Unprotected: A Secret Baby

“Good night and thank you,” were my final words.

Because once the door shut, I double checked everything. It’s the perfectionist in me, I can’t help it sometimes.

The food was on and done. I was dressed in designer jeans and a black cashmere sweater, casual and relaxed. Didn’t want to scare away my pretend fiancée before things got really started. Plus, the most important part. After a lot of pushing and shoving, a mountain of gourmet dog food, and a long walk in the park, Bowzer was snoozing peacefully in the guest bedroom. Thank god.

Turning to the light switch, I fiddled with it a little, darkening the floor to ceiling windows. These things are pretty cool. The view to the outside was still visible, but no one could see within. Good. I didn’t want any of my neighbors catching an eyeful of anything that went on in my place tonight.

Not that I was planning shit, but I didn’t get to where I was in life and in business without being prepared for every possibility.

And like clockwork, a soft knock sounded on the door.

I surveyed the scene one last time before striding to the entryway and swinging open that massive slab.

Goddamn.

The air caught in my chest, squeezing my lungs, making it impossible to breathe.

Because Maggie was gorgeous.

Like me, she wore black. But that was the only thing our outfits had in common. The soft velvet material draped over her tits and hips, showing off every mouthwatering peak and curve, lush assets on display.

And yet the girl looked innocent and sweet. Maybe it was the small bow at the neckline that matched her pink pout. Soft white shoulders peeked out from some sort of cut-outs in the fabric, making my mouth water.

Shit. My dick stiffened in response, like a joystick ready to play. I’d give that slick pussy the ride of her life if the female was willing.

But that’s the thing.

She didn’t have to be willing.

These are my terms. My rules. And it was happening.

“You look real nice, Maggie,” rumbled my voice casually. No need to let her in on the thoughts raging in my head. No need to make her go running for the hills, screaming like a banshee. I’d have her screaming soon enough, for another reason altogether. “Come in,” was my soothing growl. “Welcome to my home.”

“Thank you,” she said shyly. That voice was low and soft, and she brushed past me, curves jiggling, a hint of flowers tantalizing my nostrils.

But then she stopped, turning to look back at me with wide eyes.

“Wow,” came that awed murmur. “This place is amazing!”

Because my apartment is the bomb. It was the penthouse, and I had it furnished and designed by the very best in the business. A glittery chandelier hung from triple-height ceilings, the white furniture complimenting the view of the Hudson River.

So yeah, it was nice.

But looking at her was even better.

I’d seen pretty girls before, hell I’ve probably had half of the ones in New York alone. But nobody’s ever gotten me this hard, this fast. Fake fiancée or not, Maggie was hot enough to taste over and over again, and I planned on doing everything to make it happen.

Forget that.

It was happening for sure.

It was just a question of when.

Discreetly adjusting my cock, I strolled to her side, taking one elbow gently.

“We’ll be eating in here,” was my low rumble.

And with a graceful nod, Maggie accompanied me to the dining room. But again, she stopped, eyes wide while taking in the spread.

“When you said we were meeting, I figured it was at your parents or at a restaurant. I never thought you’d cook.”

That made me laugh, head thrown back, bronze throat on display.

“Naw baby, I didn’t cook this. My chef did, Mrs. Jones. But if you like it, I’ll tell her.”

Her eyes went wide again.

“You have a chef?” she stammered.

I nodded, amused.

“Sure thing. She’s Cordon Bleu-certified, can make everything from the most delicious Italian to Asian fusion. Who knew? I thought Cordon Bleu meant French food only, but I was wrong.”

She nodded, cheeks flushing.

“I’m sure it’s amazing,” the girl murmured, looking at the chicken cacciatore. “It smells amazing.”

My chin nodded.

“Take a seat, sweetheart,” was my rumble. “Enjoy.”

And the brunette lowered herself gracefully into a chair, those plump curves lush and generous. But then she smiled at me.

“This is all really nice, thank you. I appreciate the effort.”

My heart thumped. How many girls take the time to thank you before a meal? Most ladies can’t be bothered, studying their nails critically or even worse, eyeing the food like it’s poison. But this brunette was totally different. She was grace and elegance, her sweet ways out in the open.

So I went for it.

“You should cook for me some time,” was my rumble. “I’d love to taste.”

Most women would be horrified. Ladies in New York don’t cook, they have jobs. Or they don’t like getting their hands dirty and nails chipped. But Maggie was completely different.