Page 59 of Nine Months to Bear
And the smell that lights every neuron I have on fire.
That stuff will be ancient history, a forgotten bad dream. Once I’m pregnant with his child, we’ll maintain a purely professional relationship. Legal parties to a carefully drafted agreement.
And a child, of course.
A child.Fuck.A child.
My ovaries start conjuring up images of playdates in the park, of walking hand-in-hand with Stefan down the sidewalk while pushing along a dark-haired toddler in a stroller.
I take another swig of wine. Maybe I can drown the inappropriate thoughts. Because familial images of Stefanareinappropriate. Honestly, they might be even worse than the sex stuff.
This isn’t me. I don’t fantasize about clients. I organize. I plan. I succeed in my goals through careful preparation and attention to detail.
I donotget flustered over men.
As if he can read my mind—God help me, he probably can—my phone buzzes. His name is illuminated on the screen.
STEFAN:You said to wait twenty-four hours. I’m done waiting.
He’s right. It’s been over twenty-four hours since we were together. It’s actually been two whole days, not that I’m counting, since his hands brushed mine, since I felt the sizzling energy between us, since I—okay, fine—since I went home that night and broke out my trusty vibrator in yet another ill-fated attempt to make the dirty thoughts go away.
Maybe I’m not so professional, after all.
I take another sip of wine and start typing.Are you asking me if you can fill the specimen cup tonight?
My phone pings again.
STEFAN:Not exactly. The specimen cup is my second choice. Actually, third.
There’s a sharp pang of jealousy as I consider what—or who—his first choice might be. Another woman? Which one? A supermodel? A ballerina?Rebecca Walsh?The thought makes my stomach clench uncomfortably.
Then he follows up:Your pussy. Your mouth. This cup. In that order.
My phone nearly slips from my suddenly damp fingers. I try to regain some semblance of control, but I’m shaking.
He just told me he wanted to come in my mouth, and I’m supposed to say… what?Yes, please?
I take another drink of wine, drowning the moan lodged in my throat and strangling that voice in the back of my head. I tie that voice down and lock it in the basement ofNever Going to Fucking Happen.
OLIVIA:I think we should maintain professional boundaries going forward.
I say that as if there’s been any professional boundary so far. As if we haven’t literally fucked our way across the line in the sand. Even now, a dull ache builds in my lower abdomen.
STEFAN:Professional like the boundaries we established in my office?
I cringe, flush, gulp, panic all at once. My fingers are shaking as I text back.
OLIVIA:That was a momentary lapse in focus.
STEFAN:You have those a lot around me. Should I be worried? I want this medical procedure to be above board.
Only he could make that last word sound dirty.
He’s not done yet, either.
STEFAN:Tell me, Dr. Aster: Is it within “professional boundaries” to suck in your breath when your patient steps close to you? What about when your trembling thumb brushed over the back of my hand in my office? Or when your pupils dilated while telling me this wasn’t a hookup? Would you consider that “professional”?
Desire purrs low in my belly as I read. My free hand unconsciously tugs at the belt of my silk robe. I’m hot, that’s what it is. It’s warm in my house, and I’m overheating.
