Chapter 23 Stefan
STEFAN
I prowl through the lobby of Aster Fertility Solutions like I own it—which, if my plans continue on schedule, I soon will.
My knuckles still throb beneath the bandages I hastily applied less than thirty minutes ago. But it’s nothing compared to what the informant is feeling. When the man refused to give me any information, I told Taras to take care of him.
So if he isn’t dead yet, he will be soon.
The receptionist glances up from her computer with a practiced smile. “Welcome to Aster Fertility Solutions. Do you have an appointment?” She’s initially professional, until her eyes meet mine—and recognition dawns.
When she realizes who I am, the transformation is immediate. Her polite smile morphs into something knowing. Almost gleeful.
“Mr. Safonov, isn’t it?” She stands and extends her hand. “I’m Camille, Olivia’s office manager, nurse, and occasional therapist.”
I take her hand, glancing around for Olivia. “A pleasure.”
“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine.” Her eyes flicker to my bandaged knuckles, then back to my face. Not much for subtlety, this one. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
It amuses me to imagine how exactly that went. What has Olivia shared about me? Did she tell her office manager about our agreement? About our little tryst in my office? Did she mention how she trembled under my hands until she shuddered, crumbled, came hard?
Before I can start asking indecent questions, there’s motion. Olivia emerges from a hallway. She freezes mid-step when she spots me. A patient file nearly slips from her fingers.
As Camille and I both watch, her face shifts from shock to fury.
“Sorry, Dr. Aster,” Camille drawls, clearly enjoying the tension. “Didn’t realize you had any appointments with Russian royalty today.”
“I don’t,” Olivia replies tightly. She marches up and grabs my arm. “Mr. Safonov was just dropping off some… investment paperwork.”
Camille’s perfectly waxed eyebrow rises as she looks at my knuckles again. “Oh yeah? What kind of ‘investing’ are you into these days, Liv?”
“Not now, Cam.” Olivia’s fingers dig deeper into my bicep as she steers me toward her office.
“Take your time,” Camille calls after us. “I’ll reschedule your next appointment… again.”
I’m here for a purpose, I remind myself. To add paternity verification to our contract. To ensure she can’t manipulate me the way Taras warned she might. To protect my interests.
Yet the moment she closes her office door, all those plans go up in smoke.
Because I can smell her in here. I smell her flowers and her perfume, and beneath that, the tang of her sweat, her hair.
A hunger rumbles deep inside of me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” She drops my arm like it burns. “We agreed to keep a low profile. No unscheduled visits. No public appearances together. Those were your terms.”
“We agreed, but we don’t actually have an arrangement yet. Nothing has been signed.”
“Don’t play semantic games with me,” she snaps. “We had an understanding.”
“An understanding isn’t a contract, Dr. Aster.”
I turn away from her to give myself a moment to breathe—and to will my cock to fucking relax.
At first glance, everything is exactly as it should be. White orchids arranged near the window. Color-coded files stacked neatly on well-dusted shelves. Even her pens stand at crisp, military attention in a crystal vase, organized by color and height.
It’s only when you look close that the flaws appear.
The furniture is quality—solid wood desk, ergonomic chair—but the leather is cracking, the desk surface marred with deep scratches.
Each of the electrical outlets I can see have exposed wiring where someone has attempted some home-baked repairs.
Her medical diplomas are a reflection of hundreds of thousands forked over to impressive schools—but they hang in cheap frames on the wall.
It all leads to one inevitable conclusion: My doctor likes control, but she’s losing it—financially, at least. Sexually and emotionally, soon enough. How delicious it had been to strip that control away, piece by piece, in my office.
“Are you backing out?” she whispers. There’s a sudden note of vulnerability in her voice that wasn’t there out in the hall.
“On the contrary—” I produce a folder from my jacket. “—I’m adding a clause. Paternity verification.”
Her spine straightens with indignation. “Excuse me?”
“Standard business practice. I won’t raise another man’s child.”
“You think I’d—” Her voice cracks as she fumbles for the right words. “That I’m sleeping around? That I’d lie about—about—”
Her gaze drops to my hand, where yesterday’s interrogation left my knuckles raw and split. The shift is immediate—doctor mode engaging.
“For God’s sake,” she mutters, grabbing my wrist and turning my hand over, “what did you do to yourself?”
“It’s nothing.”
“‘Nothing’ doesn’t bleed through bandages, wiseass.”
Then she’s pulling me to the small sink in the corner of her office. I could resist—fuck, maybe even should resist—but the delicate pressure of her fingers on my skin has me following like a tamed wolf.
There’s something addictive about watching Dr. Aster in her element. Men in my organization would sooner jump off a bridge than manhandle me the way she does. Most people sense the danger lurking beneath my tailored suits and expensive watches.
Olivia either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
I’m not sure which is more intriguing.
She’s scowling like I’m irritating her, but her touch is gentle. The half-assed bandage I’d put on earlier comes away with her careful pulling, revealing the raw mess beneath.
I look more at her face than at her hands, though. The fluorescent light above her sink flickers intermittently and casts shadows that dance across her cheekbones.
She looks good like this. Focused. Intent.
Not as good as when her eyes are rolling back in her head while she comes beneath me, of course. But still good.
“This is ‘nothing’?” she asks in disbelief when she sees the full extent of the damage.
“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 her with 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 tight bun, 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, I do make 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.
Then she clicks her tongue and all the depraved fantasies vanish.
I stay leaning against the desk. She turns to her cabinet and retrieves a small plastic cup, identical to the one I’d left unused in my office. She holds it out for me to take.
“Same instructions as before,” she says flatly. “Abstain for twenty-four hours beforehand for optimal count.”
I take the cup. Our fingertips touch. Just barely, just for a moment. “And if I prefer the traditional method?”
A flush creeps up her neck, but her gaze remains steady. “This is a medical procedure, Mr. Safonov. A contractual arrangement. Not a hookup.”
I beg to fucking differ. I’ve seen you come on my cock, Doctor. I’ve tasted your sweetness off my fingertips. Nothing about this is “medical” anymore.
I step closer. “Is that why you’re trembling?”
Her eyes widen.
For a moment, I think she might finally admit that something is percolating between us.
She wants “medical”? She wants “science?” Well, there’s some fucked-up chemistry in the air, and it’s driving me insane.
The need to taste her is like coppery blood in my mouth.
My fingertips itch and burn, my cock aches, every breath is agony.
It’d be such an easy solution, too. We’ve done it before. She wanted it. I wanted it. We both got what we needed from it.
And so it could happen again, if we so chose. One gentle tug and she’d be in my arms, against my chest, under my mouth. One reach of my hand and she’d be on her knees, on her back, out of my fucking dreams.
I lean in.
She leans in.
I lean closer.
She leans closer.
And…
She steps back. No, lunges back, as if from the lip of a cliff. She snatches up the folder I brought and holds it between us like a shield. Anything she can do to get away from me.
“I’ll review these terms. If there’s anything I object to, I’ll let you know before tomorrow.”
I’m relieved. I’m disappointed. I’m neither. I’m both. “Very well, Doctor.”
As I turn to leave, she calls out, “And Stefan?”
I pause, hand on the doorknob.
“Next time you want to add contract clauses, a phone call would suffice.”
I can’t help my smirk as I turn to look at her again. “Now, where would be the fun in that?”