Hitched (Imperfect Love Book 1) (7 page)

Olivia

I let Noah take the bathroom to brush his teeth first. We haven’t yet reached the level of familiarity required for me to watch another human being spit into the sink. Meanwhile, I take the bedroom to change into my favorite fleecy pajamas.

When I emerge, Noah is leaning against the wall outside the bathroom door. He cocks his head with an amused smile that stops me in my tracks.

“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. Right 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.