13. Natalie #2
“I can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t notice.” He takes another sip. “But why? I thought we waved the white flag.”
I pause, fingers grazing the stem of my glass. We shouldn’t be talking about work. I know that. But this? It’s nothing. I’d bring it up no matter what was going on between us. Besides, I don’t want him thinking we’re back to trading shots. That’s not what this is.
“Cosmo thinks you planted a blog post about him,” I say.
“I didn’t.”
“I know. That’s why I went easy on you.”
Henry drains the last of his whiskey, sets the glass down, and comes around the island. He stops in front of me, close, and slides his arms around my waist, pulling me in.
“I forgive you,” he says. “For the punctuation crimes and, I guess, the article too.”
I laugh and his mouth finds mine. One hand steady at my jaw, the other firm at my waist, like he’s not planning to let me go anytime soon.
It’s impossible not to melt. The taste of whiskey, the heat of him, the way he moves with intention, it drowns everything else out.
For a moment, I forget where I am and the risk.
There’s only his mouth on mine and the way he kisses me like I belong to him.
Then he bends and lifts me in one smooth motion.
“Henry—” I gasp, grabbing his shoulders as he pulls me against his chest.
He grins, eyes catching the light, and shifts me higher, then tosses me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
“Put me down,” I say, half-laughing, fists pressing against his back.
“Gladly,” he says, voice warm with amusement.
He carries me into a dim bedroom, the city stretched out in glass and light behind him. Then he flips me off his shoulder and onto the bed.
I barely have time to catch my breath before he’s on me. Focused, intense, like a man on a mission.
He doesn’t bother with undressing, he just pushes my skirt up and goes for it. Before I know it, my back arches, hips jolt, and fingers grip the sheets. Everything tightens, then unravels in an instant. The orgasm hits sharply and swiftly, leaving me breathless in its wake.
When it’s over, I roll onto my side, still catching my breath. My whole body feels melted, loose in that post-orgasm way where even the sheets feel too soft.
That’s when I notice his cock straining against his trousers, the outline impossible to miss. The fabric isn’t doing much to hide how worked up he is.
My gaze lingers longer than it probably should. He’s big. Not that I’m shocked. But still—come on. It’s almost rude. He’s already too much: smart, charming, stupidly good-looking, the kind of man who wins at everything without even trying. And of course, he’s packing, too. Naturally.
I can’t help looking. The way he is right now—shirt rumpled, jaw clenched, breath still not all the way back—it does something to me.
Okay. Fine. I want him. I want to see how he comes undone.
I want to hear what he sounds like when he loses control.
I want to feel him inside me. I shift and slide one leg over his until I’m straddling his lap.
He doesn’t stop me but he doesn’t move either.
He just watches me, his expression steady and unreadable.
I reach for his belt but before I can touch the buckle, his hand wraps gently around my wrist. His expression changes. Something softer now, open in a way that lands hard and quiet, somewhere I’m not ready to name.
“I don’t want to rush it.”
“Rush what?” I ask, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. “This is purely physical—”
“I know.” His voice is calm, but there’s something careful in it now. Like he’s tiptoeing around a thought neither of us wants to name. He clears his throat, shifts slightly under me, then looks past my shoulder.
“I should check on dinner.”
In the kitchen, he lifts the lid on a heavy pot. A puff of steam rises. He peers in. Squints.
“Right,” he says flatly, then drops the lid back down.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I followed the recipe exactly. It said it would reduce.”
“It didn’t?”
He sighs and lifts the lid. I lean in. Inside the very expensive Dutch oven is a sad, shrunken piece of meat floating in what looks like vaguely seasoned water. It’s barely larger than a matchbox.
“For the record,” he says, “this was supposed to serve four.”
“Four what? Field mice?”
Henry exhales through his nose and lets the lid fall shut with a quiet clang. He grabs his phone.
“Guess we’re ordering in.”
“Why don’t we try it?” I say.
He looks up, doubtful. “You want to?”
“It’s probably delicious.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he puts his phone down and starts plating up our tiny portions. I grin at him, take a bite, and immediately wince.
“A little salty,” I manage, trying to soften it with a shrug.
He takes a bite and winces.
“That’s dreadful,” he says, dropping his fork with a clatter.
“It was a good try,” I say gently. “I think it would’ve worked with less salt, and maybe if the meat had…” I trail off. There’s really no saving it. He lets out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I don’t cook,” he admits. “Like…ever. I thought I could figure it out.” His hand finds the small of my back. “I wanted to impress you.”
I lean in, resting my head lightly on his shoulder. He already impresses me. Not that I’m going to tell him that.
“Pizza okay?” he asks.
“Perfect.”