The Match: A Baby Daddy Donor Romance

by Renshaw, Winter

  “When did this happen?” I motion toward my snoring kid sister.

  “About thirty seconds ago,” Fabian says. “Kind of disappointed. She’s pretty entertaining.”

  “That’s Carina-light,” I say. “Just wait until you meet full sugar Carina.”

  Grabbing a throw blanket from a nearby basket, I attempt to fix her neck so it isn’t craned in an unnatural position, and then I cover her up.

  “Think she’ll be fine sleeping like that?” he asks.

  “Where else is she going to sleep? I mean, we can move her to the couch?”

  “Put her in my bed. I’ll take the couch.”

  I snort. “Okay, if you hated the mattress I had in there before, you’re going to hate the couch even more.”

  “I insist,” he says. “She’s your sister and this is your house. Come on. I’ll help you move her.”

  He folds the blanket, places it on the back of the chair, and scoops my sister into his arms. At five foot nine, she’s not exactly elfin. But he makes it look like he’s carrying a feather. I follow them back to the guest room and help her get situated on top of Fabian’s brand new fancy mattress, between his thousand thread count sheets and his expensive pillows.

  Sighing, she rolls to her side and cups a hand beneath her cheek like a princess.

  She’s a pain in my side, but I love her.

  “You’re a good sister,” he says as we turn out the lights and shut the door. “I hope she knows she’s lucky to have you.”

  “What’s your sister’s name?” I ask as we return to the living room, which now feels a little emptier without Carina’s loud presence.

  “Francesca,” he says.

  “That’s beautiful.”

  “But everyone called her Frankie.”

  “And you two are no longer in touch?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Unfortunately, no.”

  “She hasn’t tried to reach out to you … with you being famous and all?”

  “Never. And I used to wish she would. Couldn’t even get a hold of her last year when my parents passed. Don’t know if she’s even aware. She sort of … wrote us off, I guess. Addiction will do that to a person.”

  He takes one side of the sofa, and I take the other, curling my legs up and getting comfortable—settling in for what I hope will be another getting-to-know-you session. If someone told me last week that I’d be sitting here, curled up on the couch with Fabian Catalano shooting the breeze, I’d have never believed them.

  My sister may be a little extra sometimes, but thank goodness for that.

  She’s the one who talked me into this.

  “I meant what I said about helping you find your sister,” I say. “And it doesn’t take as long as you’d think. Usually when I start a project, I have my clients submit a DNA sample, and I mail it off to this service. Takes about 4-6 weeks to process, but once I get results, I can start putting together a family tree, reach out to distant relatives, that sort of thing.”

  “If she wrote us off, I doubt she kept in touch with any fourth cousins or second uncles twice removed.”

  “You’d be surprised. Sometimes people know things …” I shrink my shoulders and tilt my head. “But I won’t pressure you. If you ever change your mind, let me know.”

  “Appreciate it.” Rising, he grabs a water from the fridge—and one for me.

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I’ve lived with you less than two days and already all I’ve seen is how much you take care of everyone else,” he says, taking a seat again. “But I’m curious … who takes care of you?”

  “No one needs to take care of me,” I say with a buzzed scoff. “I’m completely self-sufficient.”

  “Yes, I know you run your own business and you pay your own bills and you’re doing it all and then some,” he says, “but what about your other needs? The ones you can’t fulfill?”

  “If I can’t fulfill it myself, I don’t need it.”

  “Ah, so that’s how you justify it.”

  “I’m not justifying anything.”

  “So what do you do when you have … needs?” He chooses his words carefully.

  “I handle them.” I sit straighter, cheeks flushing. “How did we go from me being a good sister to talking about my needs? I think we got off on the wrong exit?”

  “Sorry.” He glances away, the cutest mischievous glint in his dark eyes. “It’s just that you’re really easy to talk to, Rossi.” The way my name melts on his tongue sends a spray of goose bumps down my arms. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to talk to someone and feel like I’m talking to the real person and not some version of them. You’re not trying to be the person you think I want you to be, and you have no idea how refreshing that is. Guess it makes me forget about boundaries.”

  I rest my elbow against the back of the sofa, hands knotted through my messy hair as I stare at the gorgeous man mere feet away from me. It only makes sense—he’s probably used to everyone putting on airs, trying to come across as perfect and amazing at all times because they want him to like them.

  “It probably helps that I’m not trying to impress you …”

  Our eyes lock.

  “I make a lot of people nervous,” he says. “But not you. Why’s that?”

  “I was nervous the first time you came over.”

  “Really? I couldn’t tell.”

  “After the Katherine Kingman interview I watched five times in a row? I was borderline terrified of you.”

  He laughs. “You watched it five times?”

  “Maybe six.”

  “Why?” His eyes shine with bewilderment.

  “Curiosity?” I shrug. “Wanting to know what I was getting us into?”

  “Fair enough. What else are you curious about? Any other myths I can personally dispel for you?”

  “Yeah.” I settle in. “What’s it like dating other famous people? Do you do normal people things like ordering pizza and sitting around in sweats or do you constantly need to be ‘on’ and picture perfect? Do you fight or do you have your assistants fight for you?”

  His dark brows meet as he snickers at my questions. I hope he finds them more amusing than invasive.

  “Everything is off the record and purely for my own nosiness,” I say, adding, “Nothing you tell me tonight leaves this house.”

  I draw an X across my chest.

  “Okay.” He settles back. “Imagine going out for a fabulous five-course dinner at the hottest restaurant in the city and your date is on a five-hundred-calorie-a-day diet. Or asking if she wants to take a last-minute trip to Fiji but she’s still healing from her lip injections and doesn’t want to risk being seen with bruised lips. And when you can’t get a hold of them, you have to text their stylist, their makeup artist, and their personal assistant to figure out where they are. It’s exhausting.”

  “Have you ever just dated a normal girl?”

  “Define normal.”

  “Someone like me. A regular person.”

  “I thought we already clarified that there’s nothing regular about you,” he says. “but to answer your question, I’ve never dated anyone remotely like you.”

  “Maybe you should,” I say. “When you get home, I mean. Someone not famous.”

  “Trust me, if I could find someone like you when I got home, I’d make her mine in a heartbeat. Unfortunately they don’t make ‘em like you back there.”

  Speaking of heartbeats, mine is off the charts.

  I’m sitting here, perfectly still, only my body is behaving as if I’ve just finished a twenty-six mile marathon.

  I stand to stretch, but the room twirls the second my feet hit the carpet.

  Apparently those appletinis are very much still in my system.

  With impressive, tennis-pro reflexes, Fabian catches me before I make too much of a fool of myself.

  “Take it easy there,” he says, breath warm and sweet against the side of my neck. Lowering me to the couch,
he says, “What do you need? I’ll get it.”

  “I just wanted to stretch …” I push myself up again, this time retaining my balance—and my humility. Doing a little spin, I make a show of the fact that I’m fine. “I’m just going to check on my sister, maybe make sure she’s still breathing …”

  A minute later, I return, and Fabian’s exactly where I left him.

  After last night’s 3 AM kitchen party and all the running around we did today, I should be exhausted, but something about being in this man’s presence is electrifying, and sleep is the farthest thing from my mind. If I were to call it a night right now, I’m one-hundred percent sure I’d spend the next several hours staring at the ceiling, my body humming with frantic energy. It’s almost as if I’m anticipating something … but what?

  “How is she?” he asks.

  “Out like a light.” I take a seat again, closer to him this time. Not on purpose though—but because I’m slightly less coordinated than usual thanks to this massive buzz working through me. “You tired at all?”

  “Strangely … no. You?”

  Biting my lip, I shake my head.

  “Tell me about the last guy you dated,” he says, as if it’s the most natural question in the world. “You wanted to know about my dating life. I want to know about yours.”

  “I haven’t dated in years … but the last guy, he was an orthopedic surgeon, very much a workaholic—as was I at the time. We liked each other and he was nice, but we couldn’t make our schedules work.”

  “Couldn’t or didn’t want to?”

  “Maybe a little of both? It wasn’t like fireworks when we were together, but we were perfect on paper.”

  “And the guy before him?” he asks.

  “The guy before him was an associate professor of philosophy at Northwestern,” I say. “We went to a lot of local indie concerts, drank a lot of craft beer, and went out almost every weekend. But after a few months I realized he just wanted to relive his college days … over and over and over. In an unhealthy sort of way. We were all wrong for each other, but it was fun while it lasted.”

  “And before him?”

  “That would’ve been the pharmaceutical sales rep that I met at a bar after a Coldplay concert. Extremely handsome, made good money, very generous in every aspect of the word …” I say, “but he traveled a lot and wanted an open relationship, and I’m not really into sharing.”

  “And before that?” His attention hasn’t left me for a second. It’s like he’s soaking in every last detail.

  “If you’re trying to piece together whether or not I have a type, I can tell you I don’t. If I have chemistry with someone, wonderful. If I don’t, I move on. But I’ve never sought out a certain type of guy because he fits some perfect mold.”

  “Everyone has a type.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then what’s yours?” I ask.

  “Psycho.” He takes a sip of water, hiding a smile. “And not by choice. I think I’m just drawn to women who captivate me at the start and then somewhere along the line, they flip a switch. Trying to break out of that though. Anyway, continue on with your history. Who’s next?”

  “Wow. Okay. So before the pharmaceutical guy would’ve been my ex-husband. And we were together since high school, so unless you want me to get into my cringey middle school days, I suggest we stop there.”

  “Do you ever see yourself dating again?” he asks.

  “Maybe when Lucia’s older? It’s not like I can stay out all night, and I’m sure as hell not bringing some date home with me when I have a baby in the next room.”

  “Good call,” he says. “So what do you do when you need a release?”

  “Oh, I have Mr. Big for that …”

  “Mr. Big?”

  “Yeah. I mean, he’s not big. He’s more medium sized. But I call him Mr. Big. He’s always right there when I need him. Always on standby. Doesn’t talk back. Eager to please and amazingly efficient at getting the job done.”

  “You’re talking about a sex toy,” he doesn’t miss a beat.

  “Obviously,” I say, attempting to play it cool despite the fact that my cheeks are flushing ten shades of cherry red. I don’t even talk to my own sister about Mr. Big, and here I am describing my vibrator to Fabian Catalano.

  “You don’t miss the real thing?”

  “Of course I do. And kudos on the smooth transition from my dating life to my present-day sex life.”

  “You’re the one that brought up your dildo … by name, I’d like to point out.”

  “He’s not a dildo. He’s a vibrator. There’s a difference.”

  Lifting a shoulder, he presses his full, flawless lips together. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never needed to use one on anyone before.”

  I try to swallow, but I can’t.

  The tension between is so ripe I could pluck it.

  So much for any of this being low-key.

  Fanning myself, I say, “This is, like, 10th date conversation and we’re not even dating.”

  “Is it making you uncomfortable?”

  “No, it’s just … not exactly what I had in mind when I said we should keep things casual …”

  “This is casual, isn’t it? We’re having an open and honest conversation, Rossi. That’s kind of what we do … Besides, if I were hitting on you, you’d know.”

  “Would I though? Because I’m really good at imagining things … too good, actually.”

  “If I were hitting on you ....” He leans in, narrowing the space between us. Lifting his hand to my chin, he runs his thumb along my bottom lip. “… I’d kiss you right here.”

  My heart gallops, irregular little trots that make me want to check my pulse, but I’m too frozen to move an inch.

  His touch abandons my mouth, leaving a cold sensation in its place.

  And I’m officially more confused than before.

  “Okay,” I say. “Glad we cleared that up. But for the record, if I were hitting on you, I’d probably do this.” Reaching for his forehead, I brush a strand of silky dark hair from his brow before tracing my finger down his steel cut jaw. “And I’d do this.” Leaning in, I bring my lips inches from his mouth, until his sweet breath mixes with mine—and then I pull away. “Because I always want to make the first move, but then I chicken out at the last minute.”

  “Ah,” he says, eyes examining mine. “So then if that were the case, I’d probably do this …” Without warning, the tall, dark, and handsome Adonis pulls me into his lap, his hands gripping my hips and his gaze commanding mine. Next, his hand slides up my neck, his thumb stopping at the bend beneath my jaw.

  I don’t know what he’s serving up here, but it’s officially my turn to return it.

  Anticipatory creeps between my legs as his hands travel the outer sides of my thighs before grabbing a handful of my ass. My full, soft ass. The one that hasn’t seen a man—or sunlight—in years.

  It’s funny—we can sit here and talk about anything and everything, but the second shit gets real, it becomes a chess match.

  “I want to kiss you,” he says, his voice a graveled whisper as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

  His words force my heart to skip a beat. Literally. I almost ask him to repeat his declaration so I can enjoy it this time …

  Tracing his fingers along my partially-opened mouth, he adds, “I’ve been thinking about this all day. What it would feel like. What it would taste like. What I would do to it …”

  I force myself to swallow while my mind runs laps, conjuring up images of this powerful man driving himself inside of me … juxtaposed with images of this entire thing blowing up in our faces.

  With his hand along the side of my face and his fingers curling around the nape of my neck, he guides my lips to his and claims them so hard my thoughts stop spinning and my body melts against his. A second later, his tongue dances with mine. With each gentle rhythm of my hips against his lap, his hardness grows and my worries take a backseat.

  Fabian smells
like the woods, tastes like green apples, and lights my entire body on fire. The sensory overload alone is enough to drive me mad with want.

  I’ve officially boarded a runaway train.

  Tugging at the hem of his shirt, I pull it over his head before running my hands down every ripple of his chest before tracing his eight-pack. It’s like touching marble. Smooth yet veined, cut to perfection.

  Our mouths crash once more, his kisses growing greedier by the second as he works the buttons of my blouse and shoves it off my shoulders like a man with zero patience. With a single fluid move, I find myself in his place on the sofa. His fingers work the fly of my jeans before shoving them down and going back for my panties, all but ripping them off to get them out of the way. Within seconds, the insatiable man is making a meal of me—kissing his way up my inner thighs before stopping at the center to drag his tongue up and down my seam.

  My sex pulses, offering miniature orgasmic previews in response to his flicking and circling. And after a few minutes, he inserts a finger, curling it against my g-spot until every nerve ending I have is firing on all cylinders.

  Clamping my mouth, I muffle the sounds attempting to escape.

  It’s been years since anything wet and organic has been down there.

  Honestly, I’d forgotten how amazing it feels …

  Biting my lip, I grip a nearby sofa pillow with one hand and reach for a fistful of Fabian’s hair with the other as he buries his tongue deeper, harder inside of me.

  Every wave grows more intense, and I try to stave off the inevitable for as long as I can because if it were up to me, this would go on indefinitely—but my body will have no part of it. As if they’ve got a mind of their own, my hips buck in response to the thrashing of his tongue and my breathing hardens. Eyes squeezed tight, I give it one last fight before letting it go and riding the longest wave I’ve ever ridden in my entire life.

  Only when it’s over, Fabian remains planted between my thighs, devouring my arousal, his tongue flicking faster than before, soft moans vibrating against my sensitive flesh.

  Before I have a chance to protest, to tell him it isn’t necessary to keep going—I’m hit with another electric shock of pleasure.

  I’ve never come twice in a row …