Page 93 of Nine Months to Bear

“Into what?” Camille’s grin is positively wicked. “Into letting you go to a meeting? Because it sure looks like you already used sex forsomething.”

She taps my neck, and my hand flies over the place where my collar has slipped low, revealing hickeys where Stefan’s mouth marked me last night.

I flush bright red, but Camille just laughs. “Don’t worry; I never judge. If a man was willing to do that to me, I’d go off the grid, too. Good boinking makes people do crazy things.”

Like accidentally start falling for your contractually obligated baby daddy.

But she’s not wrong: Sexdoesmake people do crazy things. And as I sit here and wonder just what the hell my next move should be, it occurs to me that maybe I’m not the only one feeling a little loopy this morning.

It takes two to tango, doesn’t it? So what if I’m not alone in this? What if I have a sneaking suspicion that Stefan might be just as lost in the hot-and-heavy madness of our arrangement as I am?

So fuck it. He’s not the only one who can throw a scheme together. If we can’t be alone in a room together without losing our minds—and our clothes—I might as well use it to my advantage.

Matter of fact, a big part of me is desperately looking forward to it.

I bite my lip to hide an eager smile. “Tell the client I’ll be there. No matter what it takes.”

39

STEFAN

The call that got me out of bed earlier than I would’ve liked turns out to be nothing. I’d received reports of an attack on Safonov Bratva property, but turns out, “attack” is a bit of a misnomer.

I arrive on site to see that the damage is nothing spectacular. A few broken windows, some spray-painted obscenities on the brick facade of my Charlestown warehouse. Run-of-the-mill vandalism, the kind that happens every day all over the city.

The important takeaway is that it’s nothing Bratva-related. Nothing that screams targeted hit or seems connected to whatever Iakov is cooking up with the feds.

I’m trying to work up some justified violent anger about the whole thing and I just can’t manage it.

Because it’s Olivia filling my head instead.

Specifically, Olivia as she looked sprawled across my sheets this morning, her dark hair a mess against my pillow, her naked body still marked from my teeth. I stood in the doorway as she slept,irritated by my own inability to look away. Irritated that, even unconscious, she commanded my attention.

It’s a hostile fucking takeover. The woman has invaded my home, my thoughts, and now, my self-control. I don’t like it.

I don’t like how long I stood there and looked at her while she slept. Head to toe, hip to lip. I looked at every goddamn bruise and hickey I left on her and reminisced about exactly how I made each one. I was so hard I felt light-headed.

I forced myself to leave before she woke. One sleepy smile from those lips and I would have crawled back into bed and stayed there to do it all over again.

Weakness.That’s what it is.

And I despise weakness, especially my own.

It makes no fucking sense. I’ve had her—several times now. Fast. Slow. Primal. Passionate. All the ways that usually sate my hunger.

I should be fucking done with her at this point. The obsession to claim her should be fading. That’s how it’s always worked before—conquest achieved, interest diminished. Onto the next.

But with Olivia, each taste onlysharpensmy hunger. The scientist in her would probably have a sterile explanation. Something about dopamine receptors or biological compatibility, some shit like that.

I just know it’s becoming a fucking liability.

When I get back home, I park in the garage and go straight to my office, bypassing the urge to go check on Olivia in my bedroom. I sit behind my desk, straighten reports that don’tneed straightening, and align my pen perfectly parallel to my notebook’s edge.

Control. Order. These are the foundations of my empire and my sanity.

They’re in short supply these days.

A message from Mikayla flashes on my screen:Weird comments appearing on AFS Instagram.She follows it with a few screen grabs of comments from anonymous accounts with blank avatars.“Sleeping your way to success, Dr. A?”and“How much does Safonov charge for his ‘special investments’?”