Page 62 of Nine Months to Bear
God, is thatduston the coffee table?
“This is insane,” I mutter, even as I start scrubbing the table with my sleeve. “He’s not coming over for a home inspection. He’s coming to?—”
I can’t even finish the thought before heat rushes to my face.
I glance at my phone. It’s been nineteen minutes since his text.The rational part of my brain is screaming that I’m an idiot.
The other part, the one with a direct line of communication running between my legs, reminds me that my panties have been damp since his first message.
One issliiightlylouder than the other.
That being said, I’m horny, but not a complete and total moron. Not yet, at least. I could still lock the door. Turn off the porch light, close the blinds. I’ll claim my phone was hacked by spies and deny any knowledge of any “I’m too close”-esque messages.
I stop in front of the entryway mirror to run my fingers through my damp hair. “I’ll just tell him this was a bad idea. Yeah. That’s fine. Nice ‘n’ simple. ‘It was a bad idea, sorry. This deadbolt is staying deadbolted.’”
But even as the words echo off the walls, I’m turning towards the door. My fingers toy with the deadbolt, flipping it back and forth.
Unlocked.
Locked.
Freedom.
Fate.
I reach for my phone. “Better yet, let’s avoid this whole standoff on either side of the door. I’ll just tell him I’ve reconsidered. That my personal feelings can’t override the ethical implications of?—”
Footsteps cut my internal monologue short. Heavy, measured, inevitable.
My heart immediately dives into a full gymnastics routine in my chest. Before my brain can veto the decision, my hand frees the deadbolt.
When I pull the door open, time freezes.
Stefan stands bathed in the amber glow of the light. His hair is tousled, as if he’s been running his fingers through it—a rare glimpse of imperfection that makes my mouth go dry. His charcoal sweater clings to his shoulders and chest, revealing the hard planes beneath that my fingers itch to trace. His impossible blue-brown eyes are shot through with midnight. They pin me in place, and I watch his pupils dilate as they take in my damp hair, my flushed cheeks, the thin robe barely cinched at my waist.
I should be embarrassed by my state of undress. I should bemortifiedby the naked want I know is written across my face. The Olivia of this afternoon—the ultra-professional version of me with self-control and willpower—would be both of those things.
But tonight, I’m someone else.
I’m someone whocraves.
“Having second thoughts, Dr. Aster?” His voice sends ripples of awareness across my skin. The world beyond him blurs into insignificance—no traffic sounds, no neighbors.
Just us, suspended in this moment of electric possibility.
“Several thousand, actually.”
“And yet you opened the door.” He steps inside, not waiting for an invitation. The space between us evaporates until my back meets the wall. His scent—bergamot, gunpowder,power—floods my senses.
“This breaks every personal rule I have,” I whisper, fidgeting in place.
Stefan laughs. “We’re about to break a few you’ve never even heard of.”
I gulp. The sound is way too loud in the cramped space of my apartment entryway.
“Would you like me to leave?” His thumb traces my lower lip, feeling my involuntary tremor. “Say the word and I’ll go.”
“I could. I might.”
