Hitched (Imperfect Love Book 2) (6 page)

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.

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.

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 their 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.