by Amy Daws
“Is this your grandpa that passed away when you were eighteen?”
“Yes. My dad’s dad. He was actually pretty incredible. He sold men’s clothing for years and was crazy smart with his money. And very frugal. Everything my dad was not. The whole situation is pretty ironic because when my grandfather passed away, he left his inheritance to me instead of my dad.” He laughs bitterly.
“Yikes,” I reply with a cringe. “Why did he do that?”
“Because my dad is a functioning alcoholic and terrible with money. And because my grandpa loved my mom, even after the divorce. He knew the prenup she signed left her with nothing. My grandpa figured that if I had the money, she’d at least be taken care of.”
I nod thoughtfully as I process all of this. “So, was it your grandpa’s inheritance that got you interested in investing? Did you major in finance at college?”
Dean shakes his head. “I never went to college actually. The money my grandpa left me was a decent amount, but college would have burned through a lot of it. I knew if I wanted to take care of myself and my mom long-term, I needed to be smart with that money, and going to college doesn’t really guarantee you a high-paying job. My grandpa was always great at investing and had taught me a lot with my own small investments, but I still had so much to learn. So, after he died, I gave myself one year to figure it all out. I read tons of finance and technical books about algorithms and trading. I subscribed to the Wall Street Journal to stay in the loop as I tested trading strategies with a small percentage of my inheritance. I read everything I could get my hands on and when that year was up, I took a risk and dumped it all in the stock market and have been able to live off that for over a decade now. It turned out really well.”
“Holy shit,” I croak, openmouthed. “That’s ballsy.”
Dean shrugs. “I just went with my gut. My grandpa always told me my gut knows what my head hasn’t figured out yet.”
My brows lift as I take in all this new information. Dean is so not just the Boulder mountain manwhore he appears to be. He’s…kind of incredible. “Where does Max come into this picture? You do a lot of business with him, right?”
Dean pushes his bowl away and turns to face me. “Max read some article I was featured in for a finance magazine years ago about high-earning investors under thirty. He saw I lived in Boulder so he looked me up for a meeting. At that point, I was still only doing investments for myself, but I had a reputation out there, and Max was interested in hiring me to do some investing for him. It worked out well because I was ready for a new challenge. Once I made him a good chunk, he started referring some of his friends to me. Now, I have six clients I manage under my own hedge fund.”
“Jesus,” I reply and shake my head in disbelief. “This is all so foreign to me. I just use my dad’s contacts for all my financial stuff. Nate’s dad is actually my accountant, so I guess Nate will be my guy eventually too.”
Dean’s jaw goes taut. “Well, if you ever want me to take a look at your finances, let me know.”
“That sounds dirty.” I giggle, and then a thought hits me. “Did you say you take care of your mom?”
“Yes, I take care of her, but I feel like I’ve been doing a lot of talking, Norah. It’s your turn.” Dean straightens his glasses as he peers pointedly at me. “When did you realize you wanted to be a baker for the rest of your life?”
I reach for my beer and take a sip before I reply. “I suppose it was when I was a teenager and sold my first dozen cookies for twenty bucks.” I laugh, and a fondness creeps up in my chest when I recall the moment. “I sold them to my dad, but I guess that was all it took. I got the itch to start my own cookie business as a teenager, and the moment I realized I could make real money doing something I loved, I was hooked. After that, it was culinary school or bust.”
“And was owning your own bakery and expanding into a franchise what you were hoping for back then?”
“The franchise thing never occurred to me in the early days,” I reply honestly. “I thought having my own bakery was a big enough deal, but once national food critics arrived, I thought…man, I’ve made something that could be bigger than me. It motivated me not to just bake but to also have a brand and a concept…that’s when the take-a-number machine idea came in. Everything needs a gimmick, you know? I mean, I’m no Starbucks, but what I’m doing is working. My baked goods can be appreciated by more than just my parents now.”
Dean shoots me a knowing smirk. “Your parents really aren’t that bad, you know.”
“I know,” I groan and run my hand through my long bob. “Their hearts are in the right place. They are just so traditional, and it’s hard for them to wrap their minds around me wanting a different life than what they have.”
Dean reaches out and tucks a stray hair behind my ear. “There’s nothing wrong with knowing what you want.”
I shiver beneath his touch, and the room goes eerily quiet as his words hang in the air. When it comes to business, I’ve always known what I wanted. First, it was to simply bake and eventually own my own bakery. After that, it was to perfect my croinut recipe and open a franchise for them. Now I’m gearing up to open a second location. Business goals have always been easy for me to make. Personal life goals, on the other hand, have taken the back burner.
But not now.
Right now, I’m here in a fake relationship with an attractive man I can have casual sex with, just what I need. So, what the hell am I waiting for?
I lift my eyes, and the heated look Dean’s throwing at me indicates we’re on the same page. I lean into his touch and stare at his lips as I voice the words that have been on the tip of my tongue since he opened the door tonight. “Right now, I want you.”
My body tenses at the obvious need in her voice. It’s sensual and raw, and it takes everything in me not to slide my fingers into her short wavy hair and grip it at the roots before devouring her mouth with mine. I press my elbow on the counter and lean in to whisper against her lips, “You want me to fuck you, sugar?”
“Yes,” she replies breathily and licks her plump upper lip as her eyes hood in a way that makes my cock press snugly against the back of my zipper. She inhales sharply, and adds, “But only after we clean your kitchen because sitting among this mess is slowly killing me inside.”
I pull back, completely ripped out of my sexual trance as laughter breaks free from my chest. “I’m actually impressed you held out this long.”
She shakes her head knowingly. “I knew you did this to torture me.” Narrowing flirty eyes on me, she stands and saunters into the kitchen with our bowls. I follow with the rest of the dishes and can’t help but chuckle silently to myself because she is spot-on.
I get a thrill out of pushing this woman’s buttons. When things aren’t perfect, she gets all twitchy and red because she loves to control things. Making lists, checking things off that list one by one. It’s fucking adorable, and it makes the minutes when she’s laughing and completely in the moment all that much sweeter. Too sweet actually.
So much for avoiding Norah today. I was all set to listen to my mind over my cock, but then she had to go and surprise me by making the first move and it was impossible for me to say no to her.
Big problem.
But this is casual. Our terms are clear. This is going to be fine. Maybe the more I have her, the less I’ll want her. That’s how it usually goes for me with women, and Norah will be no different.
“You need to hand wash Teflon pans,” she says as she begins filling the sink with soapy water while I toss the garbage and load the other dishes in the dishwasher.
“I’m not really a fan of high-maintenance dishes. If it doesn’t live through the dishwasher, we just weren’t meant to be.”
“Typical guy.” She shakes her head as she plunges her hands into the soapy water and starts scrubbing.
I finish wiping off the countertops and stand beside her, towering a solid foot over her when we’re both barefoot. “I can’t believe you b
rought a dessert tonight. I had really fancy Jell-O and Reddi-wip all ready to go in the fridge.”
Norah hunches over the sink and shakes with laughter. “Jell-O is not a dessert.”
“It is with Cool Whip on top,” I state, turning around to press my ass to the counter and crossing my arms to pin her with a glare. “Is what you brought really that much better?”
I reach over and grab the round container and pry the top off. My lips part when I see she’s brought a gorgeous round cake that is so perfect, it belongs in a cookbook. It has alternating layers of white cake, strawberries, and pink cream. The top is a thick mound of white whipped topping that I’m certain didn’t come from a can. And dead center is a spray of artfully sliced strawberries arranged into the shape of a flower.
“Okay, you win.” I groan appreciatively and swipe my finger along the edge to taste the cream. “You seriously win.”
“I should hope so.” Norah laughs and then sets the final pan in the sink to dry. She dries off her hands and turns to face me with a teasing look on her face. “I mean…it’s no tater tot casserole, but I was short on time.”
I hit her with a silent look of warning. “Norah Donahue, are you mocking my casserole?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she exclaims, and a rosiness crawls up her cheeks as she fails to hide her smirk. “It’s obvious you slaved away at those tater tots. Did you peel the potatoes yourself?”
She’s patronizing and smug, and I fucking love it. “I didn’t realize you were such a food snob.” I dip my finger into the cake and help myself to another sample.
She presses her lips together. “I make you filet mignon, and all you can muster up is a casserole. I bet you didn’t even make it. I bet you had your mother make it, and you just staged this mess to make it look like you actually put some effort into tonight.”
Her sass hits me right in the nuts, and without pause, I dig my finger into the fluffy white topping of her cake and swipe it across her nose.
Her blue eyes fly wide. “Did you seriously just—”
I do it again, this time hitting her lips and cheek. The smear looks like the outline of a seahorse.
“Dean,” she squeals and wipes the dollop of topping off her cheek. “I spent time on this!” She puts her finger in her mouth, and my eyes zero in on her lips as she sucks it off.
There’s that zipper again.
“You were being a snob,” I state firmly and take another lick. Damn, this is good.
“Takes one to know one,” she snaps and takes the cake from my hands, holding it behind her with one hand as she presses her other to my chest to hold me back. “Stop picking at my dessert. You don’t deserve it.”
“Aw, don’t be like that.” My hands clench around her waist, and she bites her lip excitedly, clearly not opposed to the close contact as I pull her flush against my body. I dip my head down and lick the topping off her nose. “It tastes too good not to be sampled.”
She squeaks and struggles to hold on to the cake behind her as I press my whipped-cream-covered lips to hers. Fucking hell, my zipper is going to break soon.
She breaks our kiss, a little breathless as she says, “Fine then…you should just have it all.” She pulls back just enough to bring the cake in front of her and shoves the entire thing in my face.
The room goes black and all I can hear are the sounds of cake flopping onto the floor and Norah’s giggles echoing in my kitchen. With pursed lips, I remove my cake-covered glasses and eye her with disdain. “I hope you’re happy because now we’re going to have to eat my shitty Jell-O.”
She covers her mouth, and her giggles turn to full-on belly laughs. “My cake is too good for you anyway.”
I flick my tongue out to lick a dangling strawberry off my chin and nod. “Truer words have never been spoken.” In a flash, I reach out and grab her by the waist, hoisting her away from the cake mess on the floor and up onto the counter in one fluid motion. She smiles and grabs the towel she used earlier to wipe my face off and hers. When we’re both relatively cleaned up, I pin her with a look and add, “But you signed up for this, right?”
It’s a loaded question I hope she reads the subtext to because I’m suddenly feeling the need to reconfirm this arrangement. We’re back in Boulder and back to our real lives. Can a woman as sexy and fun as Norah really only want casual sex?
She bites her lip and moves her hands down my chest before wrapping her legs around my waist. “I signed up for fake sex with my fake boyfriend, so what are we waiting for?”
Her eyes dip hungrily to my lips, and in one fell swoop, our mouths collide, and we’re a mess of sticky whipped cream residue, tongues, and hot air as we make out like it’s been weeks since we last touched each other instead of hours. We break apart, and I hurriedly attempt to unbutton my dress shirt as Norah rips off her cardigan and tosses it onto the floor. She then peels off her white tee to reveal a red lace bra that shows her nipples through the sheer fabric and a deep, animalistic groan vibrates through my chest.
I got to know Norah’s body quite intimately in Aspen when I kissed every part of her on the bed and when she let me suds her up in the shower. She’s narrow but curvy with an ass and tits that were made for rap videos. And she has a heart-shaped birthmark on her hip that I now know is called a “café au lait” birthmark because of that stupid podcast we listened to together. But staring at her as she sits on my kitchen counter, lips raw, chest heaving, and denim-clad legs spread open for me…I feel like the luckiest son of a bitch in the world.
I step between her legs and dip my head to suck one of her nipples into my mouth through the fabric. The texture of it, along with the softness of her skin, tastes like the perfect mix of naughty and nice. Goddammit, she feels so good—soft and supple and sweet. Maybe the sweetness is leftover whipped cream, but either way, I need to taste more of her.
I pull back, my dick throbbing as I anticipate my tongue on her clit again. I try to rid her of her jeans, but Norah clearly has other ideas. She slips off the counter and turns us around so I’m pressed against the countertop. Her hands move to my fly, and she frees me in a matter of seconds. Before I realize what’s happening, she’s on her knees, and my eyes are fixated on her in shock as she wraps her large lips around my girth and pulls me to the back of her throat. She sucks and licks and makes these little noises in the back of her throat like she’s appreciating a slice of her delicious cake instead of blowing my rock-hard cock.
This is definitely a first. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had blow jobs before. Plenty of them. But never from someone as sweet and innocent as Norah. Fuck, I need to cement this memory to my brain for future spank bank material because…It. Is. Everything.
I comb my fingers through her hair and rock my hips into her, my abs contracting with every thrust. This seems to excite her more as she sucks harder, pulling me deeper down her throat, and I have to bite my lip and stare at the ceiling to stop myself from blowing my load too soon.
When I can’t take another second of it, I pull out of her mouth and yank her to her feet. Her jaw is dropped in confusion, and I could climax at the sight of her mussed hair and raw lips.
“I need to be inside you.” I grunt and turn her around and flatten her on my kitchen counter. I can’t look at her anymore. If I stare at her face, I’m going to fucking come in two seconds just like the first time we fucked.
In a quick maneuver, I pull a condom out of my wallet and roll it onto my wet cock before reaching around to help her get her jeans off. I pause to relish in the dainty red lace thong I tell myself she wore just for me.
I dip my hand inside her and cup her mound while sliding my finger along her slit. “You’re fucking soaked,” I growl into her ear, turning my nose into her hair to inhale her scent.
“I know,” she groans, undulating her hips against my fingers, practically begging me to touch her deeper.
I thrust a finger into her core and bite my lip at her tightness. God, she’s so fucking snug. So fucking
wet. So fucking perfect. I need to be inside her.
I pull my hand out and hold her red panties to the side before crouching down to position my tip at her entrance.
Without pause, I push into her.
Hard.
“Dean.” She cries out my name and splays her hands on the counter as she tries to find something to hold on to.
“Norah,” I croak and collapse over her back, my hot breath on her shoulder blade. “Fuuuck,” I huff because my dick is going to blow any second, and I need to take a minute to get some fucking control.
She wiggles back into me and moans, begging me to move, so I man up and do what men do when they’re balls deep in the most beautiful woman they’ve ever seen.
I think about my grandma or the S&P index or the sticky mess on the floor or anything and everything that isn’t how fucking great Norah’s pussy feels around my cock.
Once I’ve regained some control, I stand and pull out of her before plunging back in. “Fuck, you feel so good, Norah.”
“Oh God,” she moans and presses her forehead against the cool granite. I plunge back in and she gasps, her creamy back arching beneath my hand where I’m holding her thong to the side as it strokes over my slickened cock with every retreat.
It’s fucking glorious.
The next few moments are an animalistic blur of grunts and thrusts and cries. A haze of sweat-slickened backs and tight grips on hips. Norah’s loud and raspy voice fills my ears as she calls my name over and over. She climaxes around me within the first two minutes, but I don’t give her a second to recover. I just keep moving in and out, in and out, every stroke of her channel on my cock causing my muscles to tense more and more.
She comes again when I reach around and thumb her clit. The image of her writhing against my counter makes me feel like a fucking champion. The sight of her losing her mind tips me over the edge too, and I no longer care about giving her a twenty-minute dick.
