Hitched Volume 1 (Imperfect Love Book #1)

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.