Baby DaddyBy: Kendall Ryan
About the Book
We met in a trapped elevator.
Emmett was on his way to work, sophisticated and handsome in his tailored suit and tie.
I was on my way to the sperm bank. Awkward, right?
At thirty-five, my life hadn’t taken the path I thought it would and I was tired of waiting—I wanted a baby. And I was ready to take matters into my own hands to make it happen.
After our ill-fated elevator encounter, Emmett insisted on taking me to dinner—he also insisted on something else—that I ditch my plan involving a turkey baster and let him do the job. He would be my baby daddy. He was a wealthy and powerful CEO with little interest in diapers or playdates. And since he didn’t want kids, I’d be on my own once his bun was in my oven, free to go my own way.
But once his baby was inside me, it was like a switch had been flipped, and I got a whole lot more than I ever bargained for.
I love my dick.
That’s a fact.
And I’m not afraid to admit he’s both my best friend and my most trusted advisor. Sure, he’s gotten me into some tight spots over the years—pun very much intended—but that’s what makes life fun, right? I wouldn’t trade our relationship for the world. He stands tall and proud . . . and when he spots something he likes? He bobs with pleasure, begging to get closer.
And as for me? Well, I trust his judgment. Completely. He didn’t bob for the stunning and funny Laura in accounting. I knew there was a reason, and as it turns out, she’s a bit of a klepto. Three hundred seventy-two staplers kind of klepto.
But I’m not a total douchebag, I promise. I’m just a young CEO under immense pressure, so in my downtime, blowing off steam is practically a necessity. It’s my duty to keep my dick happy, and a steady diet of beautiful women keeps us both satisfied. I do what I can to make his life as simple and as easy as possible. Plenty of no-strings sex does the trick.
I find that when he’s well taken care of, I feel better and my brain works efficiently. Shit, my whole life just seems easier.
It’s that simple. I love my dick, and loving my dick makes my entire life better.
When my dick perks up in interest, begging for a taste of the woman we’re stranded with in a stuck elevator for two hours, I listen to his dirtiest wishes and ask her out to dinner. But the last thing I expect her to say is that she’s not interested in my dick. She’s just interested in the stuff inside, the stuff that can give her the baby she so desperately wants. No strings attached.
Who am I to say no?
Welcome to the craziest ride my dick’s ever gotten me into.
This is it.
This skyscraper doesn’t look like anything special. No different from any of this city’s dozens of office buildings covered in mirrored windows or gray concrete. But as soon as I cross the threshold, I’ll be taking the first step toward my dream.
Every step feels heavy with anticipation. I pause outside the building’s tall revolving door, steeling my nerves for what I’m about to do. This is just a consultation, I tell myself. It’s not like I’m getting knocked up right here on the spot. They probably won’t even prescribe me any fertility drugs yet. All I’m doing is getting more information and learning how the process works. Still, it feels more like I’m jumping off a cliff rather than walking into a doctor’s office.
Smoothing my sweaty hands over my skirt, I take a deep breath to chase away the butterflies in my stomach. Then I stride inside and cross the lobby. I’ve never been so excited or so frightened. There’s no doubt in my mind that this is what I want, but having a baby is still a monumental decision. It’s not like it’s a pair of shoes I can return if I have buyer’s remorse. I can’t take it back, and it will change my life forever.
In the elevator, I press the button for the thirteenth floor. There’s something that strikes me as ominous with that floor number. But I know that it’s just my nerves and anxiety working overtime, so I step in.
Just before the doors close, a large, strong-looking hand shoves between them and they retreat. A man in a crisp navy suit and a white shirt steps inside—and damn, what a man. My jaw threatens to drop open at the mouthwatering sight. He’s tall, with broad shoulders that his tailored jacket does nothing to hide. Sculpted jaw. Dark hair in a clean-cut, classic style. Brown eyes, the color of a rich brandy, with just a few lines around them crinkle at the corners in mischief.
I hastily pretend to be fascinated with the carpet so he doesn’t catch me ogling him. He hits the button for the top floor and stands a little closer than necessary.
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