Page 49 of Claiming Genevieve

I won’t do it.

I thrust into her, hard, angling against her so that she can’t help but come, squeezing my cock in a vise grip that sends me over the edge into my first orgasm. I fill her with my cum, sinking into her as deeply as I can, staying there as I slowly rock against her until I’m hard again. I fuck her like that until the sun sets outside of the window and darkness gathers in the room, coming twice more inside of her and making her come, too, before I slide out of her regretfully and go to see about food for us both.

When we’ve eaten, I take her straight back to bed. Genevieve doesn’t argue, only lets me inside of her again and again, until there’s no chance that I can recover for another round.

“I think four in a night is my limit,” I groan as I roll to one side, my spent cock lying limply against my thigh. “But we can test that theory next month.”

“Unless I’m pregnant,” she says primly, rolling to her other side. “Then we won’t need to.”

I draw in a slow breath, looking at the tumble of her hair over her shoulders, my fingers itching to reach out and touch her. I look at the clock, already ticked over past midnight. My gaze drifts back to Genevieve—my Cinderella, my princess in this fucked-up fairytale—and my hand drops back to the bed as I look up at the ceiling.

I’ve spent my entire adult life dreading the possible moment where a woman might call me up and tell me that there’s been an accident, that she’s pregnant with my child.

But I’ve never dreaded it as much as I do now—when it’s the one thing I’m supposed to want.

18

GENEVIEVE

When I wake up in the morning, Rowan is already up.

I hear him downstairs, probably making coffee. He’ll come back upstairs before too long—he always does to make sure I can get down to the main floor without trouble. In a couple more weeks, I’ll be able to get the cast off, and I’ll be able to move around on my own much more easily. I’m looking forward to it, if only so I have more independence.

Biting my lip, I shift in bed, feeling the lingering stickiness between my thighs from last night. I glance at the clock, seeing the date, and I wait for relief to wash over me that I won’t have to sleep with him again for weeks.

Instead, I feel a pang of disappointment, one that I try to quickly push away.

My muscles all protest as I sit up. I’m sore in places that I’d forgotten I could be sore in. Rowan has been relentless for the last week, and I’ve allowed it, because that was the whole point, right? I’m supposed to get pregnant, and there’s no better way to accomplish that than by having as much sex as possible during the right time of the month.

I wasn’t supposed to enjoy it.

I tried to tell myself that I didn’t. That it wasn’t that good, that I’d be glad when my obligation for the month was over. But the truth was that every time he made me come, I wanted to let go. I wanted to moan his name and claw the sheets and feel what it would be like to let him make me totally unravel. And when I didn’t, every time, I felt like there was a cage around me, suffocating me a little bit more with every night that passed. A cage that I locked myself inside, and that I could let myself out of any time I chose.

Letting out a sharp breath, I sit up, shoving the blankets aside. There’s no point in thinking about it now. With any luck, it won’t happen again. Rowan certainly has a high enough opinion of his own virility, so maybe that will manifest in him getting me pregnant immediately. Maybe it won’t even be a question of whether or not I’m missing out, because last night will be the last time.

I bite my lip as I hobble to the shower, trying not to think about how it felt to have him inside of me last night, or all of the nights before that. How perfectly he fit inside of me. How hard it was to follow my own rules and not reach out and touch him.

Rules that I set for a reason. And every time I ache to touch him, or kiss him, or let myself feel everything that he could make me feel, I’m reminded of exactly why those rules exist.

But there are other things, too, that make it difficult. Rowan might be a playboy, a reckless partier with a past that could turn a stripper’s hair white, but that’s not the side of him I see. Since I’ve met him, he’s been relentless, irritating, and high-handed, yes. But he’s also been thoughtful. Gentle. Kind. He never leaves the apartment until he’s sure I’m settled for the day and I won’t need to go up and down the stairs for anything. He’s told me over and over that the penthouse is mine, too, and that I’m welcome to have my friends over, to do whatever I like. To redecorate, if I wanted to—even though I have no intention of it. I like the place the way it is.

Every relationship I’ve ever had has been for the purpose of making sure I was taken care of. That my needs were met, and I could focus on my goals instead of survival. They were all practical, just like this one.

But this is the first time I’ve ever feltreallytaken care of. The only time I’ve ever felt safe.

And I’m no closer to figuring out what I want to do after this is over.

Rowan helps me downstairs when I get out of the shower, bringing me coffee and a cherry danish from the bakery down the street, before getting his things to leave. “I might be a bit late,” he says, slinging a leather messenger bag over his shoulder. “My father wants me to meet with Dimitri and Antony soon, and he’s drilling me hard in preparation for that. If you need anything, just call. But I’ll be at the estate until at least dinnertime.”

I nod, feeling an odd jab in my chest. I look at him, unable to hide the glimmer of suspicion in my eyes. When he comes home tonight, we’ll be going to sleep, and nothing else. What if…

Rowan pauses, his eyes skimming over my face. “There’s no one else, lass,” he says finally, taking in and letting out a deep breath. “I promised you, and that’s that. I’ll be coming home to you tonight, regardless.”

Regardless of the fact that you won’t touch me.He doesn’t say it, but I hear it all the same. He hesitates, as if he wants to cross the room and kiss me goodbye, but instead he turns and walks out, the sound of the door closing louder than it should be.

I swallow hard. He hasn’t kissed me since our brief kiss at the altar on our wedding day. My rule. A rule that makes sense every time I think about it, and yet…

I keep wishing I could break it.

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