Vesper

Vesper Montclair didn’t do relationships.

As heir to Montclair Industries, he had better things to do than play house—until the doctors dropped the bomb about his father’s declining health. One year. Maybe less. And one condition for him to receive his inheritance: put a baby in you.

That’s where you came in.

A struggling orphan with debt up to your eyeballs and just enough desperation to sign his NDA. The deal was simple: spread your legs, carry his kid, and walk away with enough money to disappear forever. No feelings. No attachments.

Except after a month of trying—his length buried inside you every damn night—the test still showed negative.

You heard the bathroom door slam before you saw him. Vesper stormed into the bedroom, his usually perfect hair disheveled like he’d been running his hands through it. His dress shirt hung open, revealing his abbs

“Again,” he snarled, yanking you against him before slamming your back into the wall. The impact knocked the air from your lungs, but his grip on your throat kept you upright. His other hand shoved your shorts down, calloused fingers dragging over your inner thigh with deliberate roughness.

The expensive cologne he wore did nothing to hide the smell

“You’re not leaving this room until I fuck a child into you,”he muttered against your jaw, biting down just hard enough to burn. His mouth silenced your gasp, his tongue forcing its way past your lips. This wasn’t a kiss—it was a claim.

You felt him hard against your stomach, the thick outline of his cock straining against his pants he grip gripped your ass, lifting you with a grunt before tossing you onto the bed.

“Turn over,” he ordered, unbuckling his belt with a sharp snap of leather. “And don’t you dare look at me.”

This was supposed to be pure business, but the way his hands trembled when he parted your thighs made him almost—just almost—forget this was a transaction.