Hitched: Volume Three Page 6

  By the time I hear Noah coming down the hall, I’ve already typed out a press release and fired it off to the New York Times. Boom! I pump my fist in the air, feeling giddy with the surprise attack I’m about to unleash on the business world.

  Noah steps inside my office without knocking. “What the hell is going on? You said you had an idea?” He doesn’t need to add, It better be a fucking fantastic one to drag me into work on a Sunday evening. He must have dropped everything to hurry straight here—he’s wearing jeans and an old T-shirt, his hair disheveled.

  “I do. I’ve already sent out a press release.” I take a deep breath to ease the fluttering in my stomach. “Picture it—we’re going to throw the biggest, best gala New York City has ever seen. We’ll invite all the corporate bigwigs from firms we’ve wanted to woo, but didn’t know how to snag meetings with. We’ll show a brief presentation at the start—no more than ten minutes—just a few bold, hard-hitting, buzz-worthy clips of our company in action, the results we’ve achieved for our clients . . .” I wave my hand. “And then we mingle.”

  Noah is still standing in the doorway, squinting at me like he can’t quite parse my words. “So you’re saying . . . we’re going to throw a party?” he asks skeptically. “This is the grand plan I put on pants and hauled ass halfway across the city for?” His tone is serious, but his smirk tells me he’s not actually mad. I’ve found there’s very little he wouldn’t do for me.

  I nod eagerly. “Exactly. It’ll solve everything.”

  “You’re going to have to convince me.”

  Unable to sit still any longer, I jump up and start pacing the narrow space between the wall and my desk. “How many times have you been to a conference or whatever, and by the end, you’ve seen so many presentations you can’t even remember who was promoting what, because they were all abstract and boring and nearly identical? If we want people to remember us, we have to be memorable. Which means being fresh and different—and being fun. This party will make Tate & Cane stand out in their minds and will create a psychological association between us and all sorts of positive feelings.”

  Noah sits down in the chair in front of my desk, as if he’s a client I’m pitching to—which I guess he kind of is. “I get what you’re saying, but it still seems all very fuzzy and touchy-feely. It’s hardly a guaranteed solution.”

  “I know this party idea isn’t money in the bank, but I’m not just spitballing here, either. Storytelling is a well-proven branding strategy.”

  “For content marketing, yeah, but—”

  “When clients contract with us, they’re not just purchasing our services—they’re buying into the idea of us as people, on a personal level. Our charisma or our character or whatever. It’s not necessarily wise or rational, but it’s human nature. We’re social, emotional creatures . . . we value relationships and narratives and ‘gut feelings’ very highly, even when we don’t consciously know we’re doing it.”

  And I learned the importance of this idea from Noah himself. I almost have to laugh when the irony of my words hits me. We’ve had so many arguments about business just like this, but on opposite sides of the table. If only briefly, I’ve turned into Noah, the optimistic, intuitive social butterfly, and he’s turned into me, the practical, analytical worrywart.

  “Instead of just drowning people in dry numbers,” I say, “which is hard to pay attention to and even harder to remember, we give Tate & Cane a face they can identify with. We show off our business by showing off ourselves. The two new young CEOs who are ready to think outside the box and push boundaries. People eat up that kind of story with a spoon!”

  As I grin at Noah, his own lips start to quirk up. “Okay, okay . . . maybe you’re on to something here.”

  I cross my arms and cock my head, pretending to be insulted. “Just maybe? Please, do try to curb your enthusiasm.”

  He chuckles. “Fine, Snowflake, it’s a fucking fantastic idea. When did you tell the press this party was going to be?”

  “Next Saturday night.”

  “That soon? Damn, we’ve got our work cut out for us.” But Noah is still smiling. Evidently my excitement is contagious. “I guess we should get started.” He rubs his hands together and gives me the broad grin I’ve been waiting for since he arrived.

  “Right now?” I assumed he’d want to get back to whatever he was doing at home.

  “What better time?” He pauses to look at his watch. “Actually, let’s get some dinner first.”

  My stomach growls in agreement and we both laugh. I forgot that I haven’t eaten since breakfast, before I left for the spa. Speaking of which . . .

  “Thank you for the spa package. It was perfect. Really, thank you.”

  He nods. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

  We debate between ordering pizza or Chinese, call the latter, and break into our delivery boxes at the long oak table in one of the conference rooms. As we wolf down our egg rolls and chow mein noodles, Noah asks, “Does your dad still keep a bottle of Scotch in his desk drawer for clients?”

  I swallow my mouthful of rice. “Yeah. Why?” At Noah’s smirk, I shake my head. “Oh, hell no. We’re not getting drunk . . .” But then I stop. Because, really, why not? I’m in a celebratory mood, and one drink with dinner won’t kill me.

  “Come on, one drink. Two tops,” Noah says with an airy wave of his hand. “We’ll buy him a replacement bottle. He probably won’t even notice anything different.”

  “We’re breaking into Dad’s liquor stash like a couple of teenagers.”

  “Yeah, isn’t it nostalgic? I don’t think we’ve done that since I was . . . a junior?”

  I chuckle even as I roll my eyes. “Sure, let’s have a toast. I think we’ve earned it.”

  “Hell yes, that’s the spirit.” Noah gets up. “I’ll be right back.”

  A few minutes later, he returns with a squat crystal bottle of honey-colored whiskey, about half full, and two tumblers.

  “Sorry there’s no ice,” he says as he pours our drinks. “We’ll just have to take them neat, I guess.”

  I’m not much of a hard-liquor drinker, but I shrug. “Whatever. I’m sure I’ll survive.”

  I scoot my brimming glass closer, bend low to the table to take a sip—then immediately start coughing. Oh God, I spoke too soon about the “surviving” part. It’s like inhaling fresh hot smoke, with the way it burns on the way down. Ugh . . . people drink this stuff willingly?

  Noah laughs at me and I give him the evil eye, but soon I’m giggling too.

  He tastes his own and gives a little lip-smacking sigh of satisfaction. “Damn, that’s good.”

  “How can you drink that?” I say with a grimace.

  “It’s an acquired taste . . . just like you.” He dodges my playful swat.

  As we polish off our Chinese dinner, we toss around party plans including theme, catering, decorations, and guests. One shot of Scotch somehow becomes two, then three. Turns out it goes down easier the more you have.

  Even though we both still don’t know where we stand with each other, the mood is jubilant. My flash of inspiration, and the optimism it brings, is too strong to be undercut by any relationship awkwardness. I’m even more drunk on hope than I am on Dad’s whiskey.

  I stand up to throw away my empty takeout box and the room sways a little. Okay, maybe hope and whiskey are about equal by now.

  “Whoa, there,” Noah says, rising to his feet. He reaches out to steady me with a hand on my hip.

  I turn . . . and find myself far closer than I expected. If I took even one step forward, I would be in his arms. The mood changes from one of business to a sultry encounter between two old lovers swamped by sexual attraction and history.

  “You okay?” His voice is low and smooth, just as intoxicating as the liquor.

  “Y-yeah,” I reply, suddenly even more light-headed. “You?”

  Why did I say that last thing? I must be a lot more drunk than I thought. But Noah answers with a serious tone and
only a slight smile, as if my question made perfect sense.

  “I’m feeling pretty good right now.” He pauses, then adds, “But I could be better.”

  Somehow, without noticing, I’ve leaned closer. Or was I always this close, and just never noticed the tickle of his breath on my lips? I inhale his familiar spicy scent and feel my knees weaken again.

  “H-how do you mean?” I ask.

  “That depends on you,” he replies. Then he hesitates again. He traces his thumb over my lower lip. “It’s nice to see you smiling. I . . . missed you.”

  Closer again. The atmosphere in the conference room, once happy and uncomplicated, holds its breath as we gaze at each other. Noah’s dark eyes are solemn. But if I look deep into them, I can see something smoldering. For me.

  I can’t tell who moves first, me or him. Closing the distance feels as natural and inevitable as falling. All I know is that his lips feel warm and soft and so good, so right against mine. I open up and hear him sigh as our tongues tangle together.

  “Missed you,” I hear him murmur again against my mouth. “So much, Snowflake.”

  Our kiss soon deepens, urgent and wild. The heat of his hands all over me—my breasts, my ass, my thighs, seemingly everywhere at once—burns right through the fabric of my clothes. I’m softening like taffy, melting and melding into him. I suddenly realize that the longer I avoided this, the more explosive it was bound to be when we rekindled.

  The back of my legs hit the conference table. I lose my balance and sit down with an ungraceful thump. Without breaking our kiss, Noah slides between my parted knees, pushing my cotton skirt up to press his whole body against me hungrily, as if he can’t get enough contact. We fit together perfectly, chest to chest, the hard length of his cock insistent on my belly. When he lifts my legs to haul me even closer, my calves wrap around his angular hips automatically, even before my squeak of surprise escapes my lips.

  His mouth descends again, coaxing my lips to part as he strokes his tongue so skillfully against mine. His warm palms massage my breasts and I reach down between us, flicking open the button on his jeans. And then he’s in my hands, and I take pleasure in each stroke, every labored breath, every moan I draw from this big, sexy man—evidence that he’s mine and mine alone. Nobody else can make him react like this. His cock is warm, steely, and I massage every inch of it, delicately rubbing the hot drop of fluid that’s leaked out over the tip.

  “Snowflake, I . . .” Noah’s voice is tight with need. But he doesn’t have to ask, doesn’t have to say anything else. I need this too.

  I wriggle back, just far enough away to snag my purse with one hand and drag it over the table to me. I take out the foil packet hidden in my wallet. His eyes widen at the sight. But neither of us speaks; the silence is deafening as I tear open the condom.

  He pushes his jeans and boxers the rest of the way down his hips. I roll the condom over his cock. We barely dare to look at each other. This moment floats as light and as fragile as a soap bubble; the touch of reality would burst it instantly. One careless comment, one reminder of our unpleasant situation, and we’ll come crashing back down to earth.

  But it’s obvious that we’re both thinking about the condom. Such a small thing, so heavy with significance now. A minefield of uncomfortable, unresolved questions still stretches between us, my own emotions reflected in Noah’s hesitant expression. What does this mean in the long run? Are we okay again? Am I okay? Or will tonight be the last time we ever touch?

  I can’t bear to answer those questions yet. I just want Noah. I don’t want to think about why I want him, or whether I trust him, or what the future holds. In this moment, I know he’s my everything.

  I pull aside the dampened crotch of my silk panties. Unprompted, he guides himself into me, pausing when I hiss through my teeth, and slowly pushes forward when I roll my hips in impatience. Inch by hot, thick inch, he fills me, taking away the empty space between us. And then his mouth descends on mine, our kiss hungrier and fierier than ever before.

  Words are too heavy and too light, too sharp and too blunt, all at the same time. The low, breathy sounds of pleasure are all the communication we need, anyway. So I push all other unpleasant thoughts away and enjoy this, enjoy him. The sensation of skin on skin dissolves the past and future, leaving only the present. My whole world shrinks down to the sensation of his thick length parting me, of hot breath and hotter friction.

  “Noah.” I gasp when he reaches between us to rub my exposed clit in gentle circles.

  “I know.” He grunts, still buried to the hilt. “So perfect. Me and you.”

  And he’s right. It is.

  I flex my inner muscles around him and he groans.

  Our gasps and moans wordlessly guide us toward bliss as we writhe together. Soon Noah is slamming into me, giving me every hard inch of himself, the soft sounds of wet flesh slapping so erotic and forbidden in the dim, silent office.

  My toes curl and I clench around his girth with every thrust. I abandon everything and let myself fall into him—Noah Tate, my husband, my rival, my betrayer, my partner. This walking contradiction, the one man I can’t seem to stay away from, who makes my emotions simultaneously so confusing and so clear.

  Tomorrow morning, I should come back to this hot, tender memory and try to figure out what it means. Maybe I will. Or maybe I’ll tell myself it was all a dream.

  For now, though, I don’t ask questions. I just feel.

  Chapter Eight

  Noah

  Watching Olivia work the room is incredible. Everything we’ve worked so hard for over the last few months has led us to this very moment.

  “Hanging in there?” she asks, stealing a moment away from the crowd trying to garner her attention. Lifting onto her tiptoes in her already sky-high heels, she presses a quick peck to my cheek.

  Ever since our erotic encounter in the conference room last weekend, things have been good. Not great, but good. She’s been polite and chatty at home, and while we haven’t totally made up—or had sex again, for that matter—things have felt okay. Like we’re moving in a positive direction, even if it’s only by an inch at a time.

  It’s safe to say that the party Olivia dreamed up is a smashing success. Tate & Cane has delivered—big fucking time. We’re winning over everyone from the tired old CEOs to the young, hungry marketing execs ready for the next big thing. I’m practically beaming with pride for my gorgeous wife. I’m trying to keep my optimism cautious, but damn, it’s impossible not to get caught up in the moment.

  “This is amazing, baby.” Giving her waist a squeeze, I return her chaste kiss on the cheek. I won’t cross the line and show her too much affection, because I know this isn’t the time or place and it would only make her uncomfortable, but I can’t resist taking a moment to let her know how much her sweet gesture means. We’ve worked hard to get here, and while I’m still not sure what the future holds for us, this is a huge step in the right direction.

  The look in her eyes is tender, and there’s a small smile on her lips. “I’ll check in with you again later.”

  For the most part, we’ve divided and conquered. I’ve hardly spoken three words to her all evening, but I’ve kept her in my line of vision, and she’s never been far from my thoughts. I watch her blend back into the crowd. With her simple black slacks and emerald-green silk blouse, she looks stunning. Professional, but more casual than usual, which fits the mood perfectly.

  This is no boring business meeting, nor is it the politically correct, awkward, boring “work outing” that everyone silently dreads. We have fucking Beyoncé performing. Okay, so she’s not Beyoncé, but the girl is gorgeous and fiery and she can sing her ass off. The atmosphere is casual and chill. And the waiters aren’t serving chilled champagne, they’re serving cucumber cocktails strong enough to put a smile on the lips of even the stuffiest company leaders.

  Hell, most everyone else is in bare feet on the sod floor we had brought in. Beach balls are being kicked aroun
d. Hammocks where Fortune 500 leaders lounge with a cocktail. These people don’t ever get time off, so Olivia’s ingenious idea tapped into the one thing that they truly needed—to chill.

  Maybe I really have rubbed off on her. A smile pulls on my lips.

  I head toward the buffet line, scoping out who else I might talk with tonight.

  The food isn’t pretentious. It’s accessible and reminiscent of childhood. Simple finger foods. S’mores over a fire pit. The smell of grilled hot dogs in the air. It’s friendly and easy. And since I haven’t eaten since lunch, I stop in line next to a gray-haired man I recognize as the chairman of a major tech firm.

  When I meet his eyes, his gaze skitters away, and a look I recognize flashes across his features. The guy is overworked, tired, and probably has another four or five hours of crap to do tonight once he gets home. He just wants to be left alone. The last thing he wants to do is talk shop. Which is fine by me. I remember my own dad sitting at the dining table with his laptop long after Mum and I went to bed at night.

  “Hi, I’m Noah.” I offer him my hand and he shakes it. No last name, no title, because I can read his hesitation like it’s a flashing neon sign.

  “I’m Howard Dillon of Spherion, but before you begin . . .”

  “Have you ever had a walking taco?” I ask him, grinning like I know the world’s best secret. Because I do.

  His mouth closes, then opens, then he shakes his head. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t,” he says finally.

  My smile grows wider. “Dude, let me hook you up.”

  Howard chuckles and follows me up to the front of the buffet line.

  And soon, we’re seated cross-legged on a blow-up couch overlooking a water balloon fight, bonding over corn chips and seasoned ground beef.

  Howard kicks off his shoes and wiggles his toes encased in black silk socks. “So this is a walking taco, eh?”

  I help myself to another bite and nod. “Strangely good, isn’t it?” It’s all the standard taco ingredients mixed into an individual-sized bag of corn chips, which can be eaten with a fork. I had a roommate in college who once introduced me to the idea.