Relief that he isn’t finished with me.
Relief that he’s getting what he wants.
And relief that I somehow haven’t made him want to let me go yet.
Chapter 20
Anthony
We barely make it through dinner. That’s the absurd part. The white tablecloths, the crystal glasses, the careful choreography of waiters gliding in and out as if nothing had happened. It was as if we hadn’t just detonated something in the private quiet of that bathroom before returning to our seats with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. April sits across from me and tries to look composed and her usual sharp-tongued self, but her pupils keep catching the candlelight in a way that makes my chest tighten. She giggles at every little thing, and I can’t stop watching her mouth. I can’t stop thinking about how she said,“I’m pregnant.”
The first time was a confession. The second was a requested challenge. When we finally leave, the cold outside air hits us, and she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours, I don’t let the moment cool. I take her back to my penthouse like it’s the only logical next step, like I’m still in control of this, like the world hasn’t just shifted under my feet. Only this time, I don’t create distance. I don’t walk her to her door and turn away. I don’t set rules or put space between our bodies and pretend it’s discipline. The second the elevator doors close, I’m kissing her, my hand at the back of her neck, hers fisting in my coat, andit’s like something inside me has snapped clean in half. Every careful boundary I built over the last several weeks splinters because none of it makes sense anymore.
She’s pregnant. She’s carrying my child. The truth of it hits me in waves: relief so intense it’s almost dizzying. It’s triumph that feels primal, ugly, and honest. It is warm and aching and has nothing to do with winning.
By the time we reach my bedroom, it’s not even about urgency anymore. It’s about proximity. Possession. The need to keep her close enough that my hands can reassure me she’s real. I need to bury myself in her over and over and over again until I can’t take it anymore.
In my bed, her loose hair splays across my pillows, and her flushed skin is slick and warm. I’m propped on one elbow beside her, tracing slow patterns along her shoulder with my fingers as she breathes against my mouth. How she even has the energy to keep her eyes open after nearly four rounds, five if you include the restaurant, I have no idea. She tastes like salt and the virgin cocktail she had at that restaurant, and of a sweetness I shouldn’t be allowed to have. In my arms she’s soft in a way she rarely is at the office. No armor or sharp edges, just April. She looks up at me like she’s still trying to decide if this is a dream she’ll wake up from. I kiss her slowly. Not taking. Not punishing. Justwanting. Enjoying the quiet little sounds she makes like they belong to me now.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she says, voice muffled against my lips.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to…I don’t know,” she says, eyes full of suspicion, even though her body stays curled into mine. “Eat me. Or build me a shrine.”
I huff a laugh before I can stop it. It’s too easy tonight. Everything is too easy. “Maybe I want to keep worshipping you.”
Her mouth curves. “You’re in a weird mood.”
I should deny it and make a joke, pulling the conversation back to something shallow and safe. Instead, I press my forehead to hers and let the honesty slip out in a quiet breath. “I’m happy.”
She stills. The shift is subtle, her body becoming a fraction more alert as her gaze searches mine like she’s checking for the trap. “Happy?”
“Yeah,” I say, and it feels strange in my mouth, like a language I haven’t spoken in years. “I’m going to have an heir.”
April rolls her eyes. “How very …you.”
I pinch her hip lightly, a warning disguised as affection. “Don’t ruin it.”
She smiles anyway, but I see the softness under it, the complicated flicker of emotion she doesn’t fully trust. I understand it. I don’t trust it either.
My arm tightens around her waist, drawing her closer until her cheek rests against my chest. I feel her breathe, slow and warm, feel the weight of her in my bed, in my space, in my life. The sensation is so familiar, yet so unfamiliar it borders on frightening. It shouldn’t feel this good. I kiss the top of her head without thinking. When did I start doing that? When did that become instinct?
April shifts, tilting her face up. “You’re being nice. It’s weird.”
“I can stop.”
Her eyes turn to daggers. “No.”
I should. I should stop. This isn’t how I operate. This isn’t the point of the arrangement. This isn’t the deal. But the wordpregnanthas rewired something in me. It’s as if my body has decided she’s not just a woman I want, she’s a woman I need to keep, protect, and anchor. I stare at her for a long moment, then make the decision before I can talk myself out of it.
“You should move in,” I say.
April looks at me in utter confusion and says, “What?”
“With me.” My voice is steady, but something inside is too tight. “Here.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Anthony?—”
