I shut the door behind my guest, then recline my chair, and tap open my recording studio screen to start editing the podcast. I try to use as few effects as possible. Just some intro effects, and fine-tuning to make sure the audio is, well, audible throughout the episode. I also add in a few commercials from sponsors at the opening of each episode.
A lot of the sponsors are the very same local businesses who supported mine and Charlie’s wedding in the first place. After I explained the truth about our relationship—how it had been fake, and then become real at the last second—I offered to pay for the items they had donated to our wedding.
All of them refused. In addition, they all bought ads on my new podcast, a boost that really helped me get up and running.
But all in all, I really couldn’t have done this without Charlie. He insisted I move into his place, and he’s been an incredible sounding board for all of my ideas. He supports all of my endeavors, lifts me up wherever he can, and has been a rock whenever I run into struggles—as seems inevitable with any new business venture, even this one.
It’s funny. I always thought that love would get in the way of my career. Instead, the love I found has enhanced my career, and made it more possible than ever to achieve my lifelong goals.
Among other things. My stomach does a funny little flip. Because I haven’t wanted to say anything, not yet—it’s felt too soon, too much like jinxing things, but…
Someone knocks on the door. I startle. Thinking it’s my guest, back for something she forgot, I rise at once. “Come in!”
But the door swings inward, and it’s Charlie standing there, framed in the doorway, grinning at me.
“I thought you had practice tonight,” I say, already striding toward him.
He wraps me in his arms the second I reach him, our bodies pressed close together, his hands tight around the small of my back. “I did. It’s already past seven. Did you lose track of time again?” He leans down to kiss the tip of my nose lightly.
I chew on my lower lip. “Um… Maybe. I was thinking.”
He arches an eyebrow, eyes fixed on might. “Something naughty, I hope.”
As if in response, my whole face flares red. “Well… no actually, but now that you mention it…”
Charlie kicks the door shut behind him. “Hmm. It sounds like I’ve been slacking in my husbandly duties. If you don’t have enough fodder for that filthy imagination of yours, we might have to do something about that.”
“Mr. Cross.” I fake a shocked tone. “To think you would dare barge into my office and talk filth…”
“Oh, I’d dare a lot more than that.” With that, he takes another step forward, and suddenly I realize he has me pinned against the desk. His hands catch my hips, trace my curves. Before I can say another word, he lifts me up, plants my ass firmly on the desk and pushes my knees wide, sliding between them.
My pencil skirt hikes up around my waist with the motion, and I fake a gasp. “Someone’s feeling awfully raunchy tonight.”
“What can I say?” He leans in to kiss my neck lightly, feathering up and down until—oh, yes. He bites the sensitive spot just below my jawline, lightly, sending tingles all down my spine. “I’ve got a thing for boss babes. Seeing you here in your office, working so hard… It makes me want to… distract you.” His hand slides around my thigh and up, up, until his finger grazes along the edge of my panties.
Fuck. I’m already getting wet. “You’re pretty damn good at doing that,” I murmur.
His smirk widens. “I can tell,” he breathes, right before he slips his hand beneath my panties, his palm against my mound, his fingers spreading me. He trails one finger between them, soaking his fingertip in my juices. “You’re always so eager for me, Mrs. Cross.”
My belly tightens, the way it always does whenever he calls me that. I kept my own name for my career, and for advertising on our show. And because it felt right to me. But whenever he calls me Mrs. Cross in the bedroom; whenever he reminds me that I’m his, bound to him now, for better or worse, in sickness and in health…
What can I say? It’s a pretty big turn-on.
“I could say the same for you, husband,” I whisper, my hand sliding down to the telltale bulge in his pants, and his eyes flare with heat as they find mine once more.
It doesn’t take me long to undo his zipper. Nor does it take him long to hook a thumb under my panties and pull them down my legs in a slick motion, tossing them aside. We don’t bother with the rest of our clothes. We’re both too hungry for each other.