Chapter 4 The Agreement #2
The contract arrived the next morning by courier. Twelve pages of dense legal language. She read it three times. She called an attorney in Portland, Karen Chen, who handled family law and had no connection to the Thorne family.
Karen read it. She called back that afternoon.
"It's clean," Karen said. "The cottage transfer is straightforward. The trust is solid. Ten years of living expenses, no conditions. If you terminate the agreement, you keep everything. If you get pregnant, the trust converts to joint assets. He has given you more than most people would."
"Does it protect me?"
"It protects you better than a prenup. The only thing it doesn't cover is emotional damage. But no contract covers that."
Vesper thanked her and hung up. She sat at the desk with the contract and a pen.
Twelve pages. One month. Every fertile window. No clinics. No doctors. Just them.
She signed.
Her hand shook when she wrote her name. The ink was wet. She blew on it. She set the pen down.
She carried the contract to the east wing. She left it on his desk. She went back to her room.
She spent the afternoon drawing orchids. She drew the complicated ones, with layers and hidden chambers. She focused on the reproductive structures: the stigma, the anther, and the column where pollination happened.
Botany was full of sex. She knew plants reproduced, attracting pollinators, luring and seducing. She had spent her career illustrating it without thinking about what it meant.
Now, she thought about it.
At six, she heard his knock. She opened the door. He held the contract, her signature on the last page, his beside it.
"It's done," he said.
"It's done."
He looked at her, hunger banked but visible. "Your window started today."
"I know."
"Come to my room at eight."
She nodded, closed the door, and leaned against it. Her heart raced.
She showered, washed, and dried her hair.
She stood in the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, and stared at herself in the mirror.
She looked the same: same face, same body, same scars from surgeries two years ago.
Three small laparoscopic marks below her navel.
The doctors had told her she would never conceive.
She touched the scars, feeling them under her fingers. The doctors were wrong, or incomplete, or both.
She dressed in a tank top, underwear, and a loose shirt. She did not know what to wear for a breeding appointment. There was no protocol for this.
At eight, she walked to the east wing, down the hall to his door. She knocked.
He opened it. He'd changed into a white shirt and dark pants. His hair was still damp.
He waddled aside, and she walked in.
His room was minimal and clean. The bed was made. Candles flickered on the nightstand, casting warm light. She had not expected that.
"Is this okay?" he asked. "The candles. I didn't know if you'd want..."
"It's okay."
She stood in the middle of the room. He stood by the door. The signed, binding contract lay on his desk.
"So," she said.
"So."
"This is the part where it gets awkward."
"It doesn't have to."
"We signed a contract for you to get me pregnant. It's already awkward."
He moved toward her, slowly, giving her time to back away. She did not.
"We don't have to do this tonight," he said. "We can wait. Get comfortable."
"I'm not going to get comfortable. I'm going to be nervous the entire month. Let's just do it."
He stopped. "That's not how I want this to go."
"How do you want it to go?"
"I want you to want it. Not because of the contract. Because you want me."
"I do want you. That's the problem."
He stood close to her. She felt his body heat and smelled him: cedar and skin. Her body remembered three days with him. Her thighs pressed together.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
"I want you to stop talking and kiss me."
He kissed her, and the awkwardness dissolved. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her against him. She felt his hardness through his pants, already thick and ready.
Her hands went to his shirt, pulling it over his head. She pressed her palms against his chest, feeling hot skin and hard muscle. Her fingers traced the scar.
His hands lifted her shirt over her head, then her tank top. She stood in her bra. He reached behind her, unclasped it, and it fell. His hands covered her breasts, squeezing. His thumbs rubbed her nipples. She gasped.
He bent his head, taking her nipple in his mouth. He sucked, licked, and swirled his tongue around the peak. She gripped his hair, holding him there. Sensation shot through her, down her stomach, and between her thighs.
His hands found her underwear, pushing it down. She waddled out of them. He lifted her, carried her to the bed, and laid her down. He came over her.
His mouth moved down her body: her neck, collarbone, breasts, and stomach. He kissed the scars below her navel, soft and gentle. She felt her chest crack open.
"You're beautiful," he said against her skin. "Every part of you."
His mouth moved lower, between her thighs. He spread her legs. His tongue found her, wet and slick. He groaned, and the sound vibrated against her.
His tongue pressed inside, licking, stroking, and swirling against the sensitive flesh. She arched off the bed, her hands fisting the sheets.
"Cillian," she gasped.
He licked deeper, found the spot, pressed, and sucked. She shattered against his mouth. The climax hit fast and hard. Her body shuddered, and her thighs clutched around his head. A trembling cry broke from her throat.
He did not stop. He kept licking and sucking, drawing out the waves until she shook. Then he moved up, his body over hers. His cock pressed against her opening, thick, hard, and slick at the head.
"Look at me," he said.
She opened her eyes. His face was above hers, dark green eyes hungry and intense.
"This isn't just a contract," he said. "Not for me."
He pressed inside her, sliding deep, filling her, and stretching her. She cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. He was thick. Her body opened around him, taking him in. When he was fully inside, he stilled.
His forehead pressed against hers. His breath came in ragged gasps. She felt him throbbing inside her, hot, hard, claiming her.
"Move," she whispered.
He did, slow and deep. Each thrust pressed him to the hilt. Each stroke dragged against the places that made her vision blur. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper.
His mouth found her breast, sucking, biting, and nibbling. She arched into him. The pressure built again, tight and hot. Her body trembled.
"Come with me," she said. "Inside me. I want to feel it."
He groaned, and his rhythm broke. His hips snapped forward, driving deep. She felt the pressure crest. Her body clutched around him, and she cried out. Her walls gripped him, pulling him deeper.