Marriage of Inconvenience(Knitting in the City Book #7)(102)

Don’t be a dummy.

“Yeah, over here.” I guided Kat over to the leather sofa parked against the wall. It was the same couch I used to sit on while we waited for my ma to pass judgment on us when we were kids; we’d called it the “discipline couch.” My mother didn’t spank us, but my dad did during the rare times he was home.

So, it was probably weird that my first thought was that I’d like to pull her over my knee, lift her skirt, and give Kat some sexy spanks, right?

Definitely weird.

Kat set her phone on the coffee table, sat at one end of the couch, and faced me. She tucked a leg under her, her hands in her lap, her fingers twisting.

Just as I took my seat at the other end, my phone buzzed. I pulled it out, glancing at the screen. Alex’s name flashed on my screen. I sent the call to voicemail and set it on the coffee table next to Kat’s. He was probably calling me about Caleb.

On a hunch, I’d asked Alex to look into the fitness of Caleb Tyson’s financials. Unlike most CEO’s in the USA, Caleb Tyson’s salary was capped. Bylaws prevented the Caravel CEO from earning more than a certain amount, which included stock options. In my cursory research, I’d discovered Caleb had cashed in all his stocks a few months ago. This raised a big fat red flag for a few reasons:

Firstly, that meant he was going to have a hell of a tax bill this year, unless he also had losses to report.

Secondly, Caravel was a solid venture. Selling now was just bad investment strategy.

Thirdly, what did he need with all that cash?

Alex had probably discovered something, but I’d call him back later. I didn’t know why I’d checked my phone at all. No matter who it was, I would have sent it to voicemail. I was busy with Kat. Everything else could wait.

“Did you need to get that?” Kat motioned to my phone.

“This is more important.”

Her eyes flickered over me. “Who was it?”

“Alex.”

“It might be work.”

“Yeah.”

“It could be about Wally.”

“I’ll call back later. So, what’d Dr. Kasai say?” I faced her, my arm along the back of the sofa, and did not look at her legs again.

“Uh.” Kat blinked at me, looking a little dazed, or maybe startled. “Um, so . . . Dr. Kasai. Yes. She suggested we find someone local, a—a—a sex therapist, if our early attempts are unsuccessful.” She was stumbling all over her words.

“That makes sense.” I nodded, trying to sound calm and objective, even though I really liked the sound of early attempts.

Kat was looking everywhere but at me, and her cheeks were the color of the Boston on the Red Sox game jerseys. “But that we should take it slow, really slow, and give it plenty of time. We should focus on the process and not the finish line. We should try to enjoy each other and not . . . orgasm.”

Um . . . what?

“Excuse me?” I was with her until the very last word.

“She said she thought it would be best if we—neither of us—orgasmed until I talked to her in two weeks,” Kat said on a rush. “She said it would take the pressure off, if we just focused on the enjoying part and not the finishing part.”

I sat back, my eyes moving over Kat, snagging on her fingers where they twisted the hem of her short skirt. She looked really anxious, like she thought I’d be upset by this news or something.

For the record, I wasn’t upset.

I was confused, not upset.

Because, wasn’t the whole point of this to try to get Kat to orgasm without alcohol? How could we do that if she wasn’t allowed? I didn’t ask this question, because she already looked stressed out enough.

Instead, I said, “Okay. Sounds good.”

Kat exhaled like she’d been holding her breath. Then she rubbed her forehead. Then she sighed again and her hair fell forward, hiding her face. Clearly, she was tense. Good thing I had some idea on a few ways to help her relax.

I slid closer to her, until our legs touched. Then I pushed my fingers into her thick, dark, glossy hair, rubbing her scalp, tracing the line of her neck to her back.

She leaned into my touch, angling her head toward me, like she wanted me to do it again.

She liked to be petted.

She liked to be stroked.

She liked affection.

So did I. Maybe once all this was over and things settled down, she’d trust me enough to let me pet her, stroke her, and hold her.

Or maybe she wouldn’t, not yet. Maybe never. The thought was depressing, but I couldn’t dismiss the possibility. Like Eugene had said, she didn’t owe me anything.

She sighed, sounding more relaxed, her fingers no longer folding and rolling her skirt.

What we did and when we did it, she had to initiate it. Or she had to give me a sign that I was supposed to take the lead. I wasn’t a mind reader, particularly where she was concerned.