My fingers itch to reach for her, to test if she’s already wet, already ready. The thought of her carrying my child—no, better yet, conceiving it right here, right now—is a f*****g high like I’ve never felt before.
Then she clicks her tongue and all the depraved fantasies vanish.
I stay leaning against the desk. She turns to her cabinet and retrieves a small plastic cup, identical to the one I’d left unused in my office. She holds it out for me to take.
“Same instructions as before,” she says flatly. “Abstain for twenty-four hours beforehand for optimal count.”
I take the cup. Our fingertips touch. Just barely, just for a moment. “And if I prefer the traditional method?”
A flush creeps up her neck, but her gaze remains steady. “This is a medical procedure, Mr. Safonov. A contractual a
