Page 8 of Baby Proposal
She looks around, and the lace covering on her dress shifts over her skin. Her hair is a cascade of caramel and sunshine reaching halfway down her back, a wave giving it movement even when she’s still, as she is now, her hands clasped at her waist.
I close the door behind us and I’m suddenly stumped. This isn’t a date. It isn’t a work setting.
I’m way out of my depth.
Things I’m good at: managing my men so they are effective in my illegal businesses, killing people who cross me, generating excessive amounts of money, ruthlessly pursuing goals.
What I have zero experience of: seducing women, making anyone care about me, being anything but alone.
What is the point of all this power if I can’t take what I most want?
Right. So. What’s being a good host, beginner level? “Drink?”
She jolts. “Alcohol? No. No thanks.”
“I was thinking more of coffee. Tea. Fruit juice. You know, normal things for four pm on a Monday.”
She huffs with laughter. “This is not normal.”
And the way she peeks at my apartment from under her lashes when she says that makes me prickle with discomfort.
She’s not relaxed.
“I’ll get a different place for us to live,” I say impulsively. “A house in the countryside with a big garden.”
For a second her eyes light, then she looks away. “This is fine.”
“Why don’t you sit down?”
Her gaze flicks between the breakfast barstools, the dining table that seats twelve, the sitting area with smooth white leather sofas, and the door that leads to the bedrooms. “Where?”
On my face. On my cock. My fingers would do, in a pinch. “Anywhere.”
She chooses the largest of the sofas, the one with matcha tea green cushions, but perches on the edge as if it’s a stool.
I make two cups of tea, like a clichéd anxious British host rather than a mafia boss CEO.
“You know how I drink my tea,” she says as she takes a sip, shooting me a curious look.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I have this sense I could break this with the merest exhale. I know a lot about my beautiful assistant. Finding out what she likes is addictive, and I want more.
I hate that she feels so out of place here.
“Shouldn’t we—”
“How about—”
We both start and stop talking at the same moment. Our eyes meet and yeah. There it is. The flare of attraction and understanding as we look into each other’s eyes. It’s always like this. The line between us. She’s meant for me, and now she’ll be my wife.
On paper, I’ll have a claim. And I have two years to convince her to stay forever.
“You go first.”
“I’m a virgin,” she squeaks.
That stops me. Simultaneously, my blood is motionless, and yet all in my head, threatening me to black out for the first time in my life. Well, I say that. There’s a hell of a lot of blood in my cock too. Throbbing. Demanding.
I’ll be her first.
