Page 86 of Nine Months to Bear

“Are you working with Walsh?”

“No.” His answer is immediate and firm. “She’s just an obstacle to my business interests.”

“And what exactly are those business interests?”

His eyes hold mine, but he doesn’t say a word.

“Feels like you can’t tell meanything,” I mumble.

I shouldn’t be disappointed. I never expected Stefan to let me in. I didn’t sign that contract expecting to get to know him.

But right now—no, not just right now; for far longer than I’m willing to admit—Iwantto know him.

Maybe that’s why, when his hand reaches out to cup my cheek, I lean into the warmth.

His eyes are huge and dark as he asks the last question I expected to hear right now: “Are you still in your fertile window?”

They’re clinical words, science-y words, but the heat surging underneath them is anything but that. I know what he’s doing: He’s letting me hide behind the things I can dissociate with. I can pretend this is work, even though it’s become…

… This.

“Yes,” I admit as my eyes flutter half-closed. “I am.”

He takes a step closer, erasing what little space remained between us. I can feel the heat radiating from his body now, smell the faint trace of expensive scotch on his breath.

“It would be foolish not to take advantage of it… if it could improve our chances.” The excuse is a flimsy veil for the hunger in his eyes.

“We shouldn’t,” I whisper.

But even as I say it, my hands are reaching for the open collar of his shirt. My fingers brush against warm skin, hard muscle.

He explores me, too. His thumb traces my lower lip, his eyes never leaving mine. I can feel his pulse pounding against my throat where his wrist rests.

“Say the word and I’ll stop,” he growls, just like he offered the very first time. “Tell me you don’t want this and it will end right now.”

I try. I swear I do. I wrack my brain hunting for those words, butStopisn’t something I’m capable of saying anymore.

Because Stefan Safonov—the man who can have anything—is looking at me like there’s nothing else in the world he could ever want.

That’s the reason—theonlyreason—I find myself shaking my head.

“I can’t say that,” I confess. “It wouldn’t be true.”

There’s a single breath of hesitation—a crackling moment balanced on the edge ofWill we, won’t we—before his mouth covers mine.

Then we both take the leap together.

37

OLIVIA

His tongue claims my mouth, drawing a soft moan from my throat that I barely recognize as my own. My fingers tangle in his hair to pull him closer, while his hands slide down my back to grip my hips.

This feels right. So much about the last few hours—days? weeks?—has felt wrong. But not this. Touching Stefan Safonov feelsright.

His hands find the zipper of my dress and tug it down. The whisper of metal sounds obscenely loud in the quiet hallway. Cool air kisses my exposed back as the fabric parts, but his palms are hot against my skin.

“Wait. Not… not here,” I gasp.