Page 32 of Unwilling Vow (Mafia Marriages 4)

I’m not the most patient man. And the fact I want this more than almost anything in the world makes it even more painful.

I want a son to follow in my footsteps.

“I was just about to put on dinner. I assume you haven’t eaten yet?” I ask.

Wordlessly, Olivia shakes her head. There’s a faint smile on her lips. “Not yet.”

“It’s still early,” I say.

She must have just gotten off work and come straight here from the office. She’s dressed in a black pencil skirt and dark red blouse that hugs her breasts.

I try not to stare.

I always try to maintain professionalism with all of my employees. But she’s the only one trying to get pregnant with my child.

Maybe it is biology to blame, the fact that while I’m not sleeping with her, my seed is still planted in her womb. Just being in her proximity, I have to take a step back.

I want to back her up against the wall, push her skirt up, and rip her panties free. Then I’d bury my cock deep inside of her.

The room is sweltering.

I head for the thermostat and adjust the temperature, cooling it down a degree.

“Come in, make yourself at home,” I say as I lead her into the kitchen.

“What’s for dinner?” she asks.

There’s an innocence about her.

Olivia is young, far younger than most of the women I’ve slept with recently. Just imagining her naked feels like I’m robbing the cradle, but she’s well over eighteen. Hell, she’s old enough to drink legally.

“Filet mignon, green beans, with couscous and a side of salad.” I’ve already figured out the menu for this evening. I had to pick up all the ingredients at the grocery store before returning home.

Her tongue darts out and swipes across her top lip. “It all sounds delicious.”

I stare at her.

Fuck.

She looks delicious.

Inwardly, I groan and clear my throat. I cannot have feelings for her. If I act on it, the surrogacy would have to end. The past eight months would be wasted, all for a little piece of ass.

I don’t do relationships. I have an aversion to them, so fucking her once for a good time seems like an even bigger waste.

I’d hate myself tomorrow.

I grab the steak from the fridge and unwrap it from the butcher’s paper, placing it on a plate to season.

“How did you learn to cook?” Olivia asks. She approaches the sink and washes her hands.

Does she plan on helping?

“My father taught me,” I say. “He loved grilling anything and everything imaginable. Some of his concoctions were wonderful, but a few were downright dreadful.”

Olivia chuckles under her breath. “Like what?”

“Fruit salad, for instance, is not great on the grill. Sure, you can grill up a few pineapples to top on your meat, but an entire fruit salad grilled in a foil bag was not a favorite.”

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