Free Carrying the Billionaire's Baby, Book 2: The Billionaire's Gift by Gwendolyn Bridges

Those first few precious weeks were some of the best of my
life.
    We quickly developed a
routine. I’d put on one of the designer dresses he had given me and
complete the look with dark sunglasses so big that they covered
half of my face. There was really no need for secrecy — It’s not
like anyone would ever identify me and expect the truth. But I
liked to play up the clandestine nature of our meetings. I guess I
had always wanted to be a secret agent. This was the closest I was
likely to ever get.
    And so April O’Connor,
erstwhile secret agent, would steal into the big Atherstone tower,
looking nonchalant with my sunglasses and fancy dress. I tried to
wear heels a couple of times but could never make it from the door
to the elevator without stumbling. So I stuck with my flats. Secret agents always wear
flats , I told myself. It seemed like
something that might be true.
    I’d nod at Darryl, the
nice man who stands beside the billionaire’s private elevator.
That’s all he did every day — stood there. I tried to ask him once
if he deals with a lot of visitors on a day-to-day basis. Darryl
just shrugged. Then I asked him if the job paid well. To that,
Darryl just grinned.
    On an average day, he’d
simply nod and produce a small silver key. Placed into a lock above
the elevator buttons, the door would open and I’d step into my
direct private transportation to the building’s top floor
penthouse. A penthouse that belonged to billionaire Alexander
Atherstone, the man who was working hard to put his child in me —
to impregnate me the old fashioned way.
    The first few visits, I’d
be met by his personal assistant and confidante, Joanne Brook. She
was a reserved older woman who still insisted that I call her Ms.
Brook. She’d make me wait while she fetched Alexander from another
room. But after a few visits, I no longer saw her. I knew she was
probably somewhere in the sprawling penthouse, but she stopped
greeting me. Instead, there was just him.
    The elevator would ding and I’d step off,
and there he’d be — Alexander, my billionaire. He always looked
completely composed in a well-cut suit, his hair — dark with just a
hint of grey — always perfect. He wore an elegant mixture of
cologne that didn’t overpower but was so unique that just a hint of
it reminded me strongly of him.
    After days of meeting and
making love — of trying to conceive — any lingering awkwardness
about what we were doing faded and was replaced by a kind of primal
passion. I stepped out of the elevator one day and was taken by
surprise when he wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me to
him, our lips instinctively finding each other and meeting in a
tender but passionate kiss.
    I hadn’t expected so much
kissing when I had signed the contract to carry the billionaire’s
child. Alexander always struck me as so by-the-book and
business-like that I couldn’t imagine this arrangement leading that
kind of passion. But I had been wrong. There was something about
how his eyes focused so clearly on me, and the way he kissed me — I
had to admit that in my weaker moments I wondered if this thing
between me and him was more than a simple contractual
arrangement.
    But I always pushed those
thoughts out of my mind, focusing instead on the task at hand. My
job was to get him aroused and ready so that he could put his seed
inside of me.
    On one particularly
perfect afternoon, the sun streaming through the windows of the
giant living room in the penthouse, he wasted no time at all,
kissing me passionately and pushing me up against the wall next to
the elevator. His roving hands drew down the sides of my dress, his
every touch sending shivers through me.
    “Hey,” I whispered, as our
mouths broke apart briefly.
    “Hey yourself,” he said,
his hand wrapping around my back to find the zipper of my dress.
“Arms up,” he ordered.
    I had gotten used to this
— the way he took control and told me exactly what to do. Truth be
told, I