Page 128 of Single Mom's Daddies
I sit back for a second, just looking at her. Her breasts, her stomach, the new softness already blooming there. My child beneath her skin.
“God, look at you,” I murmur.
She blushes, biting her lip. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Too late.”
I strip my shirt over my head, then push her shorts down, kissing the skin I reveal inch by inch. Her thighs part instinctively for me, her breath quickening. I settle between them, kiss up her inner thigh, and then?—
Her hands tug me upward.
“Not that,” she whispers. “Just you. Just…make love to me.”
I don’t argue. I strip the rest of my clothes, bracing myself over her as she wraps her legs around my hips. I slide into her tight heat, both of us gasping at the contact. Her arms loop around my back. Mine lock under her shoulders. And we justmove—bodies grinding, rocking, chasing something we already found but can’t stop wanting.
Every thrust is deliberate. The glide between us is snug, and she’s as lit up as I am. She can’t hold still, and neither can I. I kiss her neck, her jaw, her collarbone, my hands memorizing the curve of her waist, the slope of her hips, the beat of her pulse. Connection. That’s what I need. To feel her with me in this moment, yearning for the next.
She clutches me tighter as she comes—silently, shaking, mouth open against my shoulder. I follow a few strokes later, hips jerking, breath breaking against her skin. When it’s over, we lie tangled in the sheets. Her head on my chest. My hand on her stomach.
And for once, I don’t think about what’s next. I just breathe her in and savor the moment as I wrap my arms around her. Theneed to connect doesn’t fade after. I can’t get enough of her. Something rumbles behind my ribs, demanding more.
And she gives it.
39
VICTOR
The phone buzzeson my nightstand at 4:03 a.m.
It’s a number I don’t recognize, but my gut says to answer it. I answer before the second ring. “This is Victor.”
“Mr. Orlov? This is Melissa from the transplant coordination team. We’ve been trying to reach Saffron, but we couldn’t get through.”
I sit up so fast the bedsheets tangle at my waist. My heart’s already pounding. “Yes. I’m here. What is it?”
“We have a match for Ivy.”
I stop breathing.
“A donor heart became available overnight. It’s strong, stable, and meets all the match criteria. We’ve already coordinated with her care team. The surgical team is on standby, and the window is narrow—we need to prep her immediately.”
“I’m on it. We’ll bring her in.”
Melissa’s voice softens. “Congratulations. This could be it.”
The panic hits like a punch to the gut. This is good.This is the call we’ve been waiting for.But it feels like I’m on fire. Like my body doesn’t know how to process the weight of it.
I think I tell herthank youbefore I hang up, already moving. I don’t stop to get dressed properly. I yank on pants, grab my shirt half-buttoned, and bolt out the door, barefoot, cold floor forgotten under the weight of adrenaline and joy and terror knotted into one mess in my chest. My brain’s cycling through a hundred things at once—logistics, weather, transport, hospital protocol, backup plans. My hands are trembling too hard to button my shirt.
I don’t think. I run. Down the hallway, through the main stairwell, toward Roman’s suite. I push it open without knocking. They’re still tangled in bed—Roman, Saffron, and Nikolai. Bare skin, warm smiles, sleep-soft bodies.
I ruin it in four words. “They have a heart.”
All three of them sit up like a switch was flipped, the room exploding into motion. Saffron is fastest, throwing her clothes on. “They called you?”
“They tried calling you. You didn’t answer.”
“Shit,” she curses at herself, looking at her phone. “Battery’s dead. Why now?”
