Hitched: Volume One

by Kendall Ryan

  “What?” I ask after a minute.

  His eyes crinkle at the edges. “Nothing. You just look cute.”

  Cute? My cheeks turn pink as the word fizzes down through my stomach. I suddenly feel self-conscious about having little lavender butterflies printed all over me. Somehow I hadn’t expected Noah to have an opinion on my pajamas. Or, if he did, that he would tease me about them. Not say sweet things that make me temporarily forget how to talk.

  “Where are your pajamas?” I ask, shrugging off the bubbly feeling.

  His smile quirks with mischief. “Well, usually I sleep in the nude—”

  Of course you do. Why am I not surprised?

  “Not anymore you don’t,” I say quickly, interrupting him. “Find some sweatpants or something.” As we trade places, passing in the hallway, I add over my shoulder, “And that better include a shirt!”

  The sight of Noah’s sculpted six-pack while I’m still getting comfortable with the idea of sharing an apartment with him—let alone a bed? No way I’d survive that.

  When I’m almost done brushing my teeth, he calls out from the bedroom. “Hey, Snowflake? Since we’re spending the night together, would you be interested in taking our first test drive?”

  My heart jumps into my throat. It slows down a little—but only a little—when I realize he’s talking about our make-out idea. Jeez . . . give the guy an inch and he starts asking for a mile.

  Surprisingly, though, I don’t feel a speck of reluctance about kissing Noah. Only curiosity, a flush of warmth, a flutter of nervous excitement. But then again, our agreement is strictly limited to necking like a couple of shy high-schoolers, which we’ve technically already done seven years ago. And there’s no reason to reevaluate my stance against casual sex—what I have planned is a long way from home base. The thought is both a huge relief and a tiny bit disappointing.

  “Sure,” I answer him finally, trying to sound nonchalant. I was the one who proposed we try it, after all. Although I assumed it would be a little further in the future. But tonight is as good a time as any.

  At last, the moment of truth arrives. Swallowing hard, I pull back the covers, sit down, and slide underneath. The linens rustle as Noah does the same on the bed’s other side.

  I can hear him move and breathe. I’m attuned to every tiny sound, hyperaware of how close he is to me.

  It’s been so long since I slept in the same room with another person, let alone the same bed. And this is nothing like bunking with my sister or Camryn. My new bedmate is a man. A very handsome man who has made it extremely clear that he wants to fuck my brains out with his huge dick. We’re only sleeping together, not sleeping together, but still . . . I’m sharing a bed with Noah Fucking Tate. And I’m about thirty seconds away from kissing him.

  An odd fluttery energy washes over me—nervousness and excitement mix until I can’t tell them apart. I feel a sudden shy urge to withdraw to my side of the bed and stare at the wall until he falls asleep, then I chide myself for being ridiculous. We’re not innocent children, but we’re also not teenagers, blushing and giggling at the barest mention of sex. We’re two mature, liberated adults who have very sensibly decided to . . .

  Another giddy wave, this one distinctly warmer. I force myself to stop being a nervous wreck and roll over.

  Noah has propped himself up on his elbow. His slight smile drops as he searches my face. “Hey, are you okay?”

  Are my jitters that obvious?

  “Uh, y-yeah, I’m fine,” I reply. Maybe that’s not totally true, but it’s not a lie, either. I really do want to try this. Which means I need to take the plunge now. “Let’s go.”

  Noah nods and scoots closer. He reaches out to stroke my hair out of my face, and I relax a fraction into his light, almost tickling touch.

  “Still with me?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Because we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  “I know that.”

  His touches are more gentle than I expected. His fingertips are so light on my cheek, my neck, tucking my hair behind my ear. It’s . . . nice.

  Then, at last, he shifts his weight and leans in.

  That first brush is so soft, I can barely feel it. It’s more like the pause before a kiss than the kiss itself. But it still kicks my heart rate into overdrive.

  “Was that all right?” he murmurs, his warm and minty breath fanning over my mouth.

  I tilt up my chin and answer his question with a chaste peck.

  He brushes against my lips with a chuckle. Sliding one arm under my head as a pillow, he lies down facing me, draping his other arm around my shoulder and upper back. He keeps his hands high and his lower body at least an inch from mine. A gentleman . . . for now, anyway.

  His mouth starts moving gently. No tongue, no teeth, not even very much pressure—just feeling the give and take of our lips against each other. My nervousness slowly drains away to be replaced with a different, much more pleasant kind of buzzing energy.

  It’s obvious what he’s doing. He’s trying to take things slow and make sure I’m comfortable. I’m relieved at his careful consideration . . . but I’m also slightly embarrassed that it was necessary in the first place. Time to up the ante a little.

  I reach my arm around his waist, feeling how firm his muscles are, and open my mouth to him. With a low, quiet noise of approval, he immediately responds to my invitation. The tip of his tongue flicks over my lips. I return the move, determined to match his boldness, then let out a small gasp when he slides his tongue over mine. It’s almost like I can feel that deft touch much lower. My panties are growing damp, and these stupid fleece pajamas are suddenly suffocating. His lips are so full, so soft, and his mouth moves expertly over mine.

  Unbidden, my body pulls itself closer . . . His skillful kisses are way better than I even remember.

  And then I feel it. His half-hard length rubs against my thigh.

  The thought of Noah—who starred in my every lurid teenage fantasy without my permission—hard and ready for me, now, here, in the very appealing flesh, is almost too much. A rush of heat pulses low in my belly, and I’m right on the verge of rocking my hips into him when reality strikes.

  What the hell am I doing?

  This is Noah Tate, who’s slept with half of Manhattan, who’s probably just doing this to win our bet and add another notch to his bedpost.

  I freeze at the thought, and he pulls away.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks in confusion.

  “I think it’s time to stop for now,” I manage to say without stumbling over my words.

  His brow furrows in distinct annoyance. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Good night.” I untangle myself from his embrace and roll over. “But thank you. That was fun.”

  “Just fun?” His tone is incredulous. “Sheesh. Leave a twenty on my nightstand while you’re at it.”

  “Are you telling me you’re familiar with that kind of situation?”

  “Oh, screw you.”

  He rolls over and I hear him get up and walk out into the hall.

  I force my eyes closed and practice deep breathing to cool down. Seriously, how have I never noticed how stifling these pajamas are?

  But about fifteen minutes later, I start wondering where he went. Did he change his mind and go to sleep on the couch? I hope not . . . I’d feel guilty, even if it was his own choice. Maybe I should find him.

  Sighing, I get up to check the living room. It’s empty. But the bathroom door is shut, with light leaking from under it. I feel a little stupid for not guessing that in the first place. At the same time, though, it’s been kind of a while. Did he fall in or something?

  I walk over, raising my hand to knock on the door . . . then stop, my cheeks coloring when I hear it. An unmistakable moan of pleasure.

  My eyes fly open wide. I can’t believe what an idiot I am. What the hell did I think a man would do after I gave him a boner?

  I should leave. R
ight now. I should go back to bed and pretend I didn’t hear anything. So . . . why am I not moving?

  A low, husky growl comes from inside the bathroom, and my breath hitches. Without meaning to, I lean closer to the door.

  If I listen hard, I can hear his heavy breathing. He’s loud . . . I wonder if he’s getting close yet? He must be, if he’s been doing this for almost fifteen minutes. Unless he has great stamina.

  Another groan, this one louder and shakier. It’s all too easy to imagine the scene on the other side of the bathroom door. I can’t stop the mental images . . .

  Noah with his sweatpants pushed down to his upper thighs and his shirt rucked up to reveal his taut abs and a dark trail of hair. His chest heaving, his legs trembling. His eyes dark and half-lidded or shut in concentration. Flushed and sweaty, his head thrown back, biting his full lips to keep quiet or parting them to gasp for breath. And his huge, hard cock—even more impressive than when I saw it in the bar a few days ago. It must be so long and thick right now, curving up proudly, swollen and veiny, the purple head wet, straining in his tight fist as he jerks himself fast and rough.

  My panties flood with moisture.

  He’s panting harsh and loud now, each breath edged with a moan that almost sounds like half-formed words. What’s he saying? What’s he thinking about? I shift, rubbing my thighs together slightly.

  “Olivia . . .” he groans.

  My jaw drops. My pussy clenches hard on emptiness, sopping wet now. Noah calling my name like that—so ragged, so desperate—is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

  His noises of pleasure build to a crescendo, then taper off. Finally, he falls silent. My mouth is bone dry and I can feel my heart pounding in my throat.

  Then I realize that he’ll probably be coming out of the bathroom soon. And if he catches me listening at the door like some kind of Peeping Tom, he’ll never let me hear the end of it.

  I hustle back down the short hallway, jump into bed, and yank the covers over me just as the bathroom door opens. I slam my eyes closed. Noah’s footsteps pad closer, quick and quiet. The mattress dips with a tiny creak as he gets into bed.

  Lying limp, I try to keep my breathing as slow and steady as possible. Which isn’t easy when I’m flooded with both lust and adrenaline. But if Noah realizes I’m feigning sleep, he doesn’t act like it.

  I lie there feeling like a complete idiot—my heart still hammering away, my body primed and ready—while Noah, satisfied, drifts off into a peaceful sleep.

  • • •

  The next morning, my alarm wakes me up to an empty bed. Strange . . . I wouldn’t have pegged Noah for an early bird.

  Far down the hall, I can distantly hear metal clanking, and a few sniffs confirm the smell of brewing coffee. Noah must be cooking. He doesn’t even drink coffee; he’s made it just for me. My stomach approves of that idea. It’s reassuring too—hopefully I can take it as a sign that he’s not too upset about me cutting things short last night.

  I roll out of bed to quickly brush my teeth, shower, and get dressed, not wanting to miss a hot breakfast.

  When I walk into the kitchen, Noah is indeed standing at the stove as I thought. But I didn’t predict that he’d be shirtless and still damp from the shower, his dark hair tousled, his toned muscles rippling subtly under tanned skin. I can’t help but gawk a little. Show-off . . . the jerk knows exactly how good he looks.

  He glances back with a smile, interrupting my horny reverie. “Sleep well?”

  “Yeah, like a log,” I reply as casually as possible. Right after I lay awake for a solid hour, wetter than the goddamn Hudson River.

  Maybe I could have taken Noah’s example and found my own relief, but at the time, I was too paranoid that he’d wake up and catch me. And then I’d have to put up with his swaggering for who knows how long. Eternity, most likely.

  The kettle whistles, saving me from needing to say anything else other than, “I’ll get that.”

  “Thanks.” Noah speaks over his shoulder as he concentrates on the panful of hissing eggs, and my stomach growls; our food looks nearly done. “I already put the leaves in the pot.”

  I pour the hot water into our new teapot, fix a cup of coffee for myself, and bring everything to the table. Noah serves up two plates, each holding half of a perfect spinach-mushroom omelet.

  We eat by the dining area’s bay windows, enjoying the early morning’s airy sunlight and the view of Manhattan sprawled out beneath us. Our conversation is surprisingly pleasant—talking shop, tossing ideas for our new business plan back and forth. I start to relax. Maybe being roommates will work fine after all. We’ve only stayed one night, but this place is already starting to feel like home.

  I finish my last bite of eggs with a contented sigh. A fresh, hot breakfast is definitely a nice way to start my morning. My usual routine consists of grabbing a bagel or muffin while running out the door. If Noah’s trying to suck up to me, it’s working.

  A girl could get used to this . . .

  Unfortunately, we’ve dawdled long enough. We need to get to the office soon. I stow my plate and mug in the dishwasher and start heading to the bathroom to put on my makeup.

  But as I turn, Noah catches me by the shoulders and spins me around again. His strong arms wrap tight around me. Before I can think, he crushes our lips together.

  I gasp. It’s nothing like last night’s kiss. That was soft and sweet, the lightest possible touch, like trying not to spook a skittish animal. This is a different kind of taming—hard, rough, fiery. The kid gloves have come off. Noah has caught me, claimed me, and arousal flares through my body like the heat of a brand.

  Caught off guard, I can’t hold back a moan. I’m shocked to find my muscles turning to jelly. I cling to him just to stay on my feet.

  Everything about Noah pours into my senses. I soak up his body heat, the rasp of stubble around my lips, the masculine scents of piney soap and spicy aftershave.

  He devours my mouth and leaves me dizzy, panting for air. His teeth nip and scrape at my lips. His tongue licks deep, skating over mine, a tantalizing preview of how that hot, agile muscle might move over my clit. A vivid promise of the pleasure I could have . . . if I’d only let him give it to me.

  I remember how he moaned my name in the bathroom last night. The memory of those dark, needy noises send another flood of heat through me. Maybe I’m not just another conquest to him; maybe he’s just as powerless in his own way.

  Suddenly, I can’t figure out why I ever hesitated. I had a hot, willing man practically begging to blow my mind. What was the point of denying myself a good time? I arch up, pressing our hips together, and feel a twin flash of hunger and triumph at the long, thick hardness that pokes into my belly.

  Then Noah steps back. All the touch I’m craving—the warm, muscled body and the hot, wet mouth—suddenly just disappears. It takes me a moment to register what happened.

  Still dazed with lust, I blink up at him. “What . . . ?”

  “It’s time to leave. We’re going to be late for work.”

  “Work?” The word comes out as a disappointed whine.

  He grins like he just won the Super Bowl. “You’re the one who set our limits at first base. Although, if you want more, I think the office could survive another hour without us. But you’ll have to ask nicely.”

  As the fog of horniness clears away from my mind, I realize what’s going on here. Oh, you son of a bitch . . .

  Noah was playing with me this whole time. His plan all along was to tease me until I got desperate enough to loosen our agreement’s restrictions. He’s trying to tempt me into admitting that I want to be more than just friends. He thinks he can prove himself right and also get laid—two birds with one stone.

  Well, he can just forget about it. Olivia Cane does not beg. Ever.

  I’m almost more pissed off at myself than him. What the hell was I thinking? Not much, that’s for sure. My libido just totally ripped me out of the driver’s seat. I�
�ve never felt so out of control before. And if I have anything to say about it, this first time will also be the last.

  Damn, my lips still tingle from his kiss. My face burns with embarrassment and the last stubborn traces of arousal.

  Trying to collect myself, I give Noah the dirtiest look I can muster. “You’re the devil.”

  “I’m pretty sure that would make you the queen of hell, then.” He pauses. “Actually, maybe that’s not so inaccurate . . .”

  “Congratulations, smartass, you get to finish the dishes while I put on my makeup.” I turn on my heel and stalk away to the bathroom.

  “As you wish,” he calls down the hall after me.

  I set my jaw, trying to tamp down my irritation and lingering horniness. I know of only one sure way to shut him up. Unfortunately, as I just learned, he would only turn a kiss to his advantage again.

  I can’t forget Noah’s boast about how I’d be begging by Day Four. At first, I thought there was no way I’d give in that easily. But now, only one day later, I’m not so sure.

  Chapter Eleven

  Noah

  When we reach the conference room, it’s filled to capacity with nearly all the office staff in the building. All the seats at the long conference table are taken, and it’s standing room only at the back of the room.

  I see Rosita tucked into the far corner and she gives me a cheerful wave. She wasn’t on the invite for the meeting, but I texted her to be here. There’s no way I could let her miss out on hearing the big news. I know she’s as proud of me as my own mother would have been.

  Olivia’s father is standing at the head of the room, chatting casually with Prescott and the few members of the board who opted to show. I know they’re less than optimistic about the results Olivia and I are promising.

  As we wait for the big announcement to begin, people are talking in small groups. Some chat about the work they’re so passionate about, while others are just making small talk with the workplace friends they’ve developed over the years. These are all the people who’ll lose their jobs if we’re not successful. Real people. With real problems and real lives. And all of that is on the line.