One reckless night. Two pink lines. The man who refuses to let her go. I met him at a wedding. He was all sharp suits and stormy eyes, the kind of man who looks at you like he's already imagining you naked. I was supposed to have one drink. Instead, I had the hottest night of my life. Ned Nickerson knew exactly how to use his hands, his mouth, his body. He made me scream, made me beg, made me forget every reason I had for keeping my guard up. I slipped out at dawn with aching thighs and a delicious secret. No names. No numbers. No chance of ever seeing him again. Then the morning sickness started. And the pregnancy test turned positive. Now I'm standing in his office, shaking, because the stranger who ruined me for all other men is not just some random hookup. He's a billionaire. A control freak. The most infuriatingly gorgeous man I've ever met. When I tell him I'm pregnant, he doesn't panic. He doesn't accuse me of lying. He pins me with those grey eyes, walks around his desk, and cages me against the wall. His mouth brushes my ear as he says, "You're carrying my baby. Which means you're staying with me." I try to argue. I try to keep my distance. But he moves into my apartment to pack my things. He sets up my room in his penthouse. He puts his hand on my lower back in public like a brand. He growls at any man who looks at me too long. And at night, when the pregnancy hormones make me ache and burn, he's there. Whispering filthy promises. Trailing his lips down my throat. Making me forget why I ever thought I could walk away. But this arrangement was supposed to be temporary. Co-parenting. Practical. Ned Nickerson never got that memo. He wants the baby. He wants me. And the way he touches me says he has no intention of letting either of us go.