Page 55 of Nine Months to Bear

“It was an accident.”

She snorts. “Between your fist and someone’s face, maybe.” She reaches into a drawer for a first aid kit, then points across the room. “Go sit.”

Still amused by this whole production, I do as she says. I perch on the edge of her desk and she comes to stand between my spread legs.

The sting of her dabbing antiseptic on the open wounds is nothing compared to the burn of having her so close. I inhale herwith each breath. This close, I can see gold flecks in her amber eyes, the almost invisible freckle at the corner of her mouth. Every pore, every flyaway, every rigid line of tension.

Fuck, she looks good like this. I can’t stop thinking that same idiotic thought again and again.

She looks good.

She looks good.

She looks so goddamn good.

“This should be sterile, but it’s going to hurt,” she warns. She doesn’t wait for my answer before she presses a medicated pad against the worst of the splits.

I don’t flinch. “I’ve had worse.”

“I believe that.” She squints down. “These look like they were made by teeth. Human teeth.”

My silence is all she needs to hear.

“Christ.” She exhales, her warm breath ghosting across my damaged skin. “Who did you hit?”

“Someone who deserved it.”

Her eyes flick up to mine, searching. I see the moment she decides not to pursue it.

Good. Some questions are better left unanswered.

“You’re impossible. Hold this.” She settles my thumb over the gauze pad while she unwraps fresh bandages. The motion brings our heads closer together. A strand of her hair escapes its tightbun, tickling my wrist. I fight the urge to tuck it back, to trace the elegant curve of her ear.

I’m fighting a lot of fucking urges right now.

When the bandage is free of its wrapping, she starts winding it around my hand. Each brush of her against me sends electricity up my arm. I notice her breaths getting shorter, tenser. So are mine. The crackle in the air feels like an oncoming storm.

She finishes wrapping and secures the bandage with medical tape, but her fingers linger behind even when the job is done.

She drags her eyes up to meet mine. I look back. We’re touching hand to hand, but it’s the eye contact that feels more sexual and intense than anything else. We’re caught in a moment that feels endless. Her pulse flutters visibly at the base of her throat. I could lean forward, taste that pulse point, pull her onto my lap, and…

“There.” She releases my hand abruptly. “Try not to punch any more walls. Or people.”

Flexing my fingers, I say, “I make no promises, Doctor.”

Olivia’s eyes flash. “Well, Idomake promises. And when I do, I mean them.” She takes a step back, arms crossing over her chest. As many barriers as possible between us. “I don’t like having my honor doubted.”

To my surprise, she actually sounds offended. And for a moment, I almost believe her, almost regret the paternity clause.

“Almost” being the operative word there.

“Then we understand each other,” I growl.

She studies me a moment longer, then seems to come to a decision. “Fine. I want to read through the new clause first, but I’ll sign the contract, like I already said I would. We don’t have time to waste anyway—I’m already in my fertile period.”

That’s all it takes to send my body’s entire quantity of blood rushing south. Images flood my mind: Olivia bent over her pristine desk, her careful bun coming undone as I take her from behind.

My fingers itch to reach for her, to test if she’s already wet, already ready. The thought of her carrying my child—no, better yet, conceiving it right here, right now—is a fucking high like I’ve never felt before.