Hitched Volume 1 (Imperfect Love Book #1)

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.

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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?”

She nods without hesitation.

That’s good. It means she’s beginning to trust me.

Maybe it’s a start.