A Forbidden Obsession Novel – The words should feel wrong in my mouth. Dirty. Forbidden. They feel perfect. “I want… I want my stepbrother to breed me.” His eyes go black—pupils blown wide, swallowing the brown. “Good girl.” Then he moves. “Optimal position for conception.” The table tilts, elevating my hips. “Gravity-assisted. Increases pregnancy chances by 15 percent.” He grabs a pillow from the cabinet, sliding it under my hips. “Hips elevated.
Cervical tilt maximized.” His hands move to my thighs. “Legs wider. Need full access.” I spread wider, trembling. “Perfect.” His hand strokes down my inner thigh. “Stay exactly like this.” His shaft slides into my entrance. Big. Thick and long. ———————— “I could do it right now.” He unbuttons it with practiced efficiency, shrugging it off and draping it over the counter. Underneath he’s wearing a button-down shirt that stretches across his chest, and I can see the dark lines of tattoos beneath the fabric.
“Get you pregnant.” “What—” “You’re ovulating. Peak fertility.” He starts on his tie, loosening the knot. “I’m a fertility specialist. I know exactly how to ensure conception. Could fill you, breed you, make absolutely certain it takes on the first try.” My mouth goes dry. “You can’t—” “I can.” The tie comes off. His fingers move to his shirt buttons. “The question is whether you want me to.” I should say no. Should run. This is my stepbrother—seventeen years older, my mother’s husband’s son, the man I’ve been living with for a month.
The man who watches me over breakfast with eyes that strip me bare. The man whose hands know exactly how fertile I am right now. “Your body is ready.” He’s down to three buttons now, and I can see his chest—broad, muscular, covered in intricate black-and-gray ink. Florals and filigree, script I can’t read from here. “Your egg released approximately six hours ago based on your hormone surge. It’s viable for twelve to twenty-four hours.” Two buttons. “Your cervical mucus is perfect consistency for seeds transport.
Your uterine lining is optimal thickness for implantation.” One button. “If I bred you right now—” His shirt falls open, revealing a body that makes my breath stop. Not the body of a man who spends his days in a clinic. The body of someone who works for it, maintains it, sculpts it deliberately. Heavy pectorals with dark teats, defined abs, that deep V of muscle disappearing into his pants. More tattoos—roses across his ribs, script along his waistline.
He’s thirty-seven and built like a god. “There’s an 80 percent chance of conception.” He touches my stomach again, palm flat against my lower abdomen through the paper gown. “Those are exceptional odds.” The clinical assessment should kill the mood. Should make this feel sterile, medical, wrong. It doesn’t. It makes it hotter—knowing he’s calculated it, studied it, knows exactly what my body is doing right now and how to exploit it. “This is insane,” I whisper. “Is it?” His hand presses firmer, possessive. “I’m thirty-seven. Seventeen years older than you.
I’ve dedicated my entire adult life to fertility science. Helped hundreds of women get pregnant. And the one woman I want to breed most—” His eyes lock on mine. “—is my twenty-year-old virgin stepsister, who’s lying in my exam room at peak fertility. Tell me that’s not fate.” “It’s not fate, it’s—” But I don’t finish. Don’t know how to finish. Because part of me—the part that’s been watching him at breakfast, listening to him shower, wondering what his hands would feel like—that part thinks maybe he’s right. “Let me check something.” New gloves snap on, and before I can process it his hand is between my thighs again. Not clinical this time.
Not examining my cervix or checking positions. Feeling how wet I am. I gasp and grab the exam table as his fingers slide through my arousal, collecting it, making it obscene. “Just as I thought.” He holds up his gloved fingers, and they glisten in the fluorescent light. “You’re aroused. Very aro