I’ve paused for too long. Sensing my hesitation, Noah pulls back to look into my eyes. “You okay?”

I resist the impulse to drop my gaze. “Yeah. I just . . . I’m not sure.”

Noah is silent for a moment. Almost, anyway; he’s close enough for me to hear him sigh through his nose. As if he’s debating something with himself.

Finally, he says, “Then let’s stop.”

“But you never got a chance to . . .” I can still feel that huge, rock-hard bulge against my inner thigh.

“Hey, I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.” He winks at me.

Oh, believe me, I know. My cheeks heat up, remembering what happened the last time I left him unsatisfied. But there’s a strained note in his voice, and I can’t help feeling guilty.

“I’m sorry,” I say reflexively. This isn’t fair. He made an effort to put together this cute date night, he gave me one of the best orgasms I’ve ever had, and now I won’t return the favor. I’m just going to leave him with blue balls. God, I feel like a royal bitch.

His reply comes quick and sharp. “Hey. Never apologize. I don’t want anything to happen just because you feel obligated.” Before I can blink, his serious tone melts away and he gives me his cockiest smirk. “Noah Tate doesn’t need pity fucks. When we finally do this . . .” His lips graze my neck, one last kiss, and I shiver. “I want it to be because you’re begging for it. For me.”

Then he pulls away to stand up and help me to my feet. I sway a little, still slightly unsteady. Jesus, that orgasm floored me. Maybe I should change my mind again . . .

No, I can’t. I’m not ready for more. Definitely not yet, possibly not ever.

We get ready for bed, both of us quiet. As I brush my teeth, I tell myself firmly that I made the right decision. As fun as tonight was, it will be better for us to keep our laser focus on business.

And unlike our first night at our new penthouse, I’ll plug my ears and not go snooping around if Noah’s out of bed for too long. This time I’ll know exactly what he’s doing.

Am I a bad wife? I shouldn’t care so much—it’s not like I ever wanted to be his wife in the first place. But like it or not, we’re married. And Noah is my friend. Whatever our legal relationship is, I owe him what friends owe each other.

How does Noah feel about what happened tonight? He backed off so quickly. I know he’d never pressure me into sex or make me feel obligated, but I expected a little more good-natured grumpiness. He did sound frustrated, but something about it felt different from the other times I’ve shot him down before. Almost like he was . . . ashamed? Did he think he’d hurt or scared me? Or was it just because we’d been drinking? The idea that both Noah and I might feel guilty about this doesn’t make me feel better.

I sigh. Tonight’s pleasant atmosphere has turned so sour so quickly. I have no idea what to feel here. I wish . . .

I wish Mom were still alive.

She’d be able to give me advice. She would know how a marriage is supposed to work. How to be a good wife. Dad can tell me his side of their story, but there are some things a woman can only ask another woman about. And Camryn’s just as inexperienced with marriage as I am.

Noah and I get under the covers, facing opposite directions. The few feet separating us feels like a mile. I curl up on my side of the bed, lying still and silent, and wait for sleep to take me out of this awkward situation.

• • •

The next day at work, I’ve engaged full ice-queen mode. I have to keep my defenses firmly in place, but somber thoughts from last night keep playing through my mind. As sexy as Noah is, as incredible as he made me feel, I can’t let anything distract me. All business, no nonsense.

If I start sleeping with Noah, who knows how my feelings might change? Office romances are risky for a reason . . . someone always gets hurt, and then the workplace atmosphere is ruined. No fucking thank you. Saving Tate & Cane takes top priority. My life has enough stress without adding in all the emotional entanglements that come with sex.

I’m not overthinking this, I tell myself yet again as I rinse out my coffee mug in the break room’s sink. It’s the right decision.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. “You have a minute?” Noah’s voice asks.

Crap . . . just who I wanted to deal with right now, the center of all my turmoil. But I keep my tone cool and professional as I turn around. “Yes? What is it?”

“Remember how I played a few rounds of golf with Red Dog’s CMO last week?” When I nod at him, Noah says, “He offered to refer us a new client.”

Something about Noah’s tone makes me frown. “Then why don’t you seem happy?”

“Well, he put me in touch with their campaign project leader and I talked to him—”

“You accepted his referral without asking me?” I blurt, interrupting him. By now he ought to know how much I hate being out of the loop.

“Relax. I was just putting out a feeler, nothing that would imply we’d take the gig. Anyway, they’re definitely a big fish. Willing to pay very well . . . but they would want us to partner with their in-house marketing staff.”

“Oh, Christ.” That would take away our creative autonomy and clog everything up with bureaucracy and constant check-ins. “Why even contract with an outside firm if you’re just going to hamstring them?”

“Maybe this new client is a control freak.”