Page 1 of Mismatched

CHAPTER ONE

Mondays used to be my favorite. This bleary notion reaches through a swirl of other thoughts at the sound of my grating alarm. But in the silence that follows, I can’t remember—why aren’t they anymore?

Sunlight spills across my pillow, and I retreat under the covers like a vampire, backing into something warm and hard.

Anton. My husband.

Before my brain comes online, in a moment made up entirely of old habit, my instinct is to flinch away from him. There are things to do. An important meeting, orders to place, payroll to—nope. I keep forgetting. That one’s been taken off my plate.

Anton’s hands snake lazily around my waist, pulling me against him, back into the present. And this time I overcome my thoughts and melt into his embrace. Press into his firm length. Feel it harden even more against my ass.

I look over my shoulder at his sleepy face. His still-closed eyes and smooth forehead tell me he’s not fully awake, hasn’t really thought about anything yet either. And I want to hang onto this moment—suspend us here, where nothing matters. I press a kiss to his stubbly chin, hoping to steal some of his calm.

He comes a little more alive in response; his arms tightening around me, lips grazing along my shoulder, up the side of my neck, behind my ear. Inhaling so deeply when he gets to my hair, it’s like he’s trying to breathe me in.

My thoughts invade again.

Make coffee, walk the dog. Run reports.

I close my eyes. It’s a trick I’ve found sometimes works to shut down my brain and stay present—one our new therapist encourages me to employ. I focus on the heat of Anton’s palms sliding down over my hips, past the hem of my cotton nightgown, dipping under the light fabric and up along my waist. Tentatively, his fingers work their way over my skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps as they cup the undersides of my breasts.

“Good morning, Mrs. Richie,” he rumbles in my ear, sending ribbons of warmth through my core and along my limbs.

I arch my back in response, stretching the length of my body against him, thrusting my breasts into his palms. This is the part where I can’t lose focus. Where I need to tune in to every movement and breath to kindle the heat inside me. This comes naturally to some people, but I’m not one of them. I understand this now.

“Good morning to you,” I say in a low voice, fighting an urge to check the clock. I set an early alarm. There is time for this before the day starts. If we hurry.

And as Anton thrusts his leg between mine, lifting me and grinding against my center with his thigh, the slightest tingle forms within my core. I smile. Maybe I’m getting the hang of this.

His grip on my breasts softens, and his fingers find my nipples. Well, the one cooperative one, and the other he coaxes. I reach back to stroke him as he works my body. He’s clearly ready to go, but we’re both in tune with the need to build my arousal. I have a “responsive” sex drive, as our therapist says. My mind might be on board, but the rest of me needs prompting. And the more we work my body, the greater my desire.

I rub my ass playfully against his naked form, and he groans. The sound unfurls something inside me, and I take it a step further—shifting my hips until his cock sits neatly between my bare ass cheeks, then slowly, sliding up and down the length of him, teasing his tip when it reaches my moistening center. I manage this twice before I’m seized and rolled onto my back.

“Where did you learn that?” Anton asks, his hazel eyes so dark they’re almost black.

I take a second to catch my breath, staring up from my new position beneath him. When I try to move my arms, I find he’s pinned them above my head, and my face floods with heat. Because I think I like it.

“I... I don’t know... it just seemed like something to try,” I say honestly. Nothing I ever do in bed is pre-planned. Usually everything is a reaction to him.

He’s staring back at me with a carnal expression I’ve never seen, eyes drifting down like he’s deciding where to start devouring me. And then it happens—for just a moment, my gaze drifts toward the bedside table, and I try to calculate the time. It’s the tiniest flicker, but he clearly notices. And I freeze, caught beneath him.

“You’re not supposed to do that,” he chides.

“I—I didn’t,” I say. But I’m frowning because we both know it’s a lie. “Okay, fine. But I stopped. Anyway, when she assigned our ‘homework’ I doubt she imagined us getting busy right before work.”

He grunts. “Any time.”

“What?”

“She said, any time we’re making love, you’re supposed to maintain focus.”

“Okay, but Anton, I can’t. Not if it’ll make us both late.”

He raises a brow, looking at me pointedly.

I open my mouth to ask if that’s supposed to mean something, but then he says, “Maybe we just need to make you focus.”

His voice is playful, but he’s still holding my arms pinned above my head, and then his other hand wanders down, trailing along my waist.

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