I hired Harle Robson from Craigslist to get me pregnant. Not the old-fashioned way, mind you. It’s all specimen cups and sterile syringes.
After my ex shattered my heart beyond repair, clinical and detached is definitely safer.
What I wasn’t counting on was a six-foot-five Viking, with sun-kissed hair and soul-searing blue eyes. He looks like he stepped straight out of Valhalla.
After months of failures leave me devastated, Harle proposes something decidedly less clinical.
Ill move in to his secluded little cabin by the lake for ten days of free use.
His rules are simple:
#1. I’m not allowed to wear underwear
#2. I’m not allowed say no
#3. Hell have me wherever and whenever he wants
I told myself Id never love again. My hearts too broken, even for this Viking handyman with callused hands and a heart of gold.
But with every heated look and gentle touch, he makes me feel things I swore were dead and buried.
Safe. Cherished. Whole.
With my walls crumbling and fear losing its grip, Im faced with one terrifying question: What if the biggest risk isnt letting him in but letting him go?
