My Husband Hired Her book cover by Aurora North

Measurements — Part 2

Exclusive Bonus Content
by Aurora North

Zara’s Turn

Zara stepped off the platform, caught Noelle by the waist, and lifted her clean off her feet.

Not the careful, considerate lift of their bedroom encounters. This was a statement—the full, one-motion display of a woman who could bench press two twenty-five and had just been edged and wrecked on a styling platform and was done being the one on the receiving end.

She set Noelle on the edge of the platform—the same surface she’d been standing on—and pulled the turtleneck over Noelle’s head in one motion. Unhooked her bra. Had her stripped from the waist up before Noelle’s back had fully hit the padding.

“That was fast,” Noelle said.

“I’ve had fourteen months of practice. I know how your clothes work.” Zara’s hands went to Noelle’s trouser button. Opened it. Drew the zipper down. Pulled the trousers and underwear off together in one smooth motion and dropped them on the floor next to the discarded tape measure.

Noelle was naked on the styling platform. Warm light. Bare skin. Her body—the body Evan had hired someone to fix—spread out in the studio she’d built, surrounded by campaign prints of diverse bodies she’d photographed, and the irony was so precise it should have been funny except nothing about the way Zara was looking at her was funny.

Zara was looking at her like she intended to consume her.

She picked up the tape measure from the floor.

“I believe we were discussing measurements,” Zara said.

“I believe I was the one taking—”

“Shift change.” Zara climbed onto the platform, straddled Noelle’s hips, and leaned down until their faces were inches apart. The tape measure dangled from her hand. “Arms above your head.”

The command voice. Full strength. The voice that had dismantled Noelle’s defenses fourteen months ago and still made her entire body clench with want.

Noelle raised her arms. Zara took both wrists in one hand, pressed them to the platform above Noelle’s head, and wound the tape measure around them. Three loops—not tight, not restrictive. Symbolic. The assessment tool repurposed as restraint, the measuring device that had started the evening now holding the woman who’d wielded it.

“Hold this position,” Zara said. “Don’t move.”

“Or what?”

Zara’s mouth found Noelle’s neck. She bit down—not gently, the sharp edge of teeth against the tendon—and Noelle’s hips bucked off the platform.

“Or I stop.” She licked the bite mark. “And I know you don’t want me to stop.”

Noelle held. She didn’t move.

Zara kissed down her body with the thoroughness of a woman conducting her own assessment. She kissed Noelle’s collarbones—left, then right, tongue tracing the ridges. She kissed the swell of her breasts, the pale skin above her nipples, the crease underneath where Noelle was sensitive enough that the touch made her gasp. She took Noelle’s left nipple in her mouth and sucked—hard, harder than she usually did, hard enough that Noelle’s back arched and a sound tore from her throat that the studio’s acoustics amplified into something obscene.

“Don’t. Move.”

Noelle pressed her spine back to the platform. Her wrists strained against the tape measure. Her chest heaved.

Zara moved to the other nipple. Same pressure. She used her tongue and teeth until the nipple was swollen and dark and Noelle was making small, desperate sounds with every breath. Then she kissed lower—between Noelle’s breasts, down her sternum, and onto the soft curve of her stomach.

She pressed her open mouth to the skin below Noelle’s navel. The place she’d worshipped since their first night together. The place Evan had considered the visible symptom of a wife who’d “let herself go.”

“This,” Zara murmured against her. “I could live between your thighs with my mouth on this part of you and die happy.”

“That’s—anatomically ambitious.”

“I’m an athlete. I’m built for endurance.”

She kissed lower. Past the crease of Noelle’s hip. Down to the trimmed hair between her legs. She breathed against Noelle’s center—hot, deliberate, the ghost of contact—and Noelle’s hips strained upward.

“I said don’t move.”

“Then stop teasing me and put your mouth on me.”

“Is that how you ask?”

“Please put your mouth on me.”

“Better.”

Zara parted Noelle’s thighs with both hands—spreading her open, exposing her completely—and pressed her tongue flat against Noelle’s clit. One long, firm stroke from bottom to top. Noelle’s whole body shuddered.

She set a rhythm designed to destroy. Tongue circling Noelle’s clit in tight, precise patterns, varying speed and pressure with the accumulated knowledge of fourteen months of studying this woman’s responses. She knew that Noelle liked it slow at the start and firm at the end. She knew that pressure from the left made Noelle’s thighs shake. She knew that sucking gently then releasing made Noelle swear in ways the woman who designed cream pantsuits and body-positive campaigns would never produce in public.

“Fuck—Zara—right there, right there—”

Zara kept her there. Held the rhythm steady while she slid one hand from Noelle’s thigh between her legs and pushed two fingers inside.

Noelle was soaked. The sound of Zara’s fingers entering her was wet and obscene in the quiet studio, and the fullness combined with Zara’s tongue made Noelle’s bound wrists pull taut against the tape measure and her head press back against the platform.

“Open your eyes,” Zara said, lifting her head just enough to speak. “Watch what I’m doing to you.”

Noelle opened her eyes. Looked down the length of her own naked body—the breasts with their reddened nipples, the soft stomach Zara loved, the spread thighs—to where Zara knelt between her legs with two fingers buried inside her and her mouth wet and her dark eyes looking back up with an expression that said you are mine and I am going to prove it.

Zara held eye contact and put her mouth back on Noelle’s clit. She sucked. She curled her fingers deep. She fucked Noelle with her hand and her tongue simultaneously, the dual rhythm building something enormous in Noelle’s core—a wave gathering mass, tightening, the pleasure intensifying past the point where individual sensations were distinguishable into a single, overwhelming pressure that needed release.

“I’m going to come—”

“Not yet.” Zara eased her fingers to a stop. Lifted her mouth. Noelle’s sob of frustration echoed off the walls.

“You edged me,” Zara said calmly. “I’m returning the favor.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Both. Simultaneously. Please let me come.”

Zara’s fingers began moving again. Slowly. Torturously. In and out in long, deep strokes while her thumb traced featherlight circles on Noelle’s clit. Enough stimulation to keep her at the edge. Not enough to push her over.

“Tell me what you want,” Zara said. “Specifically.”

“I want you to fuck me until I can’t think. I want to come on your fingers and your mouth and I want it so hard I feel it tomorrow.”

“That’s specific.” She added a third finger. The stretch made Noelle gasp—fullness bordering on too-much, the thick pressure of three of Zara’s fingers inside her while her thumb pressed against her clit. “Hold the position. Don’t let go of the tape.”

Noelle gripped the tape measure above her head and held on while Zara fucked her.

There was no teasing now. Zara set a pace that was relentless—deep, curving thrusts that hit the spot on Noelle’s front wall with every stroke, her thumb grinding Noelle’s clit in tight circles, her free hand pressing flat against Noelle’s stomach to feel the muscles contract beneath her palm. She lowered her mouth and added her tongue to the mix—licking around her own thumb, across Noelle’s clit, tasting the place where her fingers disappeared into Noelle’s body.

“Come for me,” Zara said. “Now. I want to feel it.”

Noelle shattered.

The orgasm hit her like a demolition—her entire body locking, spine arching off the platform, a scream tearing from her throat that she didn’t try to contain because this was Noelle’s studio and nobody was here and the only person who could hear her was the woman buried three fingers deep inside her with her mouth on her clit and her name on Noelle’s lips.

Her inner walls clamped around Zara’s fingers in hard, rhythmic contractions that went on and on—wave after wave, the orgasm sustaining itself longer than any she’d had, fed by the edging and the anticipation and the visual of her own bound wrists and the tape measure that had started the evening as a prop and had ended it as proof that the woman who’d once been afraid to look at her own body was now coming apart on a platform in a studio she owned while the woman she loved fucked her senseless.

Zara didn’t stop.

She kept her fingers moving—slower now, gentler, reading the aftershocks—and shifted her mouth lower, tongue pressing inside alongside her fingers. Noelle made a sound she’d never made before—a low, continuous moan that climbed in pitch as a second orgasm built on the ruins of the first.

“I can’t—it’s too much—”

“You can. You’re the strongest woman I know. Come again.”

She came again. Quieter this time—a full-body seize, her mouth open and silent, every muscle locked, the pleasure so intense it bypassed sound entirely and existed only as sensation. Zara felt it around her fingers—the deep, clenching pulses—and eased her through it with the patient attention of a woman who understood that the difference between too much and perfect was a matter of pressure and timing and love.

Zara withdrew her fingers. Kissed each of Noelle’s inner thighs. Unwound the tape measure from her wrists with careful hands and kissed each wrist where the fabric had pressed.

She climbed onto the platform and gathered Noelle against her. Both of them naked, tangled, breathing hard, surrounded by mood boards and fabric swatches and campaign prints of beautiful bodies in every size and shape.

“Did you actually need my measurements?” Zara asked, tracing a line down Noelle’s spine.

“I do, actually. The athlete series is real. I just thought the data collection process could be enhanced.”

“Enhanced.”

“Optimized for engagement.”

“You’re speaking in brand strategy and we’re both lying here naked and I’m covered in you.”

“Multitasking. It’s a leadership skill.”

Zara laughed into her shoulder. “I love you. And your measurements are perfect.”

“You didn’t take my measurements.”

“I’ve had fourteen months of hands-on research. I know every measurement you have.” Zara propped herself up and looked at Noelle—hair spread across the platform, skin flushed and marked, reading glasses somehow still in her hair. “Every. Single. One.”

Noelle pulled her down and kissed her. The kiss of a woman who had a studio and a career and a partner and a body she’d stopped apologizing for. A woman who understood that the best measurement of a life was not its dimensions but its depth.

The tape measure lay coiled on the floor beside Noelle’s discarded turtleneck.

It would need to be returned to the supply drawer in the morning.

For now, it had served its purpose beautifully.

Buy Now

← Back to My Husband Hired Her