Page 57 of Defend Me

So I leave before he wakes up, get to the office, and I work. And work. I try not think about Noah naked in my kitchen. I read reports on fingerprint lifting techniques. But all I see is a pair of pecs dewed with water, thick dark locks tousled above a set of moss-brown eyes.

Noah has become an itch I can’t scratch.

I don’t get home until after ten. I enter my apartment withtrepidation, then relief—the lights are out. He must be in bed. Exactly as I’d hoped. Except there’s disappointment too. Part of me was half hoping he’d still be up, waiting for me. I allow myself a brief moment of imagination, stripping him out of his soft cotton tee, running my palms over the grooves of his chest, slipping my hand beneath the waistband of his joggers.

This itch is getting stronger.

I head into the kitchen and grab a half empty bottle of wine from the fridge. There’s a plate wrapped in foil with a note:I made orange chicken! It’s better than the duck, I promise

My heart squeezes. I turn away from the food and grab a glass from the cupboard then peek down the hall toward Noah’s room. No light under the door. He must be asleep. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. Suddenly, I feel a pinch of guilt, at leaving him alone all day. But I didn’t know what else to do. It feels like if I stay too long in his presence, I’ll spontaneously combust.

I head upstairs and kick off my heels as I enter my bedroom, my feet sighing in relief as they sink into the plush mauve carpet on my floor. I pour myself a glass of wine and take a deep swig. Then I leave the bottle on my dresser, pad into the ensuite bathroom, plug the tub, and turn the water on. I throw in a lavender bath bomb and head into my bedroom to strip out of my blouse and skirt. I throw everything into the wicker hamper and slip on a soft, silk robe with a cherry blossom pattern. Finally, I pull my thick auburn hair out of its sleek pony, letting it cascade over my shoulders.

I always feel like a warrior taking off my armor at the end of the day. The heels, the pencil skirts, the rigid hairstyles. These are how I protect myself—they are my shields. They are part of my arsenal. I never let anyone see me without my armor on. Except Noah. Somehow, over the course of a month, I’ve allowed him to peek behind the façade of Siobhan Everton, the professional. To see just Von.

I feel soft and tender as I curl up on my California king,listening to the sound of the water running in the bathroom and tucking my feet up so I can massage my arches. I take another sip of wine and lean back against my pillows. I feel a coiling tension in the pit of my stomach. Noah is only one floor away, in bed, probably shirtless again. I picture him tangled in the sheets, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his manhood nestled against one of those strong thighs. My hair brushes across my shoulders, sending tingles down my skin and over my breasts.

Fuck it. I need a release.

I open my nightstand drawer and take out my favorite vibrator, switching it on and pressing it to the silky fabric that covers my sex. I gasp as the vibration sends licks of pleasure over my clit. I press and angle the buzzing toy until I hit the right spot, just at my entrance, and a wave of dizziness washes over me, a thousand tiny needles running from my scalp to my toes. My free hand grips one breast, teasing my nipple, pulling aside the soft folds of my robe to reveal a pert bud. Images come unbidden as I tease myself. I picture Noah’s strong, calloused hands on my breasts, imagine his lips whispering across my skin. I pinch my nipple and imagine my hand is his—strong and sure, tweaking and plumping me, making me moan.

I picture that proud length of muscle between his legs growing harder. I imagine him consuming me, his fingers tight on my flesh, his cock hard against my thigh. I yank my panties aside and drive the vibrator deep into me, my hips bucking as I hit that secret, sweetest spot inside me. I imagine Noah thrusting himself into me as the vibrations run along my seam of pleasure and I fuck myself into oblivion, with the taste of his skin on my lips, the sensation of his body against mine. The pressure builds, the tension breaks, and my orgasm crests over me in hot heavy waves, rocketing me to the heights of pleasure as I moan and shudder with sweet release.

My skin is dewy and I’m panting when I finally turn the toy off. I push my hair out of my face and stare up at the ceiling. I cansee an image of Noah, his own chest heaving, feel the phantom weight of him on top of me and something nips at my stomach. I blink and he vanishes.

Maybe this was all I needed. To exorcise that demon. I’ll take a bath and refresh. No more thoughts of chiseled abs or calloused hands.

Tomorrow, I’ll go back to being Von the professional.

I wake up with an aching throb between my thighs.

I have a vague memory of a dream—licking a drop of water off a muscled bicep, a pair of rough hands against my skin, the scent of something masculine and earthy filling my nose. I touch the fabric of my panties and find that I’m wet.

I sit up, my pulse hammering in my temples. Clearly, last night’s adventure with my vibrator did not do the trick. I’ll have to try something else.

The idea hits me in a flash. I can get this itch scratched another way. I grab my phone and send off a quick text to Kent Morris. Kent is the heir to an oil fortune—his family is from Texas, but he represents their interests in the city. He’s a reliable friends-with-benefits type, and usually available when I need him.

Free tonight?I text.

While I wait for his response, I take an extra-long shower and choose my most conservative wardrobe. Black pencil skirt, sleeveless black mock turtleneck. A pair of nude Louboutins. I pull my hair back into a bun so tight, it hurts my scalp.

I am a professional, goddammit. I amnotlusting after my client.

My phone pings as I’m applying my lipstick. It’s Kent.

The Kensington Club at 8?

Perfect,I reply with a grin.

I head downstairs and find Noah in the kitchen and mystomach gives a lurch, my cheeks flooding with heat as I recall the images from my little session with the toy last night.

I shut those thoughts down as quickly as they come. Compartmentalize.

He’s sitting at the island, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, his face creased as he looks at his phone.

“What,” I say, my pulse quickening. Has something happened?

He glances up at me. “Good morning to you too,” he says.

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