• • •

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.

A girl could get used to this . . .

Unfortunately, we’ve dawdled long enough. We need to get to the office soon. I stow my plate and mug in the dishwasher and start heading to the bathroom to put on my makeup.

But as I turn, Noah catches me by the shoulders and spins me around again. His strong arms wrap tight around me. Before I can think, he crushes our lips together.

I gasp. It’s nothing like last night’s kiss. That was soft and sweet, the lightest possible touch, like trying not to spook a skittish animal. This is a different kind of taming—hard, rough, fiery. The kid gloves have come off. Noah has caught me, claimed me, and arousal flares through my body like the heat of a brand.

Caught off guard, I can’t hold back a moan. I’m shocked to find my muscles turning to jelly. I cling to him just to stay on my feet.

Everything about Noah pours into my senses. I soak up his body heat, the rasp of stubble around my lips, the masculine scents of piney soap and spicy aftershave.

He devours my mouth and leaves me dizzy, panting for air. His teeth nip and scrape at my lips. His tongue licks deep, skating over mine, a tantalizing preview of how that hot, agile muscle might move over my clit. A vivid promise of the pleasure I could have . . . if I’d only let him give it to me.

I remember how he moaned my name in the bathroom last night. The memory of those dark, needy noises send another flood of heat through me. Maybe I’m not just another conquest to him; maybe he’s just as powerless in his own way.

Suddenly, I can’t figure out why I ever hesitated. I had a hot, willing man practically begging to blow my mind. What was the point of denying myself a good time? I arch up, pressing our hips together, and feel a twin flash of hunger and triumph at the long, thick hardness that pokes into my belly.

Then Noah steps back. All the touch I’m craving—the warm, muscled body and the hot, wet mouth—suddenly just disappears. It takes me a moment to register what happened.

Still dazed with lust, I blink up at him. “What . . . ?”

“It’s time to leave. We’re going to be late for work.”

“Work?” The word comes out as a disappointed whine.

He grins like he just won the Super Bowl. “You’re the one who set our limits at first base. Although, if you want more, I think the office could survive another hour without us. But you’ll have to ask nicely.”

As the fog of horniness clears away from my mind, I realize what’s going on here. Oh, you son of a bitch . . .

Noah was playing with me this whole time. His plan all along was to tease me until I got desperate enough to loosen our agreement’s restrictions. He’s trying to tempt me into admitting that I want to be more than just friends. He thinks he can prove himself right and also get laid—two birds with one stone.

Well, he can just forget about it. Olivia Cane does not beg. Ever.

I’m almost more pissed off at myself than him. What the hell was I thinking? Not much, that’s for sure. My libido just totally ripped me out of the driver’s seat. I’ve never felt so out of control before. And if I have anything to say about it, this first time will also be the last.