Chapter 25 Olivia
OLIVIA
I squint at paragraph twenty-seven, subsection C of the contract spread across my coffee table. The words are really blurring together. I blame the second glass of wine, though the third and fourth might also be somewhat responsible.
Also at fault is the ridiculous complexity of this stunt he’s pulling. The paternity clause Stefan insisted on is unnecessarily detailed. Like, it’s beyond ridiculous. DNA verification requirements, chain of custody protocols for samples, multiple testing facilities, yada yada, so on and so forth.
You’d think I was planning to clone him.
There’s an idea. If there were two of him, you could have one in front and one in—
I swat the voice in my head far, far away.
My living room is too quiet. It’s impossible to focus in here. The soft ticking of my grandmother’s antique clock on the mantle only emphasizes how empty and lifeless it is.
I should have stayed at the office, but being there after hours always makes me feel like I’m turning into my mother. Seeing as how that’s a fate worse than death, I’ll deal with the silence.
Sighing, I refill my glass with the last dregs of the wine and try to remind myself why I’m doing this in a way that doesn’t make me feel like a sleazeball.
I’m not Dr. Walsh. I meant it when I told Camille that we’re better than her.
Rebecca Walsh seduced her way onto the hospital board, sleeping with key members to secure her contracts. She uses her body as currency.
That’s not what I’m doing. I’m in this arrangement with Stefan for my patients—the women who trust me with their deepest hopes. For Camille and the rest of my staff who depend on me for their livelihoods. For all the families we’ve yet to help create.
My agreement with Stefan is… okay, yeah, unconventional. That’s one not-unfair word for it.
But at its core, it’s about saving something worth saving.
Dr. Walsh only cares about saving herself.
Which is why I’m going to take his specimen cup when he delivers it, follow the procedure I’ve done countless times for others, and get this whole thing—pregnancy and creating human life, no big deal—over with as quickly as possible.
Then I’ll stop thinking about Stefan Safonov’s hands.
And his mouth.
And the smell that lights every neuron I have on fire.
That stuff will be ancient history, a forgotten bad dream. Once I’m pregnant with his child, we’ll maintain a purely professional relationship. Legal parties to a carefully drafted agreement.
And a child, of course.
A child. Fuck. A child.
My ovaries start conjuring up images of playdates in the park, of walking hand-in-hand with Stefan down the sidewalk while pushing along a dark-haired toddler in a stroller.
I take another swig of wine. Maybe I can drown the inappropriate thoughts. Because familial images of Stefan are inappropriate. Honestly, they might be even worse than the sex stuff.
This isn’t me. I don’t fantasize about clients. I organize. I plan. I succeed in my goals through careful preparation and attention to detail.
I do not get flustered over men.
As if he can read my mind—God help me, he probably can—my phone buzzes. His name is illuminated on the screen.
STEFAN: You said to wait twenty-four hours. I’m done waiting.
He’s right. It’s been over twenty-four hours since we were together.
It’s actually been two whole days, not that I’m counting, since his hands brushed mine, since I felt the sizzling energy between us, since I—okay, fine—since I went home that night and broke out my trusty vibrator in yet another ill-fated attempt to make the dirty thoughts go away.
Maybe I’m not so professional, after all.
I take another sip of wine and start typing. Are you asking me if you can fill the specimen cup tonight?
My phone pings again.
STEFAN: Not exactly. The specimen cup is my second choice. Actually, third.
There’s a sharp pang of jealousy as I consider what—or who—his first choice might be. Another woman? Which one? A supermodel? A ballerina? Rebecca Walsh? The thought makes my stomach clench uncomfortably.
Then he follows up: Your pussy. Your mouth. This cup. In that order.
My phone nearly slips from my suddenly damp fingers. I try to regain some semblance of control, but I’m shaking.
He just told me he wanted to come in my mouth, and I’m supposed to say… what? Yes, please?
I take another drink of wine, drowning the moan lodged in my throat and strangling that voice in the back of my head. I tie that voice down and lock it in the basement of Never Going to Fucking Happen.
OLIVIA: I think we should maintain professional boundaries going forward.
I say that as if there’s been any professional boundary so far. As if we haven’t literally fucked our way across the line in the sand. Even now, a dull ache builds in my lower abdomen.
STEFAN: Professional like the boundaries we established in my office?
I cringe, flush, gulp, panic all at once. My fingers are shaking as I text back.
OLIVIA: That was a momentary lapse in focus.
STEFAN: You have those a lot around me. Should I be worried? I want this medical procedure to be above board.
Only he could make that last word sound dirty.
He’s not done yet, either.
STEFAN: Tell me, Dr. Aster: Is it within “professional boundaries” to suck in your breath when your patient steps close to you?
What about when your trembling thumb brushed over the back of my hand in my office?
Or when your pupils dilated while telling me this wasn’t a hookup? Would you consider that “professional”?
Desire purrs low in my belly as I read. My free hand unconsciously tugs at the belt of my silk robe. I’m hot, that’s what it is. It’s warm in my house, and I’m overheating.
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 this time, 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?
I shouldn’t admit this. It’s twisted, wrong. But we’re past the point of pretty lies. Yes. It did.
STEFAN: You’re a surprise, Dr. Aster. So proper on the outside. So improper underneath. It’s intriguing.
If someone had told me a few weeks ago that Boston’s most infamous billionaire would find me “intriguing,” I would’ve laughed.
If someone had told me I’d be touching myself to a criminal’s sexts, I would’ve checked the nearest carbon monoxide detector.
But this is really, truly happening. My thighs are spread, my hand buried between my legs as I reread his messages. With eyes half-closed, body shaking, I fumble through a message.
I’m close, Stefan.
No, he orders. Be a good girl. Wait for me.
I try to slow my hand, but God, I’ve needed this release. This little glimpse of fantasy in the midst of the horror show of my life.
I’m not sure I can.
You can and you will. I want you to wait.
I remember what he said to me in his office, the words whispered against my neck as he held me on the edge. I want to see your face when you come apart for me.
The man likes control.
And I like giving it to him.
I slide a finger inside me. I’m sweat-slicked and trembling on the edge.
OLIVIA: I’m too close. I can’t wait.
STEFAN: I’m close, too. Thinking about how tight you felt around me.
I moan. It echoes in my empty apartment.
STEFAN: I might have to use my third choice after all.
The thought of him alone, jerking himself off to thoughts of me while I’m not there to witness his surrender—it drives me to the edge. Not of an orgasm, but of sanity itself.
Before I can stop myself, I’m texting him.
OLIVIA: I wish you were here.
His response is immediate.
Twenty minutes. Leave your door unlocked.