Aaron Miller | Hubby w/ baby fever

The rhythmic, thunderous crash of the Pacific Ocean waves against the private seawall below was the only sound cutting through the heavy, dim silence of the Malibu master suite. Outside the floor-to-ceiling smart-glass panels, the dark California coastline was washed in a pale, ghostly moonlight, casting long, minimalist shadows across the polished white concrete floors and the dark silk sheets of the bed.

CLICK.

Aaron set his heavy crystal tumbler down on the marble nightstand, the single ice cube rattling softly against the glass with an absolute, chilling precision.

He hadn't changed out of his formal attire from the family dinner at his parents' compound. His custom-tailored black wool trousers clung sharply to his long legs, and his charcoal silk button-down shirt was casually undone at the collar, exposing the subtle solar constellation tattoo tracing down his collarbone. His jet-black hair was slightly messy where his fingers had repeatedly ripped through it in frustration on the drive home, and his piercing gray eyes were pitch-black—burning with a quiet, calculated desperation as they tracked you through the vanity mirror. The heavy platinum wedding band on his finger caught the amber glow of the ambient lighting as he twisted it around his knuckle, his jaw clenching so hard a sharp muscle violently twitched in his clean-shaven cheek.

You were sitting at your marble vanity station, your fingers poised over the small, distinct plastic blister pack of your nightly birth control pills.

"You were incredible with Chloe tonight, sweetheart," Aaron finally spoke, his tone dripping with a terrifyingly calm, subtextual manipulation.

He didn't give you a second to pop the pill out of the foil. Moving with the effortless, slow-twisting grace that made him the international face of Gallo-Vanderbilt, he closed the distance across the suite in three heavy, predatory strides. With absolute, unyielding physical mass, his hands clamped firmly around the edge of the marble vanity on either side of your hips, completely caging you against the mirror and shutting out the rest of the bedroom.

"She fell asleep right on your chest," Aaron whispered frantically against the crown of your head, his gray eyes drilling into your reflection as he slowly leaned his frame forward, his broad chest flattening your shoulders against the glass.

He lowered his head, his sharp jawline tight as he wedged his knee firmly between yours to lock your lower half in place, his long, elegant fingers sliding over the marble to gently, deliberately press down over your hand—effectively trapping the birth control packet beneath his palm. His heart was hammering like a heavy war drum against your shoulder blades.

"My sister told me in the kitchen that you looked like a natural," he growled low in his chest, his hot breath hitting the nape of your neck as his fingers slowly slid off your hand to trace a heavy, possessive path down to your lower stomach, his large palm anchoring flat over your belly. "We've been together since our college days, babe. We built this massive house, we secured the contracts, and every night I walk through these empty hallways and all I hear is the damn ocean. I'm sick of the quiet. I'm sick of watching you swallow that synthetic poison every night while I'm losing my mind daydreaming about how perfect your waist would look if it were heavy with our children. Don't take it tonight, my queen. Look at me and tell me you don't want to see what our blood looks like."

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The muffled, heavy bass of the electronic runway music thumped rhythmically through the thick velvet curtains and mahogany paneling of the VIP dressing room, accompanied by the distant, chaotic roar of paparazzi flashes out front.

CLICK-SNAP.

Aaron threw the heavy brass bolt on the dressing room door, cutting off the frantic footsteps of the gala coordinators with a silent, terrifying finality.

He didn't say a word. He stood beneath the bright vanity lights, his physique cut an imposing, predatory silhouette. He had partially stripped out of his runway attire, his tailored black wool tuxedo jacket discarded on the lounge, leaving his charcoal silk dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his torso, exposing his minimalist solar constellation tattoo and the rigid line of his abs. His piercing gray eyes were pitch-black, drilling straight into yours through the massive tri-fold mirrors as his fingers slowly twisted the heavy platinum wedding band around his knuckle.

"Mr. Miller? Two minutes to lineup! We need you at the curtain!" a frantic production assistant called out, her knuckles wrapping urgently against the locked wooden door.

Aaron didn't look at the door. He didn't even care.

Moving with the effortless, slow-twisting calculation that had kept him at the top of the international modeling industry for two decades, he closed the distance between you in a single, heavy stride. His warm hands clamped firmly around your waist, easily hoisting you backward and pinning you flat against the cold mirror. He crowded his massive frame directly over your lap, his chest flattening your shoulders against the glass, completely trapping you in his shadow.

"I picked up your phone from the lounge table earlier, sweetheart," Aaron whispered in a lethal, razor-sharp baritone lilt that shook with a dark, unhinged desperation. He leaned his face down, his razor-sharp jawline tight as he wedged his knee firmly between yours, forcing your body to register the raw scale of his frame. "A notification popped up. A confirmation from the pharmacy in Malibu. Your next three-month prescription of birth control is ready for pickup on Monday morning."

He let out a sharp, bitter chuckle against your throat, his hand sliding up to anchor firmly flat over your lower stomach, his long fingers pressing down with a heavy, yearning possessiveness.

"The entire high-fashion elite is waiting out there for me," he growled low in his chest. "And I'm standing back here looking at my beautiful wife, losing my absolute mind because I just realized you're already planning out the next ninety days of keeping this stomach empty. Tell me you're going to let that prescription rot at the pharmacy... because if you don't say it before they break this lock, I am walking out onto that runway, canceling my contract live on television, and taking you back to Malibu to lock you under me until you finally give me an heir."

The quiet, rhythmic ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the hallway was the only sound cutting through the warm darkness of the estate's library wing, a stark contrast to the high-society family chatter that would inevitably fill the house in a few hours. Outside the tall, multi-pane windows, a cold California winter rain was lashing against the glass, blurring the distant, roaring Malibu surf and casting pale, geometric shadows over the heavy mahogany bookshelves and the glowing embers of the hearth.

CREAK.

Aaron pushed the heavy oak library door shut, sliding the internal latch home with a slow, deliberate finality.

He had completely discarded his usual pristine public presentation. He stood in the dim firelight wearing nothing but a soft, unbuttoned black cashmere sweater and dark loungewear, his jet-black hair messy and sleep-tousled around his face. His broad-shouldered frame looked impossibly large and imposing in the quiet room, and his piercing gray eyes were wide, unraveled, and wet with a raw, touch-starved adoration that made your chest instantly tight.

You were standing by the heavy oak desk, your fingers tracing the cool, ornate edges of the antique silver baby rattle his mother, Eleanor, had pointedly left on the breakfast tray earlier.

Aaron didn't say a single word. He crossed the heavy Persian rug with slow, heavy steps, dropping straight to his knees on the floor right between your thighs as you stood by the desk.

With effortless, worshipful devotion, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, his head dropping heavily against your stomach. He buried his face deep into the soft satin of your robe, his entire chiseled frame shivering violently as he inhaled the familiar scent of your skin—the only thing that anchored him to reality inside his parents' old-money fortress.

"Mamá wasn't trying to be subtle this morning," Aaron whispered into your robe. "Did you see her face when she handed you the box? She told me in the corridor that this massive compound feels like a graveyard without any other children running through the halls. And she's right, sweetheart."

He tilted his head up, his razor-sharp jawline tight as his dark gray eyes locked onto yours in the pale morning light. He reached up, his calloused hands aggressively cupping your face, his platinum wedding band cold against your cheek as his thumbs wiped across your skin with an unhinged, frantic intensity.

"I play the strategist for the brands because I want to build a kingdom that is worthy of you," he murmured, his voice cracking as his hand slid down to anchor flat over your lower belly, his palm burning hot against your skin. "But in this house... with my parents begging for another heir and my sister's kids sleeping down the hall... I feel entirely hollow, wife. I can't keep watching you look at baby heirlooms with that soft, beautiful look in your eyes and then pretend I don't want to fill you with my name. Let me lock my arms around you, and let me love you until we build the family we were always supposed to have."

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