Page 16 of Tell Me You Need Me

misch

The hum of the espresso machine in the lounge is driving me toward murder charges. It’s week two into our newly official, completely open relationship, and I don’t mean in a we-bring-in-a-third way. I mean it’s open to the public/everyone knows type of open. And while life with Nolan Cross is usually and intoxicating blur of fierce devotions and explosive nights, today I am an absolute nightmare.

I know I’m being bitchy. I can feel it radiating off my body like radioactive waste, but I literally cannot help it. It’s that time of the month, and anything and everything is pissing me clear the fuck off.

Even the intern who brought up a file up this morning and used the wrong font size, I practically snapped their head off. The IT guy took three extra seconds to refresh my dual monitors, and I glared at him until he backed out of my office like he’d stepped into landmine territory. Even the clicking of my own mouse is pushing my blood pressure into dangerous ground.

I started this very morning—cramps dull and relentless, a small headache throbbing behind my left eye, and my mood swinging between violent rage and pathetic weeping. My birth control is an absolute bitch. Switching to a new pill last month to regulate everything was supposed to make life easier, but it’s turning my hormones into a war zone instead.

I’m also one hundred percent certain Nolan noticed the exact moment when it all happened this morning at his penthouse.

He didn’t say a word, not even when we got to the office this morning and I practically threw his morning schedule on his desk, nor did he comment when I huffed louder than necessary while organizing the other stacks of papers. He just watched me with those sharp, soulful, observant eyes, tracking the tense set of my shoulder and the slight paleness to my face.

Which leads me to now, currently staring at a spreadsheet, ready to rip my hair out by the roots, when the heavy door of his office opens. Nolan steps out, dressed in his signature charcoal three-piece suit, looking like a walking billboard of a billionaire full of untamed power. He doesn’t look at his phone, and he doesn’t check his watch. What he does is walk directly to my desk, plant his hands flat on the surface, and lean down into my space.

“In my office. Now,” he rumbles in a deep baritone carrying that smooth, undeniable power that usually turns my knees to jelly. Right now, it makes me want to throw my stapler at his head.

“I have three quarterly reports to finish, Mr. Cross,” I snap, keeping my voice clipped as I aggressively click a cell on my screen. “And your two-o’clock conference call still needs to be confirmed.”

“They can wait.” His tone leaves zero room for negation. He reaches out, hooks his fingers gently around my elbow, and hauls me up from my chair before I can protest. “Move, trouble.” I let out an exaggerated, furious sigh, rolling my eyes as he guides me past the threshold of his office, firmly shutting the door behind us. The heavy click of the deadbolt locking into places makes me pause.

“Nolan, if you think I’m in the mood for a quacking against your desk, you have another thing coming,” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest, and my head decides to really start pounding. “I’m in pain, I’m furious at the world, and if you touch me wrong, I might actually bite your face off or fall into a puddle of tears.” Nolan doesn’t flinch. In fact, a faint curve touches the corner of his lips. He walks over to the leather sofa—the very same sofa he thoroughly ruined me on two weeks ago—and tosses his suit jacket over the armrest. He unbuttons his vest, rolls up his sleeves, and pats the cushion.

“Lie down, Mischa.”

“What?” I stare at him, blinking through my annoyance.

“You heard me.” He steps close, wraps his arm around my waist, and gently guides me down until I’m sitting. “Lie back. Put your head on the throw pillow.”

“Nolan—”

“Shh,” he coos, his hands firm yet impossibly tender as he lifts my legs and swings them onto the couch, easing my down until I’m fully sprawled out. I open my mouth to argue, but the sheer relief of taking the weight off my aching lower back makes a soft sound escape my throat. Nolan crouches down at the foot of the sofa. Without asking, his large, warms hands grip the back of my designer heels. He slides the first leather shoe off my foot, setting it aside, and then does the same to the second, freeing my feet completely.

My entire body instantly sags into the leather cushions. The furious fire in my chest sputters, replaced by an overwhelming comfort that makes my eyes sting with sudden tears. Damn these hormones.

“Better?” Nolan asks, his eyes moving up the length of my body to lock on mine.

“Don’t talk to me,” I mumble, throwing my forearm over my eyes so he doesn’t see me tearing up over a foot rub. “You’re ruining my mood. I was enjoying being angry at the world.” A low chuckle vibrates from his chest. His hands never stop moving, working their way up to massage my calves with a soothing pressure.

“I noticed,” he says with affection. “You nearly made every person you’ve come in contact with either cry or run for the hills.”

“Well, if they would do their job correctly the first time,” I groan from beneath my arms.

“A heinous crime,” Nolan agrees, his voice entirely serious, though I can feel the sarcastic smirk. “I’ll have them fired by noon.”

“Don’t you dare.” I sniff, pulling my arm away from my face to glare at him. He’s looking at me with so much warmth, so much support, that my heart does a flip in my chest. This man. This billionaire CEO who strikes fear into boardrooms across the globe is sitting on the coffee table in loosened clothing, rubbing my feet like it’s the most important task on his multi-billion-dollar agenda.

“It’s the new birth control, isn’t it?” He shifts closer, his hands moving to rest over my ankles. His expression turns thoughtful, and a slight protective shadow crosses his features.

“How did you…?” I blink, caught off guard.

“You left the pack on the bathroom counter at my place last week.” His thumbs stroke the sensitive skin of my inner ankles. “I saw the dates. And I’ve watched you fight through cramps all morning while pretending you’re made of steel. If this shit is making it worse, get off it,” he states matter-of-factly

“Nolan…” My breath hitches in my throat.

“I’m serious, Mischa,” he continues, his jaw clenching. “I hate seeing you in pain. I hate watching you drag yourself through a day like today feeling like hell because of some synthetic hormone mess. Stop taking it.”

“Nolan, you do realize what happens, if I stop taking it, right? We’d have to start using protection. Every time.” Nolan lets out a grunt, his eyes darkening with that possessive heat I know all too well.