by Melinda Minx
Table of Contents
Madrigal
Dominick
HAPPILY EVER AFTER
Knocked Up and Tied Down (A Free Bonus Book)
Nikki
Elijah
Nicole
Also by Melinda Minx
About the Author
Dom’s Baby
Melinda Minx
Darkstar Press
Contents
1. Madrigal
2. Dominick
3. Madrigal
4. Dominick
5. Madrigal
6. Dominick
7. Madrigal
8. Dominick
9. Madrigal
10. Dominick
11. Madrigal
12. Dominick
13. Madrigal
14. Dominick
15. Madrigal
16. Dominick
17. Madrigal
18. Dominick
19. Madrigal
20. Dominick
21. Madrigal
22. Dominick
23. Madrigal
24. HAPPILY EVER AFTER
Knocked Up and Tied Down (A Free Bonus Book)
1. Nikki
2. Elijah
3. Nikki
4. Elijah
5. Nikki
6. Elijah
7. Nikki
8. Elijah
9. Nikki
10. Elijah
11. Nicole
12. Elijah
13. Nikki
14. Elijah
15. Nikki
16. Elijah
17. Nikki
18. Elijah
19. Nikki
20. Elijah
21. Nikki
22. Happily Ever After
Also by Melinda Minx
Also by Melinda Minx
About the Author
1
Madrigal
I sit in the waiting room, tapping my feet. I look around, and everything looks totally normal. Like any other doctor’s office. Another damn “fertility specialist” who is likely going to tell me what I’ve already heard from dozens of other doctors.
“You’re infertile. We’ve tried everything.”
They’ll sugar-coat it and look sad, but that’s always what they tell me. Always.
My friend—well, more like a sort of acquaintance—told me this place was different. She wouldn’t go into details. Her face burned red when I pressed her, but she told me to just say that I’d “consider all options.”
It sounded like some kind of code word. I imagine that when I say “all options” to the doctor, he’ll suddenly tell me about some new super-sperm technology—sperm that are guaranteed to hit their target.
“Madrigal Morningside?”
I look up. “It’s Maddie.”
“Oh,” the nurse says, “I’ll make a note of that.”
She pencils something onto the clipboard, then gestures for me to go down the hallway. “This way.”
I follow her through the hallway, and she stops. “You’ll be here, in exam room eleven.”
The door is open, so I just step inside.
The paper cover crackles loudly in the room as I sit on top of the exam table. I wait and nervously tap my foot. I’m almost afraid to say the code word. Not because it will work, but because this is my last resort. There are no other options, I’ve already tried everything else. And I mean everything. What if I say it, and the doctor just shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, but there are no other options. You can’t have a baby, Maddie.”
I can hear it already.
There’s a knock at the door, and I mumble for whoever it is to come in.
The door creaks open and a woman with a tight bun steps inside.
“Hello Madri—Maddie,” she says, squinting at her clipboard. “I’m Dr. Blythe.”
I force a smile and look up at her. I almost shout the code word at her, but I know I have to go through the whole regular routine with her.
“You and your partner have—”
I cut her off. “No partner. I’ve been trying artificial insemination, and in vitro.”
I don’t have time for a partner. I want a child, not a husband. A child will stick with me and love me as much as I love him or her. A husband will leave me. Men always leave me.
“I see,” Dr. Blythe says.
She doesn’t seem to be judging me, but I always read too much into these fertility doctors’ voices.
“Well,” Dr. Blythe says, scanning my records. “You’ve tried a number of times, and you’ve seen some of the best doctors in the country.”
I nod.
“We can run some tests, but I don’t see what it would achieve. I’ve got your records here, and it looks—I’m sorry to say—fairly conclusive.”
“It?” I ask, my voice on edge. “You mean my infertility?”
Dr. Blythe nods, pressing her lips together.
“Dr. Blythe,” I say, waiting for her to meet my eyes. “I’m ready to consider all options.”
“All options?” Dr. Blythe says, putting down the clipboard. “Are you sure you know what you’re asking?”
My friend didn’t tell me, but I pretend to know. “I know what I’m asking for. All options,” I say, as if repeating the code word will make it happen faster.
Dr. Blythe nods. “I know it seems... okay, it is ludicrous, isn’t it? There’s no reason it should work. None. As a doctor, I’d dismiss it out of hand.”
“Except?” I ask.
“Except it works,” Dr. Blythe says, smiling. “It worked for me.”
She reaches back and locks the door, then she sits down on the table right next to me. “You can’t tell anyone that I referred you. The only exception would be if you are referring a patient to us, one in a similar situation as yourself. I could get in really hot water if word got out that I recommend a service like this.”
Jesus. What are they going to do? Are they going to clone a baby and stick it into my barren womb?
I nod, pretending still that I know what the hell she’s talking about.
“I’m going to give you a phone number,” Dr. Blythe says. “It will only work for twenty-four hours. If you get cold feet and don’t call, it’s done. You’ve missed your chance. If you do call, just understand that it’s not going to be cheap.”
“Money isn’t an issue,” I say.
My business is thriving just as much as my love life is withering. Money is no object when it comes to having the baby I so desperately want.
“Good,” Dr. Blythe says, handing me the phone number. “I don’t know which one you’ll get... but I’ve heard they’re all good.”
I nearly grind my teeth together since I still don’t know what the hell she’s talking about. They? What are they good at? I’m terrified that if I ask her—if I let on that I don’t already know what all this entails exactly—that she’ll rip the chance away from me. That I’ll ruin my chance.
I nod and carefully slide the paper into an empty pocket in my purse. I zip it shut, then hold it close to my chest as if it were holding a bag of diamonds that I need to protect.
“Well,” Dr. Bylthe says, suddenly standing up and going cold. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t help you, Madrigal.”
She opens the door and gives me a knowing look. “There’s always adoption, I know it’s not the same but—”
“Thank you,” I say, trying to sound disappointed, but my heart is racing.
I rush out of the office and into my car, and I pull the number out and clutch my phone in my hand. I’m shaking.
I dial the number.
2
Dominick
My phone goes off. That was fast.
I yawn and stretch my muscles out as I walk toward the counte
r. I snatch the phone off and answer.
“Yes?”
“Hello? Ah, this is—Dr. Bylthe gave me this number, is this the—”
“Yes,” I say. This woman sounds like a nervous wreck. No wonder she can’t get pregnant. “You’ve called the right number. This is Dominick.”
“Um,” she stutters. “I... what do I do?”
“You obey me,” I say, turning my casual and carefree tone of voice into one of burning intensity.
“Ex—excuse me?”
“Did you not hear me?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“O-o-obey?” she asks.
“Will that be a problem?” I ask, feeling annoyed. Is Dr. Blythe not even telling these women how this is done?
“I just,” she mumbles, “I don’t see how—”
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Madrigal,” she says, “But you can call me—”
“Madrigal,” I say, cutting her off. “That’s what I’ll call you. Do you want to get pregnant, Madrigal?”
“Yes. More than anything.”
“Then you obey me, do you understand?”
“Yes,” she says, her voice finally giving me the telltale tone of submission.
“Good,” I say. “We’ll start tomorrow then.”
I hang up and put the phone down. I shake my head, but I find myself laughing. Something about Madrigal sends a thrill through my body. I can learn a lot about a woman from her voice, but I find myself dying to know what she looks like.
3
Madrigal
Why am I meeting the fertility doctor at a coffee shop? And why did he have to sound so hot? My body reacted to his voice with more desire than I’ve felt with any of the men in my past.
Obey? Jesus, I’m going to fall into some cult thing, aren’t I? He’s going to pull out a healing crystal, set it on the table, and tell me to “obey the crystal.”
I pull up to the coffee shop and check my watch. Forty-two minutes early. My extreme punctuality means I’ve never missed a meeting, but it also means I’ve probably spent hundreds of hours every year waiting around because I’m early.
Usually I’d get my laptop out and work—I never waste time. Except for today, apparently.
I find myself triple and quadruple checking my makeup in the rear-view mirror. If “Dominick” sounded that hot, the chances of him also looking so hot are slim to none. Still, just in case, I want to look good.
I re-do my lipstick and press my lips together, then I rotate my head back and forth and check my blush.
I’m almost thirty years old now, but am mistaken for younger often. Then again, being infertile has the effect of making a girl feel like an old hag.
“Dr. Blythe said it works,” I whisper to myself. “Tracy said it works. Both of them had kids after being told it was impossible. I will have a baby too. This will work.”
I continue to psych myself up for the remaining thirty-seven minutes until I’m a shaking bundle of nerves, and then I nearly burst out of my car when it’s time. I try not to rush into the coffee shop like a maniac, but I walk way faster than my heels are designed for, stumbling a few times. By the time I walk inside I’m panting and out of breath.
I look around the tables, realizing I have no idea what Dominick might look like. Aside from “he sounds hot,” I know precious little about him. God, this feels like internet dating. Awkwardly looking around and being afraid to say “hey” for fear that the person you’re eyeing isn’t actually your date.
I scope out all the tables. Most are people alone buried into their laptops. There’s a few couples... and there’s no guy alone who seems to be looking at me.
I stand awkwardly and just look around a few more times, hoping someone I’ve overlooked will call out to me in that deep, sexy voice.
Nothing happens, so I stumble toward the counter and order a decaf cappuccino.
I take a table by myself—I am still five minutes early—and wait for my drink. The drink comes, and then I wait longer, until my phone hits time.
I look up at the door, expecting this guy to be exactly on time. Instead of the door opening, my phone vibrates.
I look at it, expecting a call, but instead I see a message: You will wait there.
Um? Yeah? We agreed to meet here... but does that mean he’s going to be late? Or…
I pick up my phone to type a response, but then I see the three little dots that indicate he’s typing.
I wait, and then it flashes the new message: And Madrigal, you will OBEY. Do not question.
I scoff audibly and glare at the screen. I almost type out some pissed off response, but I force myself to take a deep breath, and I all but throw the phone down onto the table.
Why tell me to meet him here at a certain time if he’s going to be late? And how can he have the nerve to be late, then tell me in that assholish way to wait for him? What happened to: “Hey, sorry, I’m running late. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
I try to sip at my drink, but I end up chugging it down. I look around tapping my foot. I didn’t bring my laptop or anything to work on, so all I can do is sit here and get more impatient and annoyed with this asshole.
I feel the annoyance start to boil over when I realize thirty whole minutes have passed. Is he even coming?
I start looking around, then I grab my phone off the table and stand up. I hoist my purse over my shoulder, and the phone vibrates again.
I said WAIT.
My jaw drops, and I look up. I spin around the room, not seeing anyone with a phone in their hand. Then I look outside. The front of the shop is just a big window, and there’s tons of apartment buildings on the other side with tinted windows. Is this fucking asshole sitting in his apartment and watching me wait for him?
I walk right up to the front window of the coffee shop, throw my phone into my purse, and throw up my hands in frustration as I look up through the window.
I look up at all the apartment windows, realizing he could be in any of them. Or maybe he’s in one of the cars parked along the street? I sigh, grab my phone, and wait for him to say something. When he doesn’t so much as text me again, I shake my head and walk out of the coffee shop.
After I’ve taken only ten steps, my phone rings.
“What?” I shout into it.
“I thought you wanted a baby,” his voice booms.
“I thought we agreed to meet at—”
“I told you to obey,” he says, cutting me off. “And I ordered you to wait there.”
“Then why don’t you—”
“Last chance, Madrigal, or this is over. Obey me.”
I hear him disconnect, and I almost throw my phone onto the pavement, but settle for throwing it so hard into my purse that it slams against my lipstick with a loud clank.
I try to control my breathing, and I count back from ten, then I go back into the coffee shop.
I sit back down and wait with my hands folded on top of each other on the table. I seethe with anger as I wait, but I don’t let my frustration show. I get the idea that this guy is not going to show up until he thinks I’m obeying him to some unknown to me standard.
Only after I’ve finally cleared my mind enough to start daydreaming, the bell on the door rings, and I look up.
The man coming in is so tall he has to crouch his head down just to fit inside. It can’t be Dominick, because he looks nothing like a doctor. He’s wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing tattooed forearms. He’s got an insufferable grin on his face, and he might as well, because his body is nothing short of perfection. His wide shoulders fill the room as he enters chest-first, and my eyes wander down his body, clinging to his muscular thighs hugged tight by a pair of stone-grey jeans.
I watch his strong forearm as he runs a hand through his luxurious, dark-black hair. Then he smiles, and I swear every woman in the coffee shop drops what she’s doing to look up at him, just wishing that that smile was for her and her alone.
Then I realize
he’s smiling at me.
I point to myself and tilt my head at him, showing just how confused I am.
He grabs the chair across from me, turns it around, and sits in it backward. He leans forward, resting those beautiful forearms on the back of the chair. He rests his chin down onto his forearms and studies me. His eyes are grey-blue, and as soon as they lock onto me, they betray a burning intensity.
His eyebrows scrunch up, and he lifts his head back up and shakes his head at me. “Madrigal, Madrigal.”
It’s him. That voice. Jesus.
“I thought you said you were going to obey?” He says, his gaze intensifying. “You just had to push it, didn’t you?”
“I…” I stammer, but my voice catches and I realize I don’t even know what to say. Why the hell is he sitting in the chair backward like that? People are staring at him. At us.
“Can you turn your chair around?” I ask, looking around.
He laughs. His laugh is almost musical. “You obey me. I give the orders. I’ll turn it around when I want to.”
Okay? What the hell is this and why am I putting up with it?
“Look, Madrigal,” he says. “You’re going to pay me a lot of money for my services. The thing is, I have more potential clients than I can possibly serve. So if I decide you’re not going to give this your all, I’ll just move onto the next client. I almost walked out on you a few times already.”
