Packaged Husband (Trophy Husbands, #3)

by Noelle Adams

  He moves my hair out of my face so he can see my expression. “Are you going to come again?”

  “Yeah. Oh yeah. Oh God!” The words are barely more than gasps, but they burst out of my throat. My whole body is shaking wildly as the tension finally breaks.

  He keeps thrusting through the spasms, extending their duration. I’m limp and scorching hot, sprawled out over the table, as my body starts to relax.

  I’ve barely caught my breath before Owen pulls out again and turns me around. I let him move me because my body is so sated and pliant, and he positions me so I’m facing him. I wrap my arms and legs around him as he enters me again.

  “Shit, you’re so tight.” I love the hoarse rasp of his voice just at my ear.

  I’m clinging to him tightly. With everything. “Well, I just had two really good orgasms.”

  “I know. I saw them. It was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.”

  I giggle and hide my face against his shirt. “Me too.”

  I’m telling him the absolute truth, and I feel him tense up as I say the words. “Yeah?”

  “Oh yeah,” I say, bringing his face down so I can kiss him.

  We kiss deep and wet as he starts to rock against me, but soon we lose the coordination to sustain the kiss. His motion is less controlled now. More urgent. Less rhythmic.

  I know he’s going to come this time, and I want to see and feel him.

  I’m feeling kind of raw, and I don’t have the energy for another orgasm. So I don’t even try. I hold on to him, move with him, and focus on how his body is getting tenser and tenser.

  “That’s right,” I breathe. “You come this time. I want to see you let go.”

  “I... I am. I will.”

  “Yes, Owen. Let go.”

  He’s shaking and panting and straining in my arms. His handsome face is contorted with effort.

  “Oh God, Owen. I want you to come.”

  “I—fuck!” He freezes for just a second before his body jerks through the spasms of his release. I feel him coming inside me as his hips keep making helpless little pumps.

  Both of us are panting desperately when he’s finally ridden out his release. We’re tangled up together, me propped on the edge of the kitchen table. I’m completely naked, and he’s still halfway dressed.

  And it was the best sex I’ve ever had.

  Neither of us says anything for a long time until the silence starts to make me nervous.

  I’m not sure how he’s going to react. Last time we had sex he hurt my feelings without intending to.

  I don’t want him to do it again.

  So I finally say in a teasing voice, “Well, I guess that’s one way to celebrate our success.”

  He’s still panting against my neck. “I guess it is.”

  “I picked up dinner and chilled some champagne, so we can keep celebrating.”

  His body has softened against mine. I can feel how relaxed he is now, and I love it. He’s smiling as he straightens up and pulls away. “Sounds good to me.”

  Seven

  A FEW HOURS LATER, I’m lounging on the couch with my feet in Owen’s lap.

  After we ate dinner, I changed into cute dusky rose pajamas, and we went to the living room to watch TV and finish the bottle of champagne.

  I’m not sure exactly how much I’ve drunk. Owen kept topping off my glass until he emptied the bottle about a half hour ago. I’ve just taken the last sip from my glass. I’m warm and full and satisfied and comfortable, and I’m feeling no pain.

  Owen is idly rubbing my feet over the thick socks I put on with my pajamas, and it’s the perfect end to this evening.

  At some point I closed my eyes to enjoy the satisfaction of my body, but I’m not asleep.

  I don’t want to go to sleep and miss out on my foot massage.

  “Are you awake?” Owen asks after a vague, blurry stretch of time.

  “Yes.”

  “The episode ended. Do you want to watch another?” We found an old show that both of us like but haven’t seen for a long time on a streaming service.

  “I don’t want to move.”

  “You don’t have to move. I can start another episode.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost midnight.”

  “If you start another episode, I might go to sleep.” My eyes are still closed, and my feet are still firmly planted on his lap. He’s stopped rubbing the one he was working on, so I wiggle my toes to remind him.

  “Why would that be a problem?”

  “Because then I’d miss out on the foot rub.”

  He chuckles softly. “That is a predicament.”

  “And I don’t want to walk all the way upstairs to bed.”

  “You can sleep down here if you want.”

  I open one eye to peek at his face. “In your bed?” My mind is too fuzzy to read his expression very well. All I can see on his face is warm leisure.

  “If you want.”

  “And we can maybe have sex again?” I hear the words as I say them, and I realize I’ve drunk more than I knew. But I’m in that tipsy state where I recognize it but just can’t bring myself to care.

  “How drunk are you?”

  “Not too drunk.” I find the energy to sit up and crawl over toward him in what’s supposed to be a sexy move. “Do you not want to have sex with me when I’m like this?”

  “Chelsea, I want to have sex with you all the time.” He’s holding my shoulders, so I can’t rub up against him the way I was planning.

  I’m so surprised my voice squeaks. “Really?”

  “Of course. But I don’t want to have sex with you unless you know what you’re doing.”

  “I know.” Since he won’t let me rub my body against him, I rub my palms up and down his chest over the T-shirt he changed into earlier. “I’m feeling good right now, and I want to feel even better. I want to sleep in your bed.”

  His body feels tight in a really nice way. His voice is slightly hoarse as he murmurs, “Then you can.”

  I don’t remember a lot of details after that. I know I get off the couch and ask him to go upstairs to get my toothbrush (since I don’t want to walk all the way upstairs myself). And I know I make it into the big bed in his room.

  We don’t have sex though. I’m sure of that.

  I brush my teeth and crawl into bed to wait for him to get ready and come join me. But by the time he makes it under the covers with me, it’s too late.

  I’m already asleep.

  THE NEXT MORNING IS Saturday, which is a good thing because I wake up with a fuzzy mind and a headache. It’s after nine, and it feels strange to wake up in Owen’s bed.

  Even stranger to barely remember him getting into bed with me.

  I feel young and kind of stupid as I get up, go to the bathroom, and walk out to see if Owen is around.

  He’s in his recliner in the living room with his laptop on his thighs and a cup of coffee on the table beside him. He’s still wearing the T-shirt and pajama pants he was wearing yesterday evening. “Morning.”

  “Hi.” I head for the coffeepot.

  “How are you feeling this morning?” He looks and sounds perfectly normal.

  “Like I drank too much.”

  “I had too much too, but I think you must have had more than I did.”

  “I did.” I wait for the brewer as it hisses and starts streaming out hot coffee. I prefer the french press but have no time or patience for that this morning. “Why did I drink so much?”

  “Do you feel really bad?”

  “Just a headache.” When my cup is full, I bring it over and slump onto the couch. “Sorry about last night.”

  His expression is perfectly composed, but his eyebrows draw together just a little. “What are you sorry for?”

  “For going to sleep. Weren’t we supposed to have sex again?”

  He gives a huff of amusement. “You’d said you wanted to, but I knew there was only about a fifty percent chance you’d be
up for it.”

  So that makes me feel stupider than ever. Younger. Like I’m a silly college student who can’t hold her alcohol, and he’s way too mature for me. “Sorry,” I mumble, wishing I could go back in time and start yesterday again.

  That’s not true.

  Yesterday was really good.

  And I love everything about it until the very end.

  “You don’t have to be sorry, Chelsea. Believe it or not, I’m not some selfish horndog who’s going to pout about something like that.”

  “I know you’re not.”

  He’s holding my gaze now, like he’s trying to read my mind. “We’d already had really hot sex. I was pretty happy with that.”

  “You were?”

  His eyes widen. “Of course I was. Were you... not happy about it?”

  “Yes, I was happy! It was... It was amazing. I just feel stupid for drinking too much.” I’m starting to feel better since Owen appears entirely sincere.

  “Well, don’t. Why would I care about that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He shakes his head and smiles at me. “I liked last night. All of it.”

  “Even me falling asleep before we could do anything?”

  He laughs. “Even that.”

  I’m feeling a lot better now. “Well, maybe we can try again tonight. I’m sure my headache will be gone by then.”

  His smile fades as he studies me. “You’re serious?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be serious?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t think you’d want to...”

  “You didn’t think I’d want to what? Have sex with you again? Are you for real? I told you it was amazing. Why wouldn’t I want to have it again?”

  I hadn’t realized he was tense before, but I see a tension in his shoulders relax. It’s almost imperceptible, but I catch it and it tells me something.

  “All right.” A little smile plays around the corners of his mouth as he turns back to his laptop. “We’ll try it again tonight then.”

  THAT EVENING, MY HEADACHE isn’t quite gone.

  This surprises me because I’ve drunk gallons of water today trying to get rid of it. The truth is I’m tired and heavy all day, and it’s not until I’m taking a shower in the evening that I realize why.

  I’ve lost track of the days of this month, but my body hasn’t.

  I’ve got cramps. My period hasn’t started yet, but it’s going to soon.

  And I’m supposed to have sex with Owen again tonight.

  I take some ibuprofen as soon as I get out of the shower, and then I put on a pretty black chemise that looks soft and sexy but not over the top.

  My period be damned. I’m having sex tonight anyway. Since it hasn’t started yet, we’ll probably be okay even if Owen is squeamish about it.

  I go downstairs to his room to discover that he’s in the shower. I’ve got nothing to do, and my cramps are getting worse, so I lie down on the bed to wait for him.

  Five minutes later, I hear the shower turn off, and Owen comes out a minute later with a towel wrapped around his waist.

  “Hi,” he says with a smile when he sees me.

  “Hi.” I need to sit up, stand up, try to look and act sexy. But I can’t make my body move. I do manage a smile.

  His face changes. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  Sit up. Sit up. Sit up!

  It takes way too much effort, but I haul myself up and swing my legs over the side of the mattress. I cross my arms across my lower stomach.

  “Chelsea, what the hell? Are you sick?” He’s come over to the bed and is looming over me with a mild scowl. His body is slightly damp—toned and solid and masculine.

  “I’m not sick,” I admit, slumping back onto the mattress with a groan. “I just have cramps. Period cramps.”

  “Oh.”

  “They’re not too bad. And I haven’t started yet, so we can still have sex if you—”

  “For God’s sake, Chelsea. Why do you always assume I’m going to be a selfish asshole? We aren’t going to have sex if you aren’t feeling good.”

  “I know you’re not a selfish asshole.” I turn onto my side, feeling like huddling in on myself. I hate the feeling, but there’s nothing I can do about it. “Maybe we can try it again when I’m feeling better.”

  “Definitely.” He stands looking down on me for another minute. “Do you need anything?”

  “No. I already took some Advil.”

  He walks over to pick up the soft throw from the bottom of the bed. He comes over and drapes it over me. “You sure you don’t need anything else?”

  “I’m really okay. They’re just cramps. Happens every month.”

  “I don’t remember you feeling bad last month.”

  “Oh. I did. But I usually take ibuprofen earlier so the cramps don’t get so bad. I really don’t have them as bad as a lot of women. It’s just the first day that I feel bad. I can go upstairs and sleep in my room.”

  “You don’t have to go upstairs. Just sleep in my bed tonight.”

  “I’ll need to go upstairs soon anyway.”

  “Why?”

  He’s being so sweet and just a little clueless. It’s really quite adorable. “I’ll need to use my... feminine products.”

  “Oh.” He pauses for a minute. “I can get them for you.”

  “Owen, you really don’t have to—”

  “Where are they?”

  “Under the sink.”

  I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. But he’s leaving the room, going upstairs, getting my box of tampons.

  When he comes back, I haul myself off the bed and go to the bathroom. He’s still lingering in the bedroom when I come back.

  “You need anything else?” he asks.

  He’s so incredibly sweet. I can’t help but step over and brush one of his cheeks with my fingertips. “I’m fine. I’m just going to go to bed. So unless you want to provide a heating pad and a back rub, then—”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Owen, I was just joking!” I call out the words to his back, but he doesn’t turn.

  I really was joking when I said it. Never in my wildest dreams would I think he’d take me seriously.

  But I should have known better. This is Owen.

  And he’s always taken me seriously.

  He’s the only man who ever has.

  I’ve gotten under the covers by the time he comes back. He’s holding a large heating pad—the kind that goes in the microwave—with a soft blue cover.

  “You really didn’t have to do that,” I tell him as he brings it over to me. “I promise I’m not dying or anything.”

  “I know. But if it will help, then why shouldn’t I get it for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He goes back into the bathroom, closing the door. I hear the toilet flush before he comes out.

  He turns off the lights and crawls in bed beside me. “Did you want a back rub?”

  I’ve been lying on my back with the heating pad on my lower stomach. “Not really. You’ve already done enough.”

  “I can—”

  “I’m good, Owen. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. You don’t have to thank me again.”

  I’m strangely embarrassed and don’t know why. I turn onto my side, facing away from him and holding the heating pad in place.

  To my surprise, after a minute, he scoots over and spoons me from behind.

  “Oh my God, Owen,” I whisper, snuggling back against him despite myself.

  “Is this annoying?”

  “No! It’s not annoying. It’s... it’s... really nice.”

  It is. I still have cramps, but I feel better than I could have expected. The pills will start to help soon. The heat is already helping.

  And Owen is taking care of me.

  “It’s kind of nice to have a husband, if he does sweet things for me like this,” I say after a minu
te.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ve had boyfriends, haven’t you?”

  “Sure. But they’ve never done anything like this.”

  “Really?” He sounds vaguely appalled. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I think most of them were selfish assholes.”

  “Why did you date them then?”

  “I don’t know. I thought I liked them. I thought they were sexy. But most of them were jerks.” I turn my head to smile at him over my shoulder. His face is very close. “None of them were like you.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. I’m not exactly your type.”

  “No. You’re not. But you’re a good type.”

  He chuckles—barely a breath. “You think so?”

  “Yeah.” I’ve closed my eyes, and I’m starting to relax. I think I might be able to go to sleep early tonight. “I think so.”

  “I think you’re a pretty good type too.”

  FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, I sleep in Owen’s room every night.

  We never actually had a discussion about my sleeping there every night, but it happened anyway. On Sunday evening, after we come home from Pop’s, Owen goes to get the heating pad for me again, and I just stay in his bed for the rest of the night. (I don’t tell him that my cramps really aren’t bad anymore.) The following night, he casually asks if I want to sleep in his room again, and I say, “Sure. Why not?”

  After that, he just assumes I will.

  On Friday evening, I’ve slept with him five nights in a row, and we haven’t actually had sex.

  He hasn’t made a move on me, and I feel kind of weird about bringing it up.

  Maybe he thinks I’m still having my period. (I’m not.)

  Or maybe he’s just not that interested, despite what he said.

  Surely if he wants to have sex again, he’ll say something or make a move.

  Won’t he?

  I’m mulling over this question as I’m getting ready for bed on Friday night. It’s come up specifically because I’m trying to decide what to put on.

  I could put on comfortable pajamas that are cute but not sexy.

  Or I could put on something better.

  I’ve got some genuinely sexy lingerie, but I only wear it if I know I’m having sex. I don’t actually want to sleep in it, and I’ll feel pretty stupid going downstairs in it if Owen doesn’t already have sex on his mind.