Page 54 of Nine Months to Bear
Yet the moment she closes her office door, all those plans go up in smoke.
Because I can smell her in here. I smell her flowers and her perfume, and beneath that, the tang of her sweat, her hair.
A hunger rumbles deep inside of me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” She drops my arm like it burns. “We agreed to keep a low profile. No unscheduled visits. No public appearances together. Those wereyourterms.”
“We agreed, but we don’t actually have an arrangement yet. Nothing has been signed.”
“Don’t play semantic games with me,” she snaps. “We had an understanding.”
“An understanding isn’t a contract, Dr. Aster.”
I turn away from her to give myself a moment to breathe—and to will my cock to fucking relax.
At first glance, everything is exactly as it should be. White orchids arranged near the window. Color-coded files stacked neatly on well-dusted shelves. Even her pens stand at crisp, military attention in a crystal vase, organized by color and height.
It’s only when you look close that the flaws appear.
The furniture is quality—solid wood desk, ergonomic chair—but the leather is cracking, the desk surface marred with deep scratches. Each of the electrical outlets I can see have exposedwiring where someone has attempted some home-baked repairs. Her medical diplomas are a reflection of hundreds of thousands forked over to impressive schools—but they hang in cheap frames on the wall.
It all leads to one inevitable conclusion: My doctor likes control, but she’s losing it—financially, at least. Sexually and emotionally, soon enough. How delicious it had been to strip that control away, piece by piece, in my office.
“Are you backing out?” she whispers. There’s a sudden note of vulnerability in her voice that wasn’t there out in the hall.
“On the contrary—” I produce a folder from my jacket. “—I’m adding a clause. Paternity verification.”
Her spine straightens with indignation. “Excuse me?”
“Standard business practice. I won’t raise another man’s child.”
“You think I’d—” Her voice cracks as she fumbles for the right words. “That I’msleeping around?That I’d lie about—about?—”
Her gaze drops to my hand, where yesterday’s interrogation left my knuckles raw and split. The shift is immediate—doctor mode engaging.
“For God’s sake,” she mutters, grabbing my wrist and turning my hand over, “what did you do to yourself?”
“It’s nothing.”
“‘Nothing’ doesn’t bleed through bandages, wiseass.”
Then she’s pulling me to the small sink in the corner of her office. I could resist—fuck, maybe evenshouldresist—but the delicate pressure of her fingers on my skin has me following like a tamed wolf.
There’s something addictive about watching Dr. Aster in her element. Men in my organization would sooner jump off a bridge than manhandle me the way she does. Most people sense the danger lurking beneath my tailored suits and expensive watches.
Olivia either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
I’m not sure which is more intriguing.
She’s scowling like I’m irritating her, but her touch is gentle. The half-assed bandage I’d put on earlier comes away with her careful pulling, revealing the raw mess beneath.
I look more at her face than at her hands, though. The fluorescent light above her sink flickers intermittently and casts shadows that dance across her cheekbones.
She looks good like this. Focused. Intent.
Not as good as when her eyes are rolling back in her head while she comes beneath me, of course. But still good.
“This is ‘nothing’?” she asks in disbelief when she sees the full extent of the damage.
