My Husband Hired Her — Bonus Chapter

Exclusive Bonus Content
by Aurora North

⚠️ This bonus takes place after the epilogue. Explicit FF content, 18+. Spoilers ahead.

Measurements

The text arrived at Zara’s phone at 6:14 PM on a Wednesday.

I need you at the studio tonight. 7 PM. Professional matter.

Zara stared at the message. She’d been living with Noelle for four months, and professional matter was not a phrase that typically appeared in their text thread. Their text thread was primarily composed of grocery lists, thermostat negotiations, and the occasional photograph that made Zara’s screen too hot to hold in public.

What kind of professional matter?

The Present Tense campaign is expanding. I need body measurements for a new athlete series. You’re my first model.

You have my measurements.

I have your measurements from four months ago. Bodies change. I need current data.

My body hasn’t changed in four months.

Then this will be quick. 7 PM. Wear something easy to remove.

Zara set the phone down and stared at the ceiling. Her girlfriend—the woman who’d once stood in a gym unable to look at her own reflection—had just instructed her to arrive at a locked studio in removable clothing for a measurement session that both of them knew had nothing to do with campaign data.

She was already wet by the time she left work at 6:30.

Noelle Hart Design occupied the ground floor of a converted retail space six blocks from their apartment. At 7 PM on a Wednesday, with the blinds drawn and the door locked, the studio felt like a set piece for something deliberate.

Noelle was waiting beside a styling platform—a low, padded surface elevated eighteen inches off the floor. Fitted black turtleneck, slim trousers, reading glasses pushed into her hair. Professional. Composed. In her hand: a fabric tape measure.

Zara stopped in the doorway. Zip-front jacket over a sports bra, training leggings, sneakers. Easy to remove. As instructed.

“Thank you for coming,” Noelle said. Professional voice. “Step onto the platform, please.”

“Are we really doing this?”

“I need your measurements for the campaign. This is a professional appointment.”

“You’re my girlfriend. You had your hand down my pants this morning while I was making coffee.”

“That was personal. This is professional. Platform, please.”

Zara stepped up. The elevation put them eye to eye—unusual, since Zara was always the taller one, the one who looked down, the one whose physical presence dominated every space she entered.

“Arms at your sides.”

Zara obeyed. The instruction was familiar—she’d given it a thousand times to clients. Hearing her own coaching language reflected back at her in Noelle’s voice produced a sensation she hadn’t anticipated. Not just arousal—a full-body flush, the specific heat of being directed by someone who’d learned authority from her and was now wielding it with devastating precision.

Noelle circled her. The same slow, observational walk Zara had performed during Noelle’s first assessment fourteen months ago. Except Noelle wasn’t evaluating muscle groups. She was looking at Zara the way she looked at a design problem: with focused, creative attention and zero intention of rushing.

“Jacket off.”

Zara unzipped and shrugged it off. Noelle draped the tape measure around her own neck and stepped closer.

“I’m going to start with your shoulders. I’ll need to touch you.”

The echo was lethal. I ask permission before every contact. Zara’s own protocol from their first session, delivered back to her like a loaded weapon.

“Okay,” Zara said. Her voice came out rougher than intended.

Noelle placed the tape measure across Zara’s shoulders. Her fingertips rested on each shoulder joint, pressing to find bone beneath muscle. Clinical. Devastating.

“Forty-two inches.” She wrote it on a notepad. “Chest next.”

She wrapped the tape around Zara’s ribcage just below her breasts, arms encircling from behind. Her chest pressed against Zara’s back. Her breath grazed Zara’s neck—slow, deliberate, warm enough to raise every hair on Zara’s skin.

Zara’s abs contracted involuntarily.

“You’re holding your breath,” Noelle murmured against her ear.

“You’re pressing your tits against my back.”

“Accurate measurement requires stable contact. Thirty-four inches. Waist next.”

She slid the tape down. The position required her to press fully against Zara, fingertips meeting at the small of her back, lips hovering at the shell of Zara’s ear.

“Twenty-eight inches,” Noelle whispered. “You’re very well-proportioned.” Her thumbs traced the ridges of Zara’s obliques—off the tape, onto bare skin above the waistband—slow enough that the deviation from professional contact was unmistakable.

Zara’s hands clenched at her sides. “Noelle.”

“Hips next. I’ll need you to remove the leggings.”

“For a hip measurement.”

“The fabric adds variance. Industry standard is skin-to-tape for accuracy. You know that—you take client measurements.” She held Zara’s gaze. Calm. Absolute. “Leggings off.”

Zara peeled them down and stepped out. Sports bra and black underwear. Bare feet on the padded platform. She felt—for the first time in their relationship—what Noelle must have felt during every early training session. Exposed. Visible. Held by attention that was simultaneously professional and starving.

Noelle knelt.

The visual alone made Zara’s clit throb—Noelle on her knees in her own studio, reading glasses on, looking up at Zara with an expression that had zero clinical detachment and one hundred percent intent.

She wrapped the tape around Zara’s hips at the widest point. Her face was level with Zara’s stomach. Her fingers pressed the tape against the back of Zara’s thighs, meeting at front, the contact points close enough to where Zara was soaked through her underwear that the warmth radiated between them like a dare.

“Thirty-six inches.” She looked up. Through the reading glasses, her brown eyes were magnified and utterly aware. “Inseam next.”

“There is no inseam measurement for a design campaign.”

“There is for my campaign. Feet shoulder-width apart.”

Zara spread her feet. Noelle placed the tape at the inside of her ankle and drew it upward—slowly, agonizingly—the fabric sliding against her calf, the sensitive back of her knee, her inner thigh. All the way to the crease where thigh met hip.

The tape’s terminus was a quarter inch from the edge of Zara’s underwear. Noelle’s fingers held it there, pressing against the highest point of Zara’s inner thigh. Zara could feel her own pulse beating against Noelle’s fingertips. Could feel the heat radiating from her core against Noelle’s knuckles.

“Thirty-two inches.” Noelle’s thumb slid one centimeter right. Off the tape. Onto skin. Grazing the edge of the underwear. “I’m detecting tension in the adductors.”

The callback was a kill shot. Zara’s own clinical language from their first stretching session—the session where she’d put her hands on Noelle’s inner thigh and both of them had pretended the air between them hadn’t just combusted.

“You’re using my words against me.”

“I’m using your words on you. There’s a difference.” Noelle’s fingers hooked the waistband of Zara’s underwear. “These are creating measurement interference. I need them off.”

“Noelle—”

“Off.”

She pulled them down with precise, unhurried hands. Past Zara’s thighs, her knees, her ankles. Zara stepped out of them and stood on the platform in nothing but a sports bra, and Noelle knelt before her and looked up and the tape measure hung forgotten around her neck.

Zara was exposed. Wet. Visibly, undeniably aroused, the evidence glistening on her inner thighs under the studio’s warm light. The woman who was always in control, always directing, always the strong one—standing naked and dripping on a styling platform while her girlfriend knelt between her legs with reading glasses and a notepad.

“Final measurement,” Noelle said. Her hands came to rest on Zara’s hips. “I need to assess your responsiveness to direct stimulation. For the campaign.”

“That is not a real measurement.”

“It’s my studio. I set the parameters.” She leaned forward and breathed against Zara’s center—not touching, just the warm ghost of her mouth, close enough that Zara could feel the humidity of her breath against her swollen clit. “Shall I proceed?”

“Fuck—yes—”

Noelle’s mouth was on her.

Not gentle. Not teasing. She sealed her lips over Zara’s clit and sucked, and Zara’s hands flew to Noelle’s head—fingers gripping her thick hair, hips jerking forward—and the sound she made ricocheted off the studio’s windows and high ceiling. Raw. Guttural. The sound of a woman who commanded rooms for a living being wrecked by a single mouth.

Noelle worked her with the focused creativity she brought to design. Her tongue circled Zara’s clit—firm, deliberate strokes, then quick flicks across the tip, then the devastating flat-tongue pressure that made Zara’s thighs shake on the platform. She read Zara’s body the way she read visual compositions: finding the balance between tension and release, building toward a climax she controlled completely.

“Look at me,” Noelle said, pulling back just enough to speak, her lips glistening. “Watch me eat you out in my studio.”

Zara looked down. Noelle on her knees, reading glasses askew, mouth wet with Zara’s arousal, eyes locked on hers with the calm authority of a woman who’d learned exactly how good she was at this and was no longer pretending otherwise.

Noelle slid her tongue through Zara’s folds—base to apex, slow and firm—while maintaining eye contact. Then she pushed two fingers inside.

Zara’s head fell back. “God—right there—”

Noelle curled her fingers forward and found the ridged spot that made Zara’s whole body seize. She set a rhythm—tongue on Zara’s clit, fingers deep inside, the dual stimulation building pressure from two directions simultaneously—and held it with the patience of a woman who’d been edged by Zara enough times to understand exactly how cruel sustained anticipation could be.

She brought Zara to the edge. Felt the telltale clenching around her fingers, the rigid trembling of Zara’s quads, the desperate grip tightening in her hair.

She eased off.

“No—don’t you dare—”

“I need to record the baseline response before we proceed to peak output.”

“I will kill you.”

“Data collection requires patience.” She pressed a kiss to Zara’s inner thigh, then the other, then breathed against her center without making contact. “We’re establishing your threshold.”

“My threshold was thirty seconds ago.”

“Then you should have no trouble reaching it again.”

She put her mouth back on Zara and rebuilt the rhythm from scratch—slower this time, more deliberate, dragging the flat of her tongue in long strokes while her fingers pumped steadily inside. She added a third finger and felt Zara’s body stretch around them, the slick heat tightening, Zara’s hips grinding against her face with the urgent, graceless desperation of a woman who had surrendered every shred of composure and wanted nothing except to come.

“Please,” Zara gasped. The word was barely recognizable. “Noelle, please—”

Noelle sucked Zara’s clit between her lips and pressed her fingers deep and curled them hard, and said against her: “Come for me.”

Zara came so hard she screamed.

Her body locked—every muscle she’d spent a decade building seizing at once—and her legs buckled on the platform. Noelle caught her hips, held her upright, kept her mouth sealed over her clit while Zara’s walls clenched in violent rhythmic pulses around three fingers and her voice cracked on a sound that was half Noelle’s name and half a prayer to a god she didn’t believe in.

The orgasm rolled through her in waves. Noelle gentled but didn’t stop—tongue easing to soft pressure, fingers still inside, coaxing a second crest from the aftershocks of the first. Zara came again before the trembling had subsided—shorter, sharper, her grip in Noelle’s hair turning to a fist as her hips stuttered and a broken “fuck” echoed off the studio walls.

Noelle withdrew her fingers slowly. Pressed a kiss to Zara’s hip bone. Looked up at her with swollen lips and wet chin and an expression of absolute, devastating ownership.

“Excellent responsiveness,” she said. “Well within parameters.”

Zara’s laugh was wrecked. “You are an absolute menace.”

“I had a good teacher.”

“Your teacher wants revenge.”

“Your teacher will have to catch me first.”

Zara caught her.

← Back to My Husband Hired Her