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Too fucking cute for words.
I grin at the sound of her voice. Damn, but that girl can sing. She’s a fucking artist and she doesn’t even seem to know it.
“We’re all done, miss. Sorry for the intrusion.”
She stops singing and turns her head to someone off camera. “Oh, that’s okay. I’ll come see you out.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. Not in your condition.”
Condition.
What condition? What’s he talking about? I flick through the dozens of cameras I’ve had installed, looking for some clue as to what he could possibly mean. But it’s not until I come back to the first that I find out.
She stands from the sofa, stripping off the sweatshirt, leaving her in a tight tank top, her yoga pants slung low as she arches her back on a long stretch.
“What the fuck?” I mutter to myself as I zoom in and out. “She’s pregnant?”
I’m no doctor, but even I know it would have to be some sci-fi shit for her belly to be that round with my kid already. What in the name of fuck is going on?
“It’s no trouble,” she’s saying over the speaker, as she wobbles to her feet, making her way to the door to let the guys out.
I switch camera angles to watch her exit the living room and come out into the hall closing the door behind the last guy to leave.
And as she turns, I realize that the thing in her hands isn’t an apple at all.
It’s a fucking raw onion.
“Cravings,” I murmur to myself, but I don’t have time to dwell on that thought because Jesus Christ.
She reaches up, her eyebrows drawing together, and I hear a hiss of discomfort over the speaker as she massages her left breast.
And I cream my fucking pants.
“Milk already?” she mutters to herself. “What the hell am I supposed to do about that?”
Milk.
She’s getting milk.
And she doesn’t know what to do with it.
The thought runs through my mind before I can stop it. The idea of her leaning back as I slip her heavy tits out of her top, feeding a nipple into my mouth as her milk leaks. The taste of it on my tongue, the feel of it sliding down my throat.
Her soft moans as I relieve her of that burden.
“Fuck…” I moan as I massage my cock at the thought of it. The thought of her. “I’m coming home, baby. The sooner the fucking better. We got some shit to sort out.”
CHAPTER 12
Nancy
“Is there a back way out or anything? Please?” I stare in what I hope is a doe-eyed, innocent expression, hoping to appeal to his sense of human decency.
Or at least professional care for the doctor’s patients.
He frowns, and if I could drop to my knees and beg right now, I would. But in my state, that’s just not an option.
“Please.” I clasp my hands together in a silent prayer, drowning out the background chatter of the crowd—a pack of sharks sensing the blood in the water.
“There is, but…” The receptionist glances behind me, out of the glass surgery door, to where the small crowd of reporters has gathered. “There are already a few out there as well. And at least going out the front means you’re in full view should…anything happen.”
“What…” I stutter the word, barely able to believe what I’m hearing. “What’s likely to happen? Oh, God…”
I don’t know how they’ve found me. More than that, I don’t know why they care about me. They had Mason, made hurtful, vengeful news about him. Why do they need me? Has the Mason news already cooled down? God, if they’ve found who I am, does that mean they found out about the connection between me and James?
This is just a disaster. A train wreck.
“I’m sure it will be fine. Look, can I call someone for you? You know, safety in numbers. The baby’s father…” the receptionist mumbles, not really caring about me but clearly just hoping for me to get the hell out.
I roll my eyes.
The receptionist doesn’t know the truth. Nobody knows the truth, only me and Mason. Oh, and Azra, but she’s on the other side of the world. Almost.
The father of the child is hardly likely to show up and shield me from photo-op seekers out for blood, since the entirety of his involvement in the pregnancy involved jerking off into a cup.
I shake my head, unable to hold back my glare. “No. It’s fine, I’ll deal with it.”
“I’d walk you out myself, but there’s the insurance to think about and, well, what would people think?”
I draw a deep breath, concentrating on making my response sound calm and not as sarcastic or passive-aggressive as I feel. “Yeah, far be it for a health care professional’s office staff to care about my health.”
Steeling my nerves, I turn away and resist the urge to flip him the bird as I head for the door and outside.
