How to Have Your Boss' Baby

by Layla Valentine

  It just makes for expensive foreplay. Foreplay for sex that he’s basically paying for.

  And there it is. My God, I’m a prostitute. Someone who’s been paid to have sex with a man. Yeah, I’m having sex with him for the very specific reason of producing a baby. But does that make me any better, really?

  Hey, Mom, guess what? I’m not a prostitute but I am a broodmare. That’s better, right?

  I growl at myself and shake my head firmly, attempting to dislodge the entire thought process. It’s not helpful. It’s not healthy. It’s definitely not necessary. I made a deal. I signed a contract. Now I just have to hold up my end of the bargain. Get pregnant. Have the kid. Move on with my life.

  Never see the kid or the man again. Do my goddamned best not to ever think about them again, either, because I know that every thought will be like another tiny slice right through my heart.

  “God, Joey, you’re just throwing yourself right into the fire tonight,” I mutter.

  I turn my eyes to the restaurant, hoping the surroundings will give my brain something to do other than find ways to torture my heart.

  The place is fucking beautiful. Gorgeous, dark wood flooring and brick walls—the kind of brick that’s aged, discolored, and worn around the edges. The kind that makes you think this building must be really old.

  The kind that make you wonder what sort of things this building has seen.

  “Note to self, research this building, find out how long it’s been here, what it used to house,” I say to myself, turning in a slow circle. I’ve always been fascinated by that sort of thing. Old things, and what they’ve witnessed. Who might have touched the very walls I’m standing next to. What they might have been thinking when they touched those walls. Who they might have been running from. Where they might have been running to.

  I reach out and brush my fingertips across the brick, breathing in as if I might be able to actually catch a whiff of that long-ago period, and turn my gaze up to the ceiling. There are wide, bright windows in the room, but whoever designed the space still hung a number of intricate chandeliers, and every table has several candles on it.

  The better to woo you with, I suppose. Because how could a restaurant possibly be called romantic if it didn’t have candles on the tables? The tables in the hotel in San Francisco had candles. And at the thought, I remember the fuzzy light, the wine haze, Reid’s lips crushed against mine, my knees almost buckling with the sheer passion of it…

  I turn my eyes back toward the wall and run my fingertips over it again, trying desperately to throw myself back into history.

  Chapter 27

  Reid

  I watch her running her fingers along the wall, and though a voice in the back of my head warns me that it could potentially be seen as creepy to stand around and watch her so often—because let’s face it, I do it more often than I should—I don’t go up to her. Not yet.

  Instead, I tip my head and just… observe. What is she doing? She’s running her fingertips over the wall, into the cracks between the bricks, as if she’s making love to the hard surface. She’s closing her eyes and inhaling, drawing a deep, gorgeous breath, those beautiful breasts swelling up against the low neckline of her dress, her pink lips pursed out in concentration.

  And that’s all it really takes to get me there. I feel the swelling in my pants and take a half step back, dragging my gaze back to her fingertips, which are less sexual than the rest of her body. At least they should be. But the way they’re skimming across the bricks makes me think of how they felt on my body that night in San Francisco, when they tiptoed down my back, tapping at the base of my spine as Josephine rose up against me, her body tipping over the edge and into pure bliss.

  “My God, man, get a hold of yourself,” I grind through teeth that have clamped together over a moan.

  I’ll never get through this dinner if I keep thinking that way. And I don’t even know if it’s still my place to think that way. It’s no lie to say that Josephine and I spent most of the day avoiding each other like the plague. Truthfully, I can’t say I blame her, either.

  I plied her with an expensive dinner, took her to bed with me, and then spent the next day practically ignoring her. Sure, there were good reasons for it. I needed to get my heart under control, and my brain had already told me how I was going to proceed. But I don’t know if those reasons will ever be good enough to convince her to give me another chance.

  I don’t know if I deserve another chance. After all, aren’t I the one who’s spent my life telling myself that I don’t know how to take care of other people?

  No, best to stick to the plan. Put the feelings to the side. Do what we have to, complete the contract, and then go our separate ways. It’s that easy. It’s that straightforward.

  I straighten my shoulders, put those feelings behind the thickest wall I can build on quick notice, and step forward.

  As it turns out, I don’t listen to myself any more than I listen to anyone else. Because within moments of sitting down, those feelings come rushing right back with a vengeance. We each order a glass of wine—red for her, white for me—and after a few sips, we’re remembering how to talk to each other. We’re moving back into that chemistry we had in San Francisco. We’re leaning in toward each other as if we just can’t stop ourselves.

  Every once in a while, one of us does, though. We pull back, and it’s easy to see that she’s thinking the same thing I am: This isn’t a normal situation, and it’s not a good idea to get too caught up in it. Not a good idea to get lost in the good feelings and forget what we’ve agreed to do.

  Not a good idea to think this is just another date, or something we can afford to lose ourselves in.

  But someone will say something and before long we’re right back into that groove, saying things to make each other laugh, finding it natural to reach out and touch each other.

  And by the end of the dinner, I realize that I’ve got to be very, very careful here. Because I can feel myself losing control of my heart. I go to work every day, do business deals worth millions of dollars.

  But I’m not a gambler. Not really. And the idea that my heart is getting caught up in this is… terrifying.

  Chapter 28

  Joey

  I take my last sip of wine, letting it roll around my mouth before swallowing it down, and eye the man across from me. I ordered the first glass specifically to make myself relax, and when that worked even better than I expected, I ordered another. And another. We’ve both had more to drink than we should have. More than was smart, given the situation. And Reid is starting to look a little hazy around the edges.

  No, it’s not because I’m completely drunk. It’s because he’s run his hand through his perfectly coifed hair more than once, bringing it out of its usually well-ordered condition. It’s been sticking up more and more the longer we’ve been here, and I’m having trouble keeping my own hands in my lap, and out of his hair.

  Bad Joey. Bad Joey. I wasn’t supposed to have anything to drink while we were out. I was supposed to be keeping my head in the game. Instead, I’ve had three glasses of wine—three!—and I’m now feeling sort of melty and gooey all over.

  The memory of the last time I drank wine with him, and where it led, isn’t helping. I became hyper aware of the air conditioning blowing cold air on me about twenty minutes ago, and my nipples are so hard that they’re painful. My girl parts, meanwhile, are throbbing, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking about what comes next in this little dance we’ve been doing.

  We might have started with dinner. But we’re both here for one thing, and one thing only: to make a baby.

  I gulp, letting my eyes meet Reid’s. Well, we may as well get on it with it. No time like the present, and all that jazz.

  “So,” I say. “Are we going to my place or yours?”

  Reid’s apartment is at the top of one of the tallest buildings in New York, which means that we’re in the elevator for ages, waiting to get up
there. We stand in opposite corners, as if we’ve agreed that we won’t touch each other until we’re out of public view, and that’s just fine with me.

  I’m already having trouble keeping my legs under me. My knees are wobbly, my skin covered with chills at the idea of what’s coming next. And the space between my legs is already soaked and deliciously sensitive to the friction caused by my underwear. I’m having to fight to keep myself from moving, my back wanting to arch on its own in lewd invitation.

  If Reid were to touch me right now I’m not sure how I’d react. But I don’t think it would be anything a nice girl would do. Certainly not in an elevator.

  Why the hell did I drink so much? Wine has never been good for my self-discipline, and it’s certainly not helping me to keep this whole thing in perspective. I need to make sure I’m all business when I’m with him. Just fulfilling my end of the deal. Satisfying a contract.

  Instead, all I want to do is walk over to him and seal my lips over his while my hands get busy with his belt. I want to run my hands through his hair, pull his face down against mine, taste exactly what that dinner did to him.

  I can see the erection he’s sporting in his tight, tailored pants. I want to feel it pressing against me. I want to feel how badly he wants me.

  My mother would be horrified. Lana would be proud.

  And neither one of them has any role to play in what’s about to happen.

  “So, the top floor?” I ask lamely.

  He gives me a look that says that it is indeed a most awkward observation.

  “That’s right,” he says with a shrug. Then he seems to take pity on me. At least a little bit. “It was the largest single space. I wanted an entire floor to myself, and that was the best option. The top floor was already designed to be a single unit, so it wasn’t a problem when I wanted to redesign it. Fewer walls to tear down, less work when it came to building up the foundation for the entire apartment.”

  “Must be nice to always get to do whatever you want,” I say, only half joking.

  At this, I get nothing more than a long, intense look, and it lasts for years before he finally gives his head a small shake. “I don’t always get what I want. More and more, I’m starting to think that there are things I can never have. Things I want very, very badly.”

  It takes me about 0.2 seconds to figure out that he’s talking about me, and my voice is husky when I answer. “Maybe you should learn to take those things anyhow.”

  I’ve barely finished the statement before he’s rushing toward me, his hands flying up to my face and cupping my cheeks as his mouth comes down on mine.

  The kiss doesn’t start out slowly, either. It’s all crushed lips and hurried breath and teeth colliding, his tongue sweeping into my mouth to tango with mine. His body presses against me, shoving me up against the walls of the elevator, and my own form takes no time to punch back, curving into his and filling the gaps he’s left me. My back arches, shoving my breasts against his chest, and I feel his length pressing up against my belly, hard and ready.

  My body reacts quickly, my brain having trouble focusing on anything other than how much I want this man. My blood has caught fire, my skin aflame with the need to have him inside me.

  I pull back from the kiss just long enough to breathe for a second, trying to get my thoughts to focus, but all I can see is his bright turquoise eyes right in front of me, the pupils blown out with desire. For me. This man wants me.

  I try to grab that thought for what it is, to examine it, because I’m positive that it has some deeper meaning. But it’s lost when he runs his lips carefully, gently over mine.

  “I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I can’t help myself. I… We…”

  I shut him up with a kiss of my own, running my hands from the back of his head around to his face and caressing his cheeks, making the kiss both deeper and more gentle.

  “No words,” I say when I pull back. “I don’t think we need them, do you?”

  He gives me a grin at that and allows his hands to run from my face to my waist, where he wraps them around my body and pulls me even tighter against him.

  “No words,” he agrees. “They’ll just get us in trouble. And I want a different kind of trouble tonight.”

  By the time we get to his apartment, we’re both halfway undressed and panting with need. The rest of the elevator ride was entirely too quick and too slow at the same time, as it gave us just enough time to explore the desire we were feeling, and not enough time to do anything about it.

  “The board of this building is going to fine me from here to next year when they see that footage,” he gasps, shoving me against the wall and pulling my hands up over my head, to pin them there with one of his own. “We’re not supposed to make any trouble in the elevators.”

  I can’t stop the grin that crosses my face. “Trouble? Were we making trouble?”

  He growls in the back of his throat and moves forward to bite my lower lip. “Guess that depends on what you call trouble.” He moves his lips down from my mouth and along my jaw until he reaches my ear, where he tugs the lobe into his mouth and starts sucking.

  I squirm, a gasp erupting from my mouth.

  “I’m betting you’re allowed to do whatever you want in this building,” I say, my words barely audible with my need for him. “I’m betting they let you get away with anything.”

  He rears back and gives me a dirty grin of his own. “You know, you might be right about that. I should be able to do whatever I want in this building. And in that case…”

  He bends at the waist, slips his hands behind my knees, and scoops me up, then throws me over his shoulder.

  “Reid!” I gasp, beating ineffectively at his back. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking whatever I want,” he says with a low chuckle. “And right now, what I want is you in my bed. Underneath me. On top of me. In front of me. Again and again, until we wear each other out and fall asleep with our bodies entwined together. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Chapter 29

  Reid

  We don’t take our time. Not that first time. We’re both flushed and panting with need for each other, and we’ve both had enough alcohol to lose our inhibitions. At least a little bit.

  I put her gently on the bed—despite the inner need to toss her, fulfilling this caveman fantasy that’s been building inside me—and promptly push her backward and climb on top of her. My dick is throbbing so hard in my pants that I’m running a very real risk of losing control, but I lower myself onto her and rub my length against her, groaning at the friction.

  My God, this woman. The fire in her chocolate eyes. The curly hair rioting around her head. The lines of color across her palm, where paint has become a permanent part of her skin. Her legs now wrapping around me, her ankles hooking together behind me so she can grind up against me more effectively.

  Yes, I’m in very real danger of losing all control of myself in this situation. And for the first time in my life, I don’t think I mind.

  I lower my face to hers and kiss her, long and deep and as sweet as I can possibly make it, savoring the taste of the red wine on her tongue, the feel of her arms twining around me. The knowledge that she wants me just as much as I want her.

  And with that, I find the end of my patience. And the end of hers.

  “Please,” she breathes, pulling back with a moan. “God, Reid, stop teasing. Please.”

  Right. Well on we go, then, and I put my thoughts to the side and allow instinct to take over.

  One quick move and I’ve got her dress up over her head and onto the floor on the other side of the bed. And holy Christ, she’s worn white lace lingerie, and it might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. There’s just enough to cover her—and too little to actually hide anything.

  “So… are you going to spend all night staring at me?” she asks.

  I glance up to see that smile hiding at the corner of her mouth, though it’s naughtier than I’ve ever s
een it before, her eyes glittering with lust.

  Oh, my turn. Of course.

  I spend about thirty seconds stripping out of my own clothes, pausing only when I see her gaze drop to my rock-hard cock, her eyes reflecting nothing but appreciation. Then I’m reaching for a condom—and stopping myself.

  Wait.

  The world comes rushing back into the situation and I see the realization hit her at exactly the same time. Then I see her go through some sort of superhuman transformation and put it to the side. She reaches out for me and pulls me to her.

  “No words, remember?” she whispers, her hand reaching down between us and grabbing onto my cock. “That means no thinking, either.”

  She starts stroking me up and down, and any lingering thoughts scatter to the wind, making room for only one thing: the need to get inside her before I come completely undone.

  An hour later, I lay in bed facing her, feeling both completely sated and still ravenous. It turns out I just can’t get enough of this woman. I’ve had her three times already, each of them ending in screaming, rapturous orgasm, and though I should be spent, I’m already reaching out to her again. Caressing her cheek. Running my thumb along her bottom lip.

  “You’re so beautiful,” I whisper.

  She gives me a shy smile. “I guess that depends on who you ask.”

  But I shake my head. “It wouldn’t matter. Anyone would say the same.”

  She only shrugs at that, then goes silent for a long moment, as if she’s thinking. “I’ve always thought beauty is more about what you can create with someone,” she finally says. “More about who you are in one person’s eyes. Haven’t you ever noticed that a woman who can be completely plain with people she doesn’t know brightens up and shines when a certain man walks into a room, and suddenly, where she might have been sort of bland before, she’s all curves and sparkles and beauty? That’s real. That’s beauty.”