The Billionaire's Pregnant Virgin

Chapter 10: The First Injection

Monday morning arrives a little too soon.

I wake up to the sun coming through the curtains in my bedroom. I roll over, my back to the window, and plaster one of the pillows over my face. I try my hardest to fall back asleep if only for five more minutes.

But then I remember what's supposed to happen first thing this morning and I jolt up with a start, the pillow flying off me.

The injection, I think with a gulp, at Devin's hands.

I think of him moving closer, syringe in one hand, the other reaching toward my panties to make way for the needle. I think of his warm fingers touching me. Butterflies fluttering away in my stomach when he makes contact, goosebumps on my skin.

Stop it right now, Isabel. You're being ridiculous.

I get out of bed and take my silky nightgown off, letting it pool around my ankles. I open the underwear drawer in my fancy dresser and pore through my options.

Nothing too sexy, of course. No wonder Grace compares me to a nun.

I bet the women at St. Egbert's down the road from Grandma's old house have more scandalous underwear than I do at this point.

I waste several minutes trying on all of my panties. I stand in front of my floor-length mirror, modeling several different colors, shapes, and fabrics for myself.

Just when I start thinking it's an unwinnable task, reality strikes me in the face.

Looking good for Devin is the last thing I need to worry about. I am not his wife. I am not his mistress.

So, I decide to keep the lilac cotton hipsters I tried on last and call it a day. And it's a good thing I do, because a strong hand knocks on the door almost immediately after I make the decision.

There he is. It's got to be him.

In a slight panic, I cover the pile of unused underwear with my comforter and hurry to the bedroom door. I nearly trip on my nightgown, so I grab it from the carpet and throw it into a nearby hamper.

I find a silk bathrobe hanging on the back of the door and wrap the rest of myself in its confines. I take a few deep breaths before opening it, trying to calm the last of my nerves.

Sure enough, Devin Cromwell is standing there, sculpted arm lifted so he can hold the top of the doorframe.

An absurdly expensive-looking T-shirt stretches across his muscular body, and his jeans fit like they were meant for him and only him to wear.

His hair is still wet from the shower, and I can tell that his body is still a little damp by the way his shirt clings to him. The strong scent of aftershave intermingles with his soap in the space between us, but a thin layer of stubble remains on his face.

If walls can talk, then those shower tiles must have the best stories.

An image of Devin lathering himself up in a steamy shower invades my brain. I imagine the water falling down on him, washing the soapy suds over every curve and crevice of his magnificent body.

Just then, Devin bobs his head, the movement distracting me from those filthy thoughts of mine.

"Uh, come right in," I say without a single breath. I feel my mouth close and my toes uncurl on their own.

A terrifying thought pops into my head: Can he tell I was just fantasizing about him?

I sure hope not.

Devin steps inside and pushes the door closed behind him. It clicks into frame, the two of us now alone in my room.

Another secret between us.