Page 13

Harrison

W ith the way Lovie’s been avoiding me the past few weeks, the last thing I expect is for her to find me in my office, step in, and close the door behind her.

I can’t help it—my cock jumps immediately.

Every night, I dream about her on that fucking air plane. I dream about getting my mouth on her again, tasting her, feeling her come around me.

And now here she is.

But she deviates from my imagination by not immediately unbuttoning her top, and instead stalking up to me and slapping a manila folder down on my desk.

“What’s this?” I glance up at her, eyebrows rising, as I reach across the desk and slide the folder toward me. It’s pretty thick, and when I flip it open, the title page stares at me.

Insemination Engagement Agreement and Provisions .

A laugh bubbles out of me, but when I look up at Lovie sitting across from me, she’s deathly serious, her jaw set. “Are you serious?” I ask, picking it up. “A contract?”

It’s early in the morning—early enough that not even the most serious players are here yet. Bright yellow sunshine travels in through the blinds behind me, sending stripes of color over the wall and closed door behind Lovie.

Once again, we’re alone.

“I think it’s pertinent,” she says, tilting her head slightly, clearing her throat. There’s that string inside her again, going taut. I want to pluck it, pull it out, get her to melt for me again.

“Pertinent?”

“You would have no parental rights,” she says, clearing her throat again, uncrossing her legs, scooting forward, and flipping through the contract in front of me, then pointing at section 1B. She’s written a contract, and there are sections in it.

It’s intimidating. It’s sexy as hell.

“Works for me,” I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms, even as something twinges in my chest. “Little late for kids.”

It comes out tight, but it’s the truth. It’s too late for me. Eliza’s face flickers into my head, her expression when she talked about getting pregnant, but I push it away. I’m too old for kids now. Besides, I have my coaching career to focus on.

Her eyes catch mine and hold them for a second, and something hangs in the air between us. Running my tongue over my teeth, I lean forward again, pushing through the moment. “What else is in this contract?”

“Well,” she says, flipping through it and never breaking eye contact with me.

“I think you should read through it, but the most important parts are highlighted.” She flips a few pages, “Section one is about parental rights and expectations following pregnancy. When and if I get pregnant, our agreement is over.”

“Alright,” I agree, shrugging. “What else?”

She licks her thumb, and my eyes lock on the movement. I’d sign the fucking thing right now, but she clearly wants to go through it together, so I force the lust down my throat and watch her as she tabs through another page.

“Article two focuses on the details of the arrangement. My fertility schedule is in here. No sex during menstruation, two sessions outside of ovulation, and at least four sessions during ovulation.”

I eye the color-coded calendar in front of me, then glance up at her, eyes skimming over the flush on her cheeks, the gentle slope of her blouse, just covering her chest.

“Ovulation lasts six days,” I say, leaning forward, “Why not aim for six sessions, then?”

That flush gets deeper. “Well—I thought that would be asking too much. That’s basically a week straight of…sessions.”

I bite my tongue to keep from laughing. As ridiculous and amusing as this is, the idea of a week straight with her—coming to her hotel during away games, going home to her in-between—it sounds pretty fucking good to me.

Maybe I could convince her to consider two sessions a day. Morning and night, just like an effective prescription—a good, solid dosing.

Shrugging, I say, “I’m game if you are, Lovie. I want you to know I’m taking this very seriously.”

She coughs, shakes her head, a lock of hair falling loose from her bun. “Section one details that you get genetic testing before any sessions occur. Here is a clinic,” she reaches into her pocket and produces a card. “You can call to schedule it. Sooner than later is preferred.”

“I’ll do you one better,” I say, taking her card and reaching into my desk, pulling out a fresh report from the bottom drawer and dropping it on the desk in front of her.

“What’s this?”

It’s my genetic mapping from when Eliza and I started to do this stuff.

“Figured I’d get ahead of you on this one.” I tap the papers, looking at her from under my brow. “Everything’s in here—low chances for disease, good markers. You are getting a very nice product for free, Lovie.”

“Ha,” she raises her eyebrows. “What about?—”

I grab the second packet and drop it on the desk, “Just tested for STDs at my appointment last week. It’s all here.”

“Okay.” Her eyes are glued to the papers.

“Take them,” I say, waving a hand at the desk. “They’re all yours, Lovie.”

She nods and gathers them up, tucking them into the folder, then returns her focus to the contract in front of us, like this is a real meeting and we’re getting behind on time.

“Section four is essentially an NDA.” Lovie straightens up, catching my gaze again. “It’s the most important part. We tell nobody about this, and we’re discreet. Each of us does everything in our power to ensure the other people in our lives don’t find out about this.”

I watch her for a moment, thinking about my empty apartment. Thinking about her in that airport, flying alone. I’d wager neither of us has to worry about letting this slip to the other people around our homes.

But I only nod, and for the next hour, she goes through the rest of the contract with me. She’s thought of every legal loophole, every condition you could possibly include. Nobody else during this—she doesn’t want to risk STDs. It’s a fair ask.

And I haven’t been able to think about anybody but her since that night in first class.

“This agreement is about sperm,” Lovie says, her voice slightly hoarse from talking.

She sits back in her chair, and my eyes drop to her chest, the blouse that’s dipped lower and lower during this conversation, now showing the very top of a lacy black bra.

“Section 2B specifies that either of us can end this at any time, and the other has to agree to immediately leave them alone. It’s not a breakup—just the severance of a contract. No calls, no texts. No contact at all.”

Maybe I should be offended at the thought of being used like a racehorse, serving her until she no longer needs me, but there’s something about it that makes my blood hot. A real no-strings attachment.

I don’t have to worry about a girl showing up to my apartment in tears, begging me to get serious about the relationship. I can have fun with Lovie, and she can get her baby.

Everybody wins.

When I nod, Lovie stands, clicking her pen.

“Wait,” I hold up a hand, look her in the eye. “I want to add my own clause in here.”

She pauses, pen in the air, and finds my eyes. “What?”

“I do this, and you okay the program.”

“Harrison, I’ve already told you?—”

“I know what you said.” I glance at the contract, then back at her. She wants this—it’s clear. When her nose wrinkles up in frustration, I have to fight the urge not to give in to what she wants.

This is my chance to make it happen, and I’m going to take it.

“Is there anything else I could do instead?”

I could make a joke about the things I’d like to do with her, but that’s already part of the deal. Instead, I just shake my head, eyes intent on her.

“This is what I want, Lovie. Take it or leave it.”

Lovie blinks, glances down at the paper, seems to consider it. Time stretches, then she finally lets out a breath and nods. “Okay. I will consider?—”

“Not consider. Commit to.”

Her jaw ticks, and I work to keep the smirk from my face.

“Harrison, I’m still not sure it’s the best use of resources.” I make a face at her, and she shakes her head. “If it’s that important to you…fine.”

“Send me an email right now, saying you’re committing to it,” I say, nodding at the phone I can see in her pocket. “That you want to set up a meeting to go over the details.”

She laughs, shakes her head, pulling the phone out. “Master negotiator.”

“That’s right.”

After she sends the email and shows it to me, I nod, and she bends over again, clicking the pen and writing her name in big, feminine loops across the bottom of the page. I watch her, addicted to the way she moves, my cock pressing against the seam of my pants with a determination.

Standing, I lean in from behind her, pop open a pen with my teeth, and scrawl my signature right below hers on the paper.

“Lovie,” I say, already feeling my voice getting thick. I’m half-hard now, and she lets out a breath, rocking back against me, almost like she can’t keep her body from falling into me. “According to that calendar, it looks like you’re ovulating now.”

“Well, starting tomorrow, but?—”

Dropping my mouth to the crook of her neck, I kiss the skin there, soft and tender, loving the way I feel the shivers moving through her body at the touch.

“One thing about me, Lovie, is that I’m a chronic overperformer,” I murmur, dropping one hand down to her waist, using the other to pull her hair to the side, giving my lips better command over her neck.

She lets out a noise but doesn’t manage any words. When I push into her, pressing my cock against her ass, she holds firm, pressing right back into me.

“I want to fuck you over my desk,” I say, bringing my lips to her earlobe and dropping my voice to the quietest whisper I can manage. “I’m going to give you exactly what you want, baby.”

“Okay,” she rasps. Then, her matter-of-fact voice surfacing for just a moment, she tips her head so her lips are just near mine and says, “Lock the door.”