Page 60 of Nine Months to Bear

OLIVIA:Is this how you speak to all your business associates?

STEFAN:Only the ones I’ve imagined bent over my desk since our first meeting.

I bite down on my lower lip to keep from sighing. My robe falls open a little more. Fingertips brush unconsciously over heated skin.

OLIVIA:This is inappropriate.

STEFAN:Then stop texting me back.

He’s right. I should stop this now. But before I can summon the willpower, he sends another message.

STEFAN:What are you wearing, Doctor? For research purposes, of course.

The wine, the late hour, the safety of digital distance—they all conspire against my better judgment.

OLIVIA:A silk robe.

Just the robe?

I hesitate only briefly.Yes.

Are you wet, Olivia?

I’m horrified to find myself answering truthfully:Yes.

I can help with that,he writes.The proper application of pressure and friction has been clinically proven effective. Would you like a demonstration, Doctor?

I laugh despite myself. He’s mocking me. It ought to piss me off. Instead… Instead…

Fuck me, I’m dripping.

OLIVIA:You’re ridiculous.

OLIVIA:…Tell me more.

The three dots appear. I’ve never been more on the edge of my seat for a text.

STEFAN:First, I’d strip the silk robe off of you, let it pool at your feet. I’d back you against the nearest wall, just like I did in your office. Remember how your breath hitched when I boxed you in? I do. But thistime, there’d be nothing between us. I’d let my hands explore every inch of you.

Then what?I can’t even hide how desperate I am for him to keep going.

STEFAN:My fingers would trace every curve. I’d memorize which touches make you gasp, which make you moan. I wouldn’t stop until you came apart in my hands, just like you did on my desk. Only this time, I’d go SLOW.

The wine glass sits forgotten on my coffee table as I read. I tell myself it’s the alcohol, the stress, the long day—anything but the raw magnetism of Stefan Safonov that’s making me touch myself to his words.

STEFAN:Are you touching yourself, Olivia?

I can’t stop the smile that curves my mouth. Cocky bastard thinks he knows everything.Yes.

Tell me how. Be specific.

I close my eyes, embarrassment warring with arousal.I’m tracing small circles. Thinking about your hands instead of mine.

STEFAN:Imagining those injured knuckles you were so fascinated by today? The ones you kept staring at, wondering what—or who—I’d been hitting?

God, he really does miss nothing.Yes.

Did that turn you on? Knowing my hands had done violence just hours before touching you?