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Never taking my eyes off the screen, I watch as Verity slowly, gently kisses me, over and over. I kiss her in return, tongue flicking out to taste her swollen lips. My aggression wanes, this woman drawing me into something more akin to lovemaking, my hips caught in a steady rhythm.

My hand slips into the same unhurried beat.

It almost feels like the man on the screen is wasting it. He doesn’t try to learn her. There’s no observation or testing. Where I’d have my wits about me, this guy is utterly lost, rocking into the cradle of her thighs in a strange, primal way. If it were me–the awake version of me–I’d work her over until she was a sloppy, exhausted mess. That’s what they want. To be known. Understood. Operated.

But Verity has her head thrown back, our bodies meeting like crashing waves, and I can see her nails digging divots into my biceps just as much as I feel the twinge of them still there.

I know I’m about to come when the aggression starts up again.

The muscles in my scarred back tense and flex as I slam into her, her fingers tangling in my hair. I imagine it at the same time I observe it, the way my cock must swell inside that ripe, slick pussy. On the screen, she’s grabbing my face in her hands, mouth forming the words:

“Lagan, look at me.”

When I do, my body seizes, ass flexing as I begin pumping into her. Filling her sweet, fertile cunt with every drop of my seed, shooting it deep into her cervix as our gazes hold.

Creating.

“Oh fuck,” I grunt, reaching for the cup. It tumbles, knocking over. “Son of afuck!” My eyes are transfixed on the screen, terrified to look away, but then my fingers grip the lip of the cup and I hold it under the desk, trembling with exhilaration. The groan that follows is too much for the meager amount of cum I manage to get in the receptacle, but it’s enough.

I exhale, leaning back, my dick flaccid and weak once again.

It has to be enough.

She’sin the stirrups when I arrive.

Even though I want to pause, taking in the sight of her naked body, I go fluidly for the sink, methodically washing my hands. The routine of it is soothing, calming, suds and warmth. Sometimes it’s hard to remember if I always wanted to be a surgeon, or if I just wanted to be whathewanted me to be. Other times, like right now, glancing over at my Princess’ nervously flexing toes, I can almost feel it like a calling. Something I’m good at, that’s useful.

Reaching for the box of latex gloves, I ready myself for stepping between her bare, milky thighs. The room is the same. Bright white, stainless steel and chrome. Medical grade equipment and instruments are carefully organized around us. But when she looks up at me, those big green eyes and those soft pink lips, things feel different.

I keep thinking about that kiss from this morning.

“Any changes this week?” I ask, grabbing the clipboard where I document her vitals.

She nibbles for a moment on her lip. “I may be ovulating.”

I turn the page to the calendar, marked with her cycle and creation schedule. “Impossible.”

She clutches her hand over her stomach and shrugs. “There was some discharge when I went to the bathroom today.”

I make a note and set the clipboard on the table next to her, finally allowing my eyes to drink her in. “It’s possibly just regular post-menstruation. Maybe even the remains of my deposit.” My gaze dips to her center at the thought of leaving a piece of myself with her. And then they rise to her flat belly at the thought of leavingmorethan just a piece. “The other option is an infection. You and Wicker did have sex in a pool, which was highly unsanitary.”

Her cheeks turn pink at the mention of my brother and her having sex. I’m not sure if it’s because I know the specifics or if there’s something that transpired between them that’s causing a flush.

Either way, I adjust my gloves. “I should check you for an infection.”

“There’s no infection,” she says, the tendons in her thighs tensing. “I feel fine.”

“Still.” I edge in closer, hovering my hands over her belly, before pressing gently against her abdomen. I can’t remember when she stopped flinching at my cold, clinical touch, but she doesn’t flinch now. “Feel anything? Any tenderness?”

Staring up at the ceiling, she shakes her head. “No.”

I go lower, pressing the soft flesh between her hips. “How about here?”

She sighs, fingers twisting together where they rest on her upper stomach. “I’m fine, Lex.”

But as I inspect her body, I feel a familiar apprehension. I’ve never been responsible for another body before. She’s laid out before me like a sacrifice, legs open, eyes guileless, and when my fingers begin wandering, I tell myself that’s why. The responsibility. The weight of it. Is this bruise on her hip old or new? When I brush against her pubic mound, does her belly cave because she’s ticklish, or because there’s discomfort? The hair growing in–should it be thicker? Why is she so warm? Does she have a fever?

But instead of taking her temperature, I find my fingers skating lower, brain fogging over when I caress her plump labia. It’s getting harder and harder to see her here like this and not think about what’s happening inside.