by Noelle Adams
And he’s right.
Owen did say it. And he did mean it.
I know it better than anyone.
Masterson’s is always going to be the most important thing to him. His family legacy. His identity. His special duty.
Walking around the store on Saturday mornings with his grandfather has defined the man he is more than anything else.
No matter how he sees me, how he’s decided to treat me, I’m never going to equal Masterson’s in his heart.
It’s fine. I’ve known it all along. It’s just the way things are.
But I can’t be foolish and delude myself into dreaming of anything else.
Pop is peering at me. “You okay?”
I nod and smile and pull myself together. “Of course I am. I’m not a little girl anymore.”
He sighs. “I know you’re not. None of you are. I guess it’s time for me to admit things have changed. It’s time to... move on.”
I don’t know what Pop means by that, but he seems to mean something specific. “Move on from what?” When he doesn’t answer, I add, “Not move on from Sunday suppers?”
“Course not. There’ll always be Sunday suppers for the Greysons, no matter how many sassy husbands you girls bring home.”
FOR THE NEXT SEVERAL days, I work on maintaining an appropriate emotional distance from Owen.
Not a real distance. We still have dinner together most evenings, and I see him around the office when I’m working. But I keep reminding myself about the nature of our marriage and what Owen’s priorities will always be, so I don’t let myself fall any deeper into sappy hopes regarding him.
I’m not even sure where those hopes came from, but I’ve been feeling things for Owen that are going to hurt me eventually.
And there’s no reason to let them get any worse.
It helps that we’ve spent most of the week getting ready for Deanna Barton’s visit. And before I know it it’s Thursday, and we’re having dinner at one of the best restaurants in town.
The evening has gone really well.
Owen looks great in one of his new suits, and I even convinced him not to shave again so he has a sexy five-o’clock shadow going on. He’s taken my advice about being mostly himself but also staying relaxed, and I’m convinced that Barton and her assistant are impressed with him.
I’ve done the heavy lifting with the dinner conversation, and it helps that I like both women we’re eating with.
I’m excited.
Things are going well.
I really think Owen is going to pull this off.
He’ll be so happy.
I’ve drunk two glasses of water and a glass and a half of wine, and as we’re waiting for dessert, I have to pee so badly that I can’t hold it anymore. I hate to leave Owen alone at the table, but I don’t have much of a choice.
“I need to use the restroom,” I say with a smile, taking my napkin from my lap and putting it on the table. “Anyone else?”
“Me,” Barton says with a smile. She’s an attractive woman in her forties, exuding both creativity and competence. “Lead the way.”
I’m relieved by this since it means Owen won’t be stuck having to carry all the conversation with her while I’m gone.
We go to the bathroom, and as I’m washing my hands, Barton smiles at me in the mirror as she comes over to wash her hands too. “How long have you been married?” she asks.
“Just over a month.”
“I thought you must still be newlyweds.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I know newlyweds when I see them. He’s a quiet one, but he still looks at you like he just won the lottery.”
I blush hotly as I dry off my hands. “He does?” It’s a real question, not a strategy. I’m too fluttery at the moment to think through strategy.
Barton laughs. “Of course he does. He’s so in love with you. It’s really very sweet.”
I can’t act surprised.
I can’t act surprised.
I absolutely can’t act surprised.
We’re supposed to be blissfully married, after all.
I try for a shyly pleased look. “He’s really a romantic. You wouldn’t know it when you first meet him, but he is.”
“I believe it. What’s the most romantic thing he’s done?”
She’s being genuine, friendly. Maybe a little presumptuous with the question but not in an obnoxious way.
And fortunately I planned ahead so I have a good answer.
I pull out my phone, hiding a smile. “I’ll show you.”
I find the video of Owen singing the Elvis song at our wedding.
“We got married in Vegas. Just a wild, spontaneous impulse. It was an Elvis wedding chapel.”
“You’re kidding!” Barton’s eyes are wide, and they get wider as I show her the video.
Both of us are giggling when the song is over.
“That’s the best thing I’ve ever seen,” Barton says as we leave the restroom together. “I love it. What a guy he is beneath that reserve.”
So that’s just about perfect.
I can’t ask for anything more from this marriage.
Neither can Owen.
Everything is going exactly as it should be, and it doesn’t matter that Owen’s romantic side doesn’t actually exist.
That’s not why he married me in the first place.
THE FOLLOWING DAY, at 5:23 in the afternoon, I’m brimming with excitement and trying not to show it.
Owen and Deanna have just made a verbal agreement. She’ll develop a small line of shoes and handbags for Masterson’s.
It’s not huge, but it’s something. It’s a start. And it’s the best thing to happen for Masterson’s in a really long time.
The lawyers still have to work out the details of the contract, but the broad strokes are agreed upon.
And I’m thrilled.
Owen is thrilled too. I can see it beneath his composure. I’ve been sitting with him in all the meetings and discussions today, mostly just listening and covering any time Owen seems to be at a loss for words. That isn’t very often. Owen might not know fashion and popular trends, but he’s obviously great at business. He knows what he’s doing, so the only time I chime in is in the lulls between business discussion when we’re just making small talk.
For the past half hour, ever since the agreement was made, he’s been brimming with excitement just like me. I can see it in his eyes, in the tension of his hands. He smiles politely at Deanna as we say goodbye, and then he and I walk back into his office.
He closes his office door with unusual care, slowly making the latch click and then turning around to face me.
We stare at each other for a minute, and then I clap my hands together. “You did it!”
“We did it.” He’s finally starting to smile for real.
“We did it.” I can’t seem to stop beaming, and the excitement is too much to contain. I throw myself against him in a hug.
He hugs me back, and I can feel the same emotion I’m feeling as it shudders through his body. “Thank you,” he mumbles into my hair.
“You don’t have to thank me. You did more than I did.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you.”
He means it. I know he means it. I can feel how much he means it. And this knowledge makes me explode with even more joy.
I hug him hard, and he sort of spins me around. And somehow—I’m not really sure how—I end up against the wall with his body pressed into mine.
I’m not too proud to admit that this position gets me excited in an entirely different way. A clench tightens between my legs as my breath hitches. “You were amazing,” I tell him, trying to hide my response to his hard body brushing against mine.
His hands have lifted so they’re holding the sides of my face, down low around the jaw. “You were more than amazing.”
“I didn’t do very much.”
His eyes have gotten hot as he gazes down on me.
“Why do you even bother saying things like that? Surely you know I know it’s not true.”
The excitement of the past two days has taken very specific form right now, like all of it has been channeled into the beating of my heart, the pulsing between my legs, a delicious buzzing in my ears. I say breathlessly, “I don’t know you know...” I trail off because I’ve lost track of what the hell I’m trying to say.
“Chelsea.” His voice is that soft rasp he only uses when he’s feeling something deeply.
“What was I saying?”
“I don’t know.”
“What were you saying?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“What do you know then?”
“I know I’m about to kiss you.” His hazel eyes are caressing my face with an intensity that’s as arousing as his touch.
“Okay.”
He does kiss me, and it’s just as urgent as last time—but without the aching poignancy of grief. He’s completely in control of the kiss, his tongue claiming my mouth and his weight pushing me into the wall. My arms fly up helplessly to hold on to his neck, and I arch against him, trying to feel him as much as I can.
It only takes a minute for one of his hands to lower from my face. He hikes up my skirt and runs his hand up and down the back of my thigh.
I make a silly whimper and lift my leg to wrap it around his. This gives his hand better access, but it also throws me off-balance. I’m clinging to him now because otherwise I’d just fall to the floor.
He’s growing hard in his pants. I know because I’m rubbing against his groin. And his tongue is still busy in my mouth.
It’s like he’s everywhere. Everything. The whole of existence in this moment.
I have no idea what would have happened if we weren’t interrupted. I suppose we probably would have fucked right there against the wall in his office. But just then there’s a light tap on the door. “Owen?”
I recognize the voice. It’s Barbara, his assistant.
He huffs into my mouth, his body freezing in position for just a moment.
“Owen?” Barbara calls through the door again.
“Just a minute.” His voice doesn’t sound normal, but surely she won’t be able to tell what we’ve been doing just now.
“Shit.” He slowly lowers my leg back to the floor and steps away from me.
I push down my skirt and try to stand up straight. I’m panting like at the end of a hard workout, and I know my cheeks are too red. Owen is flushed as well, and his hair is rumpled messily.
I reach over to smooth down his hair as he tries to pull himself together. He’s still turned on. I know he is. He closes his eyes and does whatever mental thing he needs to do to subdue his physical response.
When he opens his eyes again, he looks a little better. I go over to where I left my purse on a side chair as he opens the office door.
“I’ve got a few things for you to sign before I go home,” Barbara says with a friendly smile. She looks at Owen and then looks at me. “If you have a few minutes?”
“Of course,” he says with an easy smile. “No trouble at all.”
“I’m about to head out anyway,” I say, picking up my purse. The moment is over, and hanging around hoping it’s going to come back when Barbara leaves will just be too embarrassing. “I’ll see you at home, Owen. I hope you have a great weekend, Barbara.”
“You too, Mrs. Masterson.”
She always calls me Mrs. Masterson, even though she calls everyone else by their first names.
I leave quickly and tell myself all the way home that Owen just got carried away from the excitement.
He doesn’t normally want to have sex with me. Only when he’s caught up in some sort of strong emotion. Grief. Excitement.
He’ll have pulled himself together by the time he gets home this evening.
He’s not going to want to finish what we started.
ON MY WAY HOME, I PICK up dinner from one of our favorite restaurants, and when I reach the house, I chill a bottle of champagne.
Even if we don’t have sex, we’re going to celebrate this evening.
We have good reason to celebrate.
I stand in the kitchen for a minute at six fifteen, telling myself I might as well go change into something more comfortable. I’m not sure when to expect Owen. Maybe he’s planning to stay late.
Just then I hear his keys in the door. I wait in the kitchen until I see him appear, looking hot and sexy in his rumpled suit.
I have to remind myself that our interrupted embrace is all I can expect from him tonight.
I start to give him a casual hi, but the word stops in my throat as I see his face.
He’s tense and flushed and intent. He walks over to me purposefully.
Before I know what’s happening, he’s pushed me back against the edge of the kitchen table and is kissing me hard.
Very hard. More than urgent. It’s deep and wild and possessive, and it makes my head spin after just ten seconds.
It’s like we never got interrupted at all. Like Owen’s picking up exactly where we left off earlier. His hands are moving all over me, and his tongue is deep in my mouth. And I’m every bit as out of control as I was in his office.
He wants me. That’s more than obvious.
And any fool would know that I want him too.
I’m clawing at his suit coat, trying to get it off, but he beats me to the undressing by yanking down the zipper on my dress. I let go of him just long enough to let the dress slide down my arms and then off my body to fall to my shoes. I leave it there as I wrap my arms around him again.
He props me up on the edge of the table as he kisses me, but after a minute he pulls away and stares down at me in my blue lace bra and panties.
“Fuck, Chelsea.” His eyes are hotter than I’ve ever seen them, and his face is damp with sweat.
I realize that last time we made love in the dark, so he never saw my naked body. He reaches around to unhook my bra and pulls it away. “Oh fuck.”
It feels like a compliment to me. I’m pulsing with pleasure and anticipation.
He changes the position of his hands so he’s holding me by the ribs, but his thumbs shift to my nipples. He twirls them in a way that makes me arch and gasp.
“You like that?” he asks thickly.
“Y-yeah!” I’m not loud. I’m never loud during sex. But the helplessness of my voice is unfamiliar to me.
He keeps caressing my breasts until I’m writhing, and then he leans down and does it with his mouth. I’m clawing at his clothes again, and I do manage to get his jacket off and untuck his shirt, but that’s as far as my coordination and his position will allow me.
“Please,” I gasp at last. “Please, Owen. I can’t wait anymore.”
He makes a guttural sound and raises his head. “You want this?”
“Of course I want it. I’m dying here. Please.”
I can see a flare of something in his eyes, but I’m not lucid enough to figure out what it is. Both of us work on his belt and trousers until I’m finally able to wrap my fingers around his erection. He groans deliciously as I stroke him.
Then he’s yanking down my panties and pulling apart my thighs, and I raise my hips a little from the edge of the table to align ourselves better before he slides himself in.
Both of us groan at the penetration. He tucks his face against the crook of my neck as we start to rock together. I can’t move very much in my position, so he has to do most of the work.
“Faster,” I breathe as he builds up a rhythm. “Faster, Owen. Please.”
His thrusting accelerates, and our bodies shake together. The edge of the table is poking into my butt, but I really don’t care. It only takes me a couple of minutes before the pleasure tightens into a coil and then releases.
I make a few soft, breathless sounds as the orgasm hits me, and I dig my fingernails into the back of Owen’s neck.
“Oh fuck,” he mutters, still moving rhythmi
cally against me. “Did you come?”
“Yes. Couldn’t you tell?”
“Thought so.” He’s smiling as he lifts his head and meets my eyes. “But you’re kind of quiet.”
I frown, although my body is washed with delicious satisfaction. “I’m not that quiet.”
He chuckles and kisses me tenderly. “Yes, you are.”
I don’t have any time to wonder whether he’d prefer me to be loud and wild and scream with ecstasy. He doesn’t look disappointed, and he’s pulling out of me unexpectedly.
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to drag him back into position. “You haven’t come yet.”
“I know that. I’m still working on you.”
“Working on—” I don’t finish. Owen is moving my body, turning me around and then bending me over the table.
My arms flail out and grab for the opposite edge. “Owen!”
“What? Do you not like this position?” He sounds like he’s smiling, so I turn to look at him over my shoulder.
He is smiling. In a pleased, possessive way that makes my whole body clench.
“I guess it’s all right, if you like the caveman thing.”
He chuckles and rubs his palm up and down my back and then caresses my bottom with thrilling entitlement. “I don’t think I’m the only one who likes it.”
“We’ll... see!” The last word comes out shrill because he’s slid his fingers down to rub my clit.
I hold on tight as he parts my legs and then lines himself up to enter me from behind. When he starts to thrust, his rhythm is torturously slow.
“Oh God, Owen,” I mumble, my cheek and my breasts pressed against the hard surface of the table.
“You do like this, don’t you?”
“Y-yeah. Owen, oh God.” I can barely get the words out because I’m biting my bottom lip so hard.
It goes on like that for a minute or two until I need a release so badly I’m desperate for it. I’m begging him in low, mumbled words. “Oh God. Oh please. I need... I need...”
“What do you need, Chelsea?”
“I need it hard!”
He picks up his speed and his force, and I gasp out in relief as my climax finally builds momentum. His body is slapping hard against mine now, and it’s the sexiest thing.