t say anything to Tina or anyone else. No one else will find out.” She paused. “Other than Constance, Helen, and Sarah. They know too.”

  He groaned, scrubbing his face with both hands.

  “Not to mention Blaine. But that one’s not my fault.”

  He groaned again.

  She stood and carried her plate to the sink. Then she turned to Grant, leaning into his chest. His arms closed around her, and her world came into alignment once more.

  She gave his neck a quick kiss and then looked up at him. “I think posing as friends is the right choice. To outsiders, our friendship can explain almost anything. The fact that we’re affectionate and know a lot about each other would make sense.”

  He bent his neck to brush his lips softly against hers. His warm hands slid under the hem of the oversized T-shirt he’d lent her, coming to rest on the dip of her spine.

  “We’ll just make sure not to do anything in public that would indicate we’re more than friends,” he said.

  “Shouldn’t be too hard. After all, it’s not like we’re going to fuck in the library, right?” she joked. “I want you, but I haven’t lost all control.”

  He laughed. “Exactly. We won’t do anything objectionable anywhere near the library, and we’ll be fine.”

  22

  “Oh, fuck,” he gritted out, his fingers digging into her hips as he pounded inside her. “I’m close.”

  She held on tight to the workroom table, bracing herself and pushing back into his thrusts. Her breasts pressed hard against the cool wood surface, a welcome contrast to the searing heat behind her and within her.

  “Need your hand,” she panted.

  Obligingly, he worked one hand between her belly and the table, searching for her clit. Once he found it, he circled it with two knowing fingers. By this point, the man understood precisely how to touch her. Her back arched at the delicious pressure, offering her pussy to him even more flagrantly. He took advantage, pushing even farther inside as his wicked fingers kept moving on her clit.