Pregnant By The CEO

“It’s Pierce Lane?” she shrieks, her voice going up about an octave on the word Lane. “Your mystery guy is Pierce Lane?”

I nod. “Yes why? Do you know him?’’ It’s not impossible. Nic gets out a lot, and I mean a lot. Maybe she’s had a conversation with him at a party or something.

“No Casey,” my buddy sighs. “I don’t know know him. Come on, I’m a lowly magazine editor, and he’s an alpha CEO. Our paths don’t intersect. But oh my god, I see him in the gossip pages all the time. I mean, look!”

She turns to her computer and throws his name into Google. My jaw drops. For someone so “arrogant,” he failed to tell me that he was voted America’s Most Eligible Bachelor the previous year by three different gossip rags.

“What’s he like in person?” she gushes. I shrug and try to look nonchalant.

“He’s commanding and masculine.” I say. “But he has a softer, gentler side, I think. I saw a glimpse of it on Friday. That is, when we weren’t going at it like wild animals…”

My buddy grins devilishly. “As you should be. He’s so sexy. Oooh, you’re such a bad girl, Casey!”

I bite my lip. Even thinking about it, a rush of tingly anticipation washes through me. “Well, I might get another chance tonight.”

“Aieeeee!” Oh my god, what a weird interjection, but I can’t help grinning at my friend’s yelp of glee. “Sorry, just excited for you,” she pants. “Tell me all about tonight.”

I dish about my dinner reservation at Le Bijoux and she gasps.

“What are you doing for lunch?”

I shrug. “Sandwich from up the road, probably.”

“I’ll meet you at your office at noon because we need to get you a dress for tonight pronto.”

Thank god. This is exactly what I need, and I knew I could trust Nic to step in. After all, she’s a good friend, and sure enough, after work we spend an hour trying on dresses at her place, eventually settling on something red and sultry that shows off my curves. I’m going to knock Pierce dead tonight … and love every second of it.

At 6:45, the Uber zips away from the curve, my heart fluttering with nerves. All my years in New York City and I’ve never been to Le Bijoux. It’s out of my price range, out of my social range, and frankly, out of my age range too. Most girls in their twenties don’t know anyone dining at Le Bijoux, but there’s always a first time, right? I check my reflection in the driver’s mirror. I think I look fancy enough to fit in.

The dress which I’m wearing now is not my usual attire at all. With the help of Nicole’s discerning eye, I eventually picked out a velvet outfit in a deep shade of crimson. It’s far tighter than anything I would normally select, but Pierce seemed to love my curves on Friday, so I want to give him more of that. We also bought a new pair of shoes: leopard print heels! I’m wearing my hair up for a change to show my favorite gold earrings. I’m also wearing a bit of makeup: some mascara and red lipstick to compliment my dress.

To be frank, I feel gorgeous and sexy.

In the car window, I catch a glimpse of my own reflection. My cleavage is on display tonight, perfumed and shimmering under the city lights. Pierce will like that. I remember the way his rough hands gently caressed my breasts on Friday, and I begin to get aroused. I go over some of the steamiest details from our night in my head. The salty taste of his mouth, and the smoky scent of his neck. The way he grabbed me by the ass before penetrating me. The way that harsh masculinity never let up until he came inside me.

But that’s the thing. Holy crap. We didn’t use any protection on Friday. How did we miss that? Did he think I was on the pill? I’ll have to talk to him about that over dinner.

The Uber pulls up to the restaurant, and I step out, giving the driver a little wave and silently thank him for not insisting I make small talk the entire ride. I don’t think it would have been very good for my nerves.

The restaurant is nearly at the very top of one of New York’s famous skyscrapers. I take an elevator that whooshes me to the penthouse, opening to a sultry and glamorous space with a big wraparound bar and impeccably dressed waitstaff. Oh wow. This is really, really fancy. Like much nicer than anything I’ve been to before.

But before I can feel intimidated, I’m immediately greeted by a maître’d. He smells of expensive cologne and holds a leather-bound menu.

“You must be Miss Henderson,” he bows, smooth as glass. I nod, taken by surprise. “Mr. Lane has been expecting you,” the maître’d explains. Oh, I see.