Page 63 of Nine Months to Bear
“But you won’t.”
“No,” I agree. “I won’t.”
Then he’s kissing me, and there’s no more negotiating left to do. His hands cup my face, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss, and I melt into him like I’ve been waiting for this my entire life.
Stefan kicks the door shut behind him. He walks me backward into the apartment without breaking the kiss. His hands tangle in my hair as we go stumbling and bumbling toward the couch.
Alarm bells ring distantly in my mind as his intentions become clear. If he gets me horizontal, it’s over. I’ll be gone.
“Wait!” I break away, breathless and dizzy. “The contract. We haven’t— I haven’t signed anything.”
I was pissed about him making such a big deal about the contract this afternoon, but now, it’s my last remaining lifeline.
Stefan blinks. For a moment, he seems genuinely confused, like the concept of paperwork is foreign to him. Then frustration flashes across his face.
It’s his own stupid insistence on the dotted line that’s ruining this. He has only himself to blame.
“Fucking Christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair.
The look he gives me is almost accusatory. I’m the nerdy kid reminding the teacher about homework that he was hoping would be forgotten.
It’s kind of amusing, honestly, seeing a man like him brought to heel by his own choices. I bite my lip so I don’t laugh, but then he gives me a heated look that turns that laugh into a strangled moan instead.
He spots the manila folder on my coffee table—the same one he pressed into my hand in my office two days ago. Bending gracefully, he snatches it up and guides me into the kitchen.
“Let’s fix that then,” he murmurs, plucking a pen from the cup beside my fruit bowl.
In one fluid motion, he lifts me onto the counter and steps between my thighs. The cold granite against my overheated skin makes me gasp. Although, on second thought, his hands sliding up beneath the hem of my robe might also play a role in the gasping.
He sets the contract beside me and offers the pen. “Sign it.”
“Is this coercion, Mr. Safonov?” I manage to sound almost composed, despite his hand sliding higher beneath my robe. He’s about an inch away from discovering my absolute lack of underwear.
“I prefer ‘informed consent.’ So you know exactly what you’re getting into.”
My laugh turns into a moan as his fingers find the slick evidence of my arousal. Without breaking eye contact, he lowers himself to one knee, presses my knees apart, and kisses up the inside of my thigh.
“Stefan, I?—”
But the swipe of his tongue devastates any hope I have of speaking. Or protesting. Or keeping a cool head. He kisses my core the same way he kissed my mouth—like there’s not a damn thing else in the world he’d rather be doing.
Then he stops. Looking up at me, he grins—his lips wet and shining—and asks, “Are you going to sign, Doctor?”
“You’re cheating,” I manage between moans.
I feel his chuckle against my inner thigh. He does something with his tongue that makes me see stars. “I’ve barely gotten started. Sign that contract, and I won’t hold back.”
He plunges his tongue into me. My eyes roll back in my head.
Thisis holding back?
I blindly fumble for the pen and scrawl my signature across the dotted line—or what I hope is the dotted line—just as he scoops two hands under my butt and pulls me onto his mouth.
“I’m— I’m— I’m?—”
Comingis what I would say if I could speak. Since I can’t, I just curl my fingers through his hair, arch off the counter, and moan as an orgasm rips through me like a sonic fucking boom.
I’m hot. I’m shivering. I’m melting. I’m drifting through a faraway land made of clouds and cotton candy.
