"Saint—"
"No." I cup her face, making her look at me. "You give me the intel. I do the dangerous part. That's the deal."
She scowls but doesn't argue further. This time. I know she's going to continue to bug me about this. She's not content to just take my cock and give me intel. She wants in the mix.
And there's absolutely no fucking way that will be happening.
"I need to use the bathroom," she says, sauntering away from the desk.
"Go ahead."
She disappears into the private bathroom attached to my office. I turn back to the blueprints, making notes, planning the approach.
This is good. This partnership. She's exceeded every expectation.
I've had plenty of women. But none like her. None who could match me, challenge me, make me want to skip sleep just to have her again.
She wasn't kidding when she said she'd let me do anything. And that level of control is like an aphrodisiac, and I absolutely can't get enough.
The bathroom door opens. Gemma emerges, face pale.
"What's wrong?" I stand up, concerned.
"My period started."
The words hit like a physical blow. "What?"
"My period. I'm not pregnant."
Eighteen weeks. Eighteen fucking weeks of trying. Every night, sometimes even twice a day. And nothing.
"Why?" The question comes out harsher than I intended.
She flinches as if I hit her. "What are you saying?"
"Why aren't you pregnant? We've been—" I gesture between us. "We're having sex constantly. You should be pregnant by now."
Her face hardens. "I don't know, Saint. Maybe it's stress. Maybe it's?—"
"Are you doing something to prevent it?" The words slip out before I can stop them. I know I need to handle Gemma with an easier hand, but I can't fathom how the fuck we haven't created a kid yet. It doesn't make sense.
"What? No!"
"How do I know that?" I grip the edge of my desk hard enough that my knuckles turn white. Antonio has been on my fucking ass for weeks about getting Gemma pregnant, and I was fucking sure that this time took.
"Fuck off." She grabs her bag from the chair. "I'm not sabotaging this. Trust me, I want to get pregnant just as much as you want me to be. The sooner I get pregnant, the sooner this ends."
Her words are supposed to wound me. They don't. Every time she tells me we've failed, I have to report to Antonio. And he's getting sicker, and we aren't delivering the one thing he wants.
"Gemma—" I run a hand through my hair. I want to explain this to her, but she's pissed, and she's not paying attention. I reach for her, but she pulls back.
"No. Don't." She's at the door now, eyes bright with unshed tears. "I know what I am to you. A womb. An asset. So don't pretend you care about anything other than the fact that I'm failing at my primary purpose."
I roll my eyes at her. "Let's not be theatrical?—"
"Fuck you."
She slams the door behind her so hard the mirror I installed shakes.
