Hitched: Volume One

by Kendall Ryan

  For now, I go into the bathroom and close the door behind me. I don’t lock it . . . just in case there’s a sliver of a chance Olivia changes her mind. I undo my belt and tug down my dress pants just enough to free my aching cock. Then I squirt some of her scented lotion into my palm and begin to stroke myself.

  Her light, feminine scent surrounds me, and the sensations tingling along my spine mean this won’t take long. For the second time this week, I work my big hand up and down my cock, wishing it were her small, delicate hand instead.

  Memories of tonight in the restaurant restroom flash through my mind like an erotic dream. God, she was so ready after just a few minutes of banter and kissing. Her rosy nipples were tightened into little buds, and when I sucked and licked, they pebbled against my tongue. She tasted so sweet and made the best little grunting whimpers I’ve ever heard.

  And then when I slipped my fingers into her panties—I half expected her to tell me to stop, only she didn’t. Instead, she stepped her heeled feet further apart. The tiniest possible movement, but I was so attuned to her, I noticed. She wanted me to touch her. Craved it just as badly as I did. She was warm and wet, sweet, silky perfection. And when I slipped two fingers inside, I almost came right then. Her cunt was so tight, it gripped my fingers and sucked at them, greedy for me to fuck her.

  I shudder at the memory. So perfect. Beautiful. Intelligent. Sexual. She’s the total package.

  A few more long pulls and I come hard with a grunt.

  • • •

  “Are you sure about this?” Olivia asks.

  Her gaze wanders over to the couple dozen partygoers scattered across Rosita’s lawn. People are laughing and chatting in small groups, and upbeat Mexican pop plays from a boom box on the patio. The chain-link fence separates her yard from an auto shop behind her house. A single tree stands tall in the center with a festive piñata hanging from a branch.

  “Of course. This is going to be great. Come on.” I tug her toward Rosita and the birthday girl, Maria.

  I drop down to one knee in front of her. “Wow. Thirty-six today, huh?”

  She shakes her head, her braided pigtails bobbing wildly. “No. I’m seven!” she boasts.

  “Ah, seven. Well, happy birthday.” I give her a wink and she wrinkles her nose. She’s definitely still at the age where boys are gross. “That’s a very pretty dress you have on today.”

  She looks down at her hot-pink dress with decorative tangerine stitching. “Thank you. My mommy made it.” She smiles up at Rosita.

  When I rise to my feet, I give Rosita a hug. “Everything looks great. Thank you for inviting us.”

  “Of course, mi amor. Thank you for coming,” she says to both me and Olivia. It was a one-hour drive to Jersey, but well worth it.

  “Of course,” Olivia echoes, her smile only a little guarded. She’s obviously out of her element here, but trying her best to cope.

  “Please, enjoy yourselves. There’s plenty to eat, and drinks are inside.”

  I survey the picnic table that’s so overloaded, not an inch of tabletop is showing. Empanadas, carne asada, arroz con pollo, a bunch of things I don’t recognize but am game to try, and a beautiful tres leches cake in the center of it all.

  “You made enough to feed an army,” I say with a chuckle.

  “My family has big appetites.” Rosita grins wryly at me.

  I hand my gift bag to Rosita. It has a couple of Spanish chapter books for Maria. I know that keeping her family’s culture alive and ensuring her kids are bilingual is important to Rosita. It’s something she and I have talked about before, and I think it’s damn smart. Anyone who knows two languages will have a leg up in the business world when the time comes.

  “Oh, you didn’t have to bring a gift. Your presence here is enough.”

  I shake my head. “Of course I brought a gift. What birthday party is complete without a big pile of presents?”

  Rosita’s smile falls slightly. “Things are a little tight right now. I made Maria’s gifts myself this year.”

  Oh shit. I meant to make a playful idle comment, not call attention to the small gift pile.

  “Is everything okay?”

  Rosita nods. “With all the uncertainty at work right now, I’m trying to stretch our budget and put something away for savings. Just in case.”

  Her gaze darts between Olivia and me as if she’s looking for answers. With her having six kids, I know her budget didn’t have much wiggle room to begin with.

  I take Rosita’s hands in mine and give them a squeeze. “Everything will be okay, I promise. I’m going to make sure of it.”

  Olivia shifts uncomfortably next to me. Even with all the sexual tension buzzing between us, we still have a job to do. And that’s never been more evident than now.

  “Enough about all that,” Rosita says, strengthening her smile again. “You two go have fun.” She wanders away, heading toward her cousin, who I met at last year’s Christmas party.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask Olivia. The food smells incredible, and Rosita is an amazing cook. I plan on sampling every dish on the table. Maybe twice.

  She nods. “Starving, actually, but I’m not sure.” Her brow creases as she looks over the colorful dishes of steaming food.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She glances around. “I’m just looking for a knife and fork.”

  I realize that she’s wary of spilling food on her expensive blouse.

  “Come on, I’ll help you out. The first time I came here, I bit into a burrito and launched its contents everywhere. It looked like a baby had taken a crap all over my Armani shirt. We couldn’t stop laughing.”

  She looks at me skeptically.

  “Rosita taught me the proper way to fold my burrito. There’s a trick to it. I’ll show you.”

  She nods and follows me to the table.

  We fill our plates with marinated meats, grilled onions, rice, beans, and tortillas. Then we go back for seconds of our favorite dishes. Olivia impresses me with her healthy appetite and adventurous spirit.

  After lunch, we mingle and talk with Rosita’s family and friends. Even though Olivia says she’s enjoying the party—and I believe her—she stays locked by my side all afternoon, attempting polite conversation and smiling nervously. Of all the amazing things she is, “social butterfly” isn’t one of them.

  I can tell she feels out of place in her six-hundred-dollar sandals, silk blouse, and diamond-encrusted wristwatch. I’m still not sure why she didn’t wear something less formal. Or is this the most casual outfit she has in her closet? Maybe she’s just incapable of dressing down; she’s always manicured from head to toe, the epitome of sophisticated beauty. I certainly won’t complain.

  She and I didn’t grow up like this, with casual backyard parties and paper plates and cans of Sauza beer. The high life definitely has its perks, but given the choice between drinking the best Scotch alone and drinking cheap beer amid friendly laughter, I’ll choose this warm sense of family every time.

  Later, when the dancing breaks out, I guide Olivia toward the house.

  “Now we need some Cuba libres.” I head inside, keeping one hand on her lower back to reassure her that I won’t leave her to fend for herself.

  “Isn’t that just rum and Coke?” she asks, skeptical.

  “Yes, but it’s Mexican Coke, made with real sugar, not that fake corn syrup shit, and the rum . . . Hell, wait until you taste this.”

  I fill two cups with ice and then the rum-and-Coke mixture Rosita has premixed in a large pitcher.

  “Mmm.” Olivia moans as she swallows her first fizzy sip.

  “Cheers.” I gaze down at her and touch the rim of my glass to hers.

  “To?” she asks.

  “Us,” I say, my eyes lingering on hers.

  “Noah . . .” She chews on her lower lip. “You know this might not even work, right?” Her tone is somber.

  “Like hell it won’t. In fact, we really need to get engaged soon.”


  Maybe it’s because I’m feeling jovial and slightly buzzed, but I stand my ground, my eyes still lingering on hers. I’ve wondered what kind of proposal I’ll plan—just a matter-of-fact business meeting where we agree on the terms, or a romantic down-on-one-knee affair where I promise to make this the best I can for her.

  Olivia looks down at the floor. “I’m just not ready for that yet.”

  “I sensed that . . . but you could try.” I lean even closer, letting her feel the heat from my body, my height towering over her.

  “Try?”

  “Yes, try.”

  “And how would you propose I do that?” She’s trying her best to sound confident, but her tone has gone shaky.

  Feeling bold, I grin at her. “You pulled away last night. You could kiss me, touch me, open up to me, make love to me.”

  “What, right here?” Her voice rises and her brows pinch together.

  “I’d settle for a kiss.”

  “I’ve done that before, or have you forgotten?”

  “Forgotten? Snowflake, I jack off regularly to the memory.”

  Her cheeks go bright pink. “Be serious, would you?”

  “I am being serious. Does it make you uncomfortable to know that at night, in the dark, I pump my hard cock to thoughts of your sassy attitude, smart mouth, and gorgeous tits?”

  Her mouth falls open. Her cheeks are full-on flaming now.

  I press on. “One kiss. Hell, you may even end up having fun today.” I’m teasing her because I can tell that even though she was tense and awkward when we arrived, she’s enjoyed herself today. She just needed a little time to feel at home.

  Placing one hand on her waist, I pull her a fraction closer.

  Her breathing grows shallow and her lips part, whether in surprise or because she’s readying herself for my kiss, I’m not sure.

  I lower my mouth to hers, feeling the warmth of her breath ghost over my lips, my cock beginning to swell, when a loud shriek pierces the silence.

  “Bee sting. Coming through,” Rosita calls, carrying a crying birthday girl through the kitchen.

  Stepping away from Olivia, I clear off a space on the counter. “Set her here.”

  Tears leak from Maria’s eyes as quiet sobs rack her chest.

  “Shh. I’ll make you good as new, princess,” I tell Maria.

  Olivia and Rosita gather first aid supplies while I distract Maria with a story of the time I wandered into a beehive. Olivia watches me work with a quiet, contemplative gaze, and I can’t help but wonder if she would have let me kiss her.

  Bringing her here today was no mistake. It goes without saying that people like Rosita and this little girl are one of the main reasons why Olivia and I have to pull this off.

  We have to.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Olivia

  Dear God, watching Noah with Rosita, and even more so, with little Maria? It was ovary-melting.

  I need to keep my cool. Because otherwise? I could easily see myself losing my head over this man.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Noah

  Olivia is always so put together, well dressed in tailored skirts and blouses, manicured from head to toe. It only makes me want to muss her all up and get her dirty. I act like I don’t notice her in her business apparel, but of course it affects me. I’m only a man. A man who’s apparently taken a vow of celibacy since we began faux-dating, or whatever it is we’re doing.

  God, what are we doing? Any normal Friday night, I’d be out with Sterling chasing tail. Instead I’m sitting at home in sweatpants with a beer and my tablet, doing things I never get to do—like looking up genealogy about my family ancestry and reading random articles on CNN. It’s pleasantly relaxing.

  But having Olivia here, in my personal space, in our shared space all the time is getting distractingly difficult. Like right now, she’s perched in a dining chair, legs folded underneath her, a pair of square black-framed glasses balanced on her delicate nose as she stares at her laptop.

  It’s fucking adorable. She always wears her contacts, and I’ve rarely seen her like this. It feels good to know that she’s comfortable enough to let her guard down with me.

  And the fitted Henley that hugs her curves, with its little buttons dotting her chest between her breasts? Don’t get me started on those little buttons. I want to undo every last one, bare her to me and nibble my way from one round, perky breast to the other.

  “What should we do for dinner, Snowflake?” I call into the dining room where she’s busy typing away on her laptop.

  “Hmm?” she asks, her gaze taking a moment to drift over to mine.

  “It’s seven,” I tell her.

  “Oh, well, don’t feel like you have to stay in and cater to me. You can go out or whatever.”

  She chews on her lip as she says this, though, and something in me knows she’d be out of sorts if I went out without her. Hell, I’d feel the same way. There’s a certain peace that comes with working hard with her all week, and now relaxing together.

  “I’m in my pajamas. I’m not going out.” I chuckle at her.

  “Right.” She gives me a sly look. “So . . . pizza?”

  She normally eats so healthy, and I do too, for that matter, but I like that she doesn’t mind cheating and enjoying something just because.

  “Hmm, I don’t know.” I rub my chin. “I think that’s the true test of a marriage—can you both agree on the same pizza toppings.”

  “Okay.” She motions for me to go ahead. “You first.”

  I shake my head. “Same time.”

  Our gazes lock and she opens her mouth. “Ar—” she starts.

  “Artichoke,” I say.

  She grins at me. “Exactly.”

  “And maybe sausage?”

  She chuckles. “Sure. Why not? Variety is the spice of life.”

  Maybe that’s what marriage is all about—not being the same on every point, but learning to compromise.

  I coax her away from her computer when the pizza arrives, waving the warm pie and two bottles of cold beer in front of her.

  “Dear God, this is good,” she says moments later, moaning around a slice of New York-style pizza.

  I nod in agreement. Who knew? Artichokes aren’t half bad.

  “Here.” I hand her a napkin for the smear of sauce on her lower lip.

  “Did I get it?” she asks.

  “Sure did.”

  We each enjoy a second slice and the comfortable silence that’s settled between us. When we’re through, I take the plates into the kitchen and return to the living room. Olivia licks her thumb, leaning back against the couch.

  I study her in the way an artist studies his muse. All this time, I keep looking for signs, keep wondering if this could actually work, and while I’m not any closer to an answer, something new has taken shape. I like being near her. I look forward to our time together.

  Before I get all fucking mushy, I decide to change the topic to something lighter.

  “So . . .” I lean in closer. “This trial period, making out with me, all of it. What are your thoughts so far?”

  “Objectively speaking?” she asks, her mouth twitching.

  “Of course. I’d like to gauge my performance so far as a fake boyfriend.”

  “It hasn’t been as bad as I would have imagined.” Her voice is soft, and she’s looking down at her hands.

  Camryn’s words about Olivia always wanting more—to fall dramatically in love and be swept off her feet—ring loudly in my head. I might not be able to give her everything, but I know I can be a good co-CEO, a good friend, and a good lover. If she’ll let me.

  Maybe that’s not enough, but it’s what I have to offer.

  “Come here,” I murmur, drawing her over onto my lap.

  Olivia obeys, straddling my thighs, and places her center right in line with my very interested and semi-erect cock.

  I wonder if she’s still processing my words from the birthday party—when I asked her to
try.

  “Closer.”

  She scoots forward until our lips are inches apart and her warm center is flush with my groin.

  I lean in and take her mouth, starting out softly at first so as to not scare my timid princess away. Her lips part for me and I take my time, exploring her mouth with my tongue, sucking on her lips and nibbling lightly.

  Olivia’s tiny moan of satisfaction makes my pride swell, as well as other things. Growing bold, she circles her hips, and I plant both hands on her waist, urging her to grind down on me. She does—harder this time—and I grunt as my now fully hard shaft is treated to her warm friction.

  Tearing my mouth away from hers, I gaze down at her. Those little glasses perched on her nose, her chest flushed and heaving, and those tempting buttons straining over her breasts. She’s beautiful like this.

  “What is it?” she asks, slightly breathless. “Why’d you stop?”

  “I was just thinking. Maybe I can be of service.”

  She squints her eyes. “Meaning?”

  I grip her hips and settle her right over the firm ridge in my pants. “If you’d like to ride this, work out all that frustration from work as you lift and lower yourself on my cock, I’d be game.”

  “Would you now?” Her tone is light, teasing.

  I shrug. “I’d volunteer as tribute.”

  She laughs, deep and throaty, and it’s wonderful.

  “And have you win our bet? No way.” She shakes her head.

  “Okay then, let’s call a spade a spade, because we already broke that first-base rule when I had my fingers in your—delicate flower—at the restaurant.”

  “You think my flower is delicate?”

  “I do, actually. I think despite that tough-girl act you put on that you’re actually sweet and tender and soft on the inside.”

  Her cheeks grow pink and she looks down.

  “You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, right?”