“Yeah. Okay. Will do.”
“And don’t you ever lie to me again. I don’t care how big you are, I’ll whoop your—”
“Okay. Love you, Mom. Call you later.”
I end the call before she can go off on a rant, dropping my phone on the desk and resting my head in my hands. My mother would lose her shit if I were to tell her I’m sleeping with my “special woman” and that I’m slowly losing my mind because of it. I haven’t even worked out the specifics of that myself yet.
My phone buzzes again, a text this time, thankfully, and I assume my mother is following up with some last bit of advice, so I’m surprised （and secretly excited） when I see Mackenzie’s name. I swipe open her text thread and nearly drop my phone—a picture of Mackenzie’s bare legs in my bathtub with a caption underneath.
MACKENZIE: I want to take this tub home with me.
I’m grinning before I can stop myself, feeling a visceral urge to pack up everything, cancel my appointments, and go back to my place to join her—but even in my head that sounds ridiculous. Not to mention dangerous.
I tap out a quick reply, one that reveals none of the heat currently rushing through my blood or the sudden stiffness in my slacks, and I take a deep breath, blowing it out as I set my phone back down. The problem is, I think, that I want to drop everything and go be with her. That the urge to do so gets stronger and stronger with every instance that I’m with her. Everything about this predicament screams danger, and I can’t bring myself to do a single thing about it.
Don’t make things complicated.
I really am in trouble.
13
Mackenzie
It is much harder than it should be to leave Noah’s Jacuzzi tub. It’s big enough to be used as a small swimming pool, which makes sense, given that Noah’s legs are of the Olympic swimmer variety. I’m toweling off my hair when I step out of his bathroom around lunchtime, wondering again if it’s weird that I stayed behind at his place while he went into work. It had seemed like a lovely idea in the early hours of the morning when I’d been tangled in his sheets and blissed out from a full night of orgasms—but now that I’m a little coherent, I’ve been questioning if it’s crossing some sort of line. Though to be fair, the lines of this agreement have never been very clear. And as much as I hate to admit it . . . the sex definitely doesn’t help matters.
Although . . . one might argue that sex with Noah is worth it.
I sigh as I fall back against Noah’s gigantic bed, trying to distract myself from thoughts of my quiet fake mate. His bedroom is exactly like I expected it to be （his entire house, really, for what I’ve seen of it）。 Save for the furniture and his very wide, very roomy bed—there wasn’t much to explore in Noah’s room after he’d left this morning. There’s a moderately sized flat screen resting atop his chest of drawers, and above his bed, one lone painting of soft colors that remind me of quiet water and breezy trees. It’s a surprising burst of color in his otherwise dreary-looking bedroom, and had I been able to notice anything other than Noah’s mouth and hands and body last night—I might have commented on it while he’d still been here.
I throw an arm over my face as my skin tingles with the memory of the night before. Noah’s hands on my skin and his voice in my ear have been right there waiting every time I let my thoughts stray this morning—something that seems like it might get worse every time we’re together. Every tiny reminder has me pressing my thighs together as everything south of my navel begins to pulse with arousal.
It’s not enough for Noah to be the most capable person at work; no, of course he would be an absolutely wonderful lay. I’m starting to wish I could pick out a flaw just so I didn’t feel inadequate. A slight curve to his dick or an unsightly mole on his ass or something. A fruitless wish, since I can confirm that he has a perfect dick and an even more perfect ass. I don’t see myself finding any flaws in the foreseeable future.
Not to mention the way having sex with Noah feels a lot more . . . intimate than it should. I’m not an expert at the whole friends with benefits thing—in fact, I’d say I’m still at apprentice level at best—but I have to assume that most hookup buddies don’t look at you like you’re some kind of goddess and whisper sweet things in your ear while they give you mind-blowing orgasms.
I don’t have to imagine anything.
I press my lips together as my stomach flutters with the memory of his low voice, sounding entirely sincere when he’d looked at me last night.