Coming out of his mouth, the word seemed filthy, deplorable. But it wasn't like that. Having spent eight years in medical school, she knew as well as anyone how important it was for fertile males to spread their seed to as many wombs as possible. The greater the number of couplings, the higher the chance of a successful pregnancy carried to term.
Of course, there were other factors. Sperm levels. Stages of arousal. That's where she came in.
"It's just a series of tests, Mr. Flynn. You and me, in a laboratory. No one else and nothing more. For now."
He seemed to consider that. Unfortunately, he pondered by running his gaze from her face to her chest, then down lower, over her belly and between her legs, where heat flared in her pussy. His assessing glare scorched her skin like a ravenous touch.
"Let me see if I have this right ... A beautiful woman invites me to take off my clothes? I'd be a fool to say no."
Isy's nipples beaded, chaffing against the material of her bra as she shifted from one foot to the other. Her heart gave an unsteady lurch. For the second time, she had the impression she was being toyed with. “Wonderful. Then we agree. If you'll follow me to the lab, we can begin immediately."
He tilted his head, but didn't budge. “On one condition."
A shiver of unease traveled up her spine, but the apprehension did little to quell the fire he'd stoked inside her. For a brief moment, she wondered whether she made a grave mistake by agreeing to take this case. It had seemed like a godsend when she'd found the fax lodged in her machine earlier that morning. Her clinic hadn't been credited with locating a fertile male in almost ten months. It wouldn't be long before the Medical Board shut her down and reassigned her funding to a more promising practitioner.
And when that happened, Isy would be relegated to waiting tables, or scrubbing toilets. Not only did a woman past the age of forty no longer qualify for health benefits—those were reserved for women who could conceive—but once demoted from her scientific post, she'd barely make enough money to feed herself and maintain a roof over her head for the rest of her days.
That was not a life Isy wanted for herself. She'd worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to end up living in a trailer park on the outskirts of the city, discarded like a used dishtowel.
Whether he knew it or not, Connor Flynn was her only hope. Her salvation. She had to treat him as such.
"Name your condition.” She hoped the trepidation didn't show in her voice.
Connor moved around the couch and came within touching distance. Isy stiffened, though what she really wanted to do was lean against him and let him engulf her in those powerful arms just once.
Would his body feel as strong and athletic as it looked? Would his mouth taste as lush and soft as she imagined?
She didn't know, but she'd bet money he smelled like the ocean. The scent probably clung to him, as sexy and inviting as the rest of the man.
When he reached up and tucked a lock of her long blond hair behind her ear, Isy nearly jumped out of her skin.
"Mr. Flynn. Please.” God, she was pathetic. The words had come out on a trembling sigh, like a needy, desperate whisper.
He stepped forward, closing the remaining distance between them. Isy's heart thumped so hard she could feel it in her throat.
She could smell him now, too, that rich aroma of salt and wind and fresh air. The scent flooded her veins with electric need that set her senses on edge. She knotted her fists at her sides to keep from touching him.
"Two conditions, then."
Connor's deep, sexy voice rumbled through Isy. He stood too close, smelled too good. Alarm bells rang somewhere in the back of her head. She tried to pay attention, she really did, but then he spoke again, and she found it difficult to concentrate on anything but the way his full lips parted on each word.
"One.” His voice was a velvet whisper, infinitely tempting. “You call me Connor."
She swallowed past the dryness in her throat. Relief numbed her legs. She'd expected an impossible request, one with which she couldn't possibly comply. “Done. And two?"
He dropped his head another fraction of an inch. His mouth was close enough now that his lips brushed hers when he spoke, sending trembling shivers of arousal down her skin.
"Two ... You administer every test. Not with the clinical touch of a practitioner, but with the soft, tender caress of a woman in love."
She'd misheard. She had to. “You want me to...” She licked her lips, which was a mistake, because her tongue came into contact with his bottom lip, and oh, God, he tasted like beer and salt and something sweet, like honey, and she couldn't think, couldn't breathe—
She was about to lean in, to cross that threshold into forbidden territory, when he stepped back abruptly and headed for the hallway.
"For research purposes, of course.” He yanked the door open. “For my next play."
Isy stood in front of the couch, shaking, her head buzzing with what she'd almost done, what she
would
have done if he hadn't stopped her.
"Coming?” he called from the hallway.
Isy wiped her damp palms on her slacks and nodded once, curtly. A spark of determination lit in her veins and she clung to it with all the tenacity she possessed.
She'd do her job, and do it well. If Connor thought he could distract her with a sultry glance and a hot body that made her think of sweaty, frantic sex, well, she just had to make sure every bit of that male virility came through in her test results. With a bit of luck and a lot of hard work, she'd end up impressing the hell out of the Medical Board.
If testing went as well as she hoped, by the time she finished with Connor Flynn he'd be the most wanted “stud” in New York City. Women would be lining up around the block for a chance to ride him.
That thought should have invigorated her. Instead, she might as well have poured ice water on her libido. The flames he'd ignited inside her cooled at the image of hoards of women straddling Connor's powerful waist as his cock pounded into one tight pussy after another.
A flicker of doubt tugged at Isy's mouth as she swept past him. “Conditions accepted, Mr. Flynn."
Isy planted the heel of her palm against Connor's chest. “Stay here."
They stood on the steps in front of the renovated Manhattan brownstone that housed her clinic and her apartment. Behind Connor, three skeletal frames that had once been cars lined the sidewalk. Flowers bloomed through the rusted metal and moss covered their wheels.
"I'll call you inside when I'm ready for you."
Connor reached up and traced the tip of his thumb across Isy's lower lip. “Oh, I'd say you're more than ready for me right now."
A shiver of anticipation snaked its way down Isy's body. Despite the surge of arousal that burrowed between her legs, she kept herself in check and smacked his hand away before darting a glance up and down the street. She hadn't expected to see anyone, but confirming the lack of possible eyewitnesses out at this hour allowed her to expel a sigh of relief.
In the old days, New York had been a bustling metropolis. Since the S.O.S. virus had its way with most of Earth's population, cities had grown significantly quieter. Some had been abandoned altogether, but people still congregated in chosen areas and tried to lead lives that were as normal as possible.
Manhattan remained inhabited, though significantly quieter now than it had once been. Some old habits died hard, however, and vicious gossip remained a favorite pastime.
Luckily, it seemed no one had gotten a glimpse of Connor's overly intimate gesture.
Good.
The less explaining Isy would have to do, the better.
"Your little research experiment hasn't started yet, Mr. Flynn.” She uttered the last two words slowly, deliberately, hoping to infuriate him. No such luck.
It had taken close to forty minutes to get here from the theater, and in that time, Connor's irritability had vanished. In its place, the hint of amusement had returned, which only served to annoy—and arouse—her further.
With a lift of a shoulder, he leaned against the railing at the top of the steps and crossed his arms over his chest, drawing her attention to the smooth, lean curve of his rock hard bicep as it bulged beneath the short sleeve of his black T-shirt. As her gaze followed the lean lines of sinew and muscle, she also noticed an old-fashioned watch clasped to his left wrist. Its golden face glimmered in the rapidly fading sunlight.
"I won't move from this spot,” Connor said. “Cross my heart."
Isy made a disbelieving sound in the back of her throat and pushed the front door open. The waiting room, with its checkered-pattern tile and boxes of toys stacked neatly in a corner, was empty, as it had been for the last few months. The reputation Isy had worked so hard to create had shattered, little by little, with every day that passed without a genetically fertile male discovery.
Connor was her last chance. The second fax earlier that morning made it clear that if she failed again, she'd be out of a job. The Medical Board had enough practitioners, novice and experienced, beating down their door. They didn't need to fund her pathetic clinic a day longer if they thought she lacked the necessary skills to locate a fertile man.
"Vicki?” she called out as she strolled toward the reception area at the back of the room. “You still here?"
A bouncing ball of dark curls popped into view behind the plastic sliding window. Victoria Burns rubbed her eyes, smearing her thick eyeliner down her right cheek. “Sorry, Ms. Warren. I must have dozed off for a minute. It's been quiet.” She blew out a deep breath. “As usual."
Isy glanced at her watch. Almost 6:00 P.M. The matinee showing of Connor's play had run longer than she'd expected. “It's just about closing time anyway. Why don't you run home a few minutes early? I have a potential client waiting outside, and since it doesn't look like anyone else is going to need our services today, go do something fun."
"Really?” Vicki's brown eyes grew as round as the silver amulet she wore nestled between her breasts. “Do you really think he's—"
"That's what I'm paid to find out."
Vicki grabbed her purse. “Is he hot?"
A sudden flare of jealousy threatened to burn a hole in Isy's gut. “Handsome enough. Now go, have fun. I'm sure you have better things to do on a Friday night than hang out here with me."
The younger woman wiggled her ass in a provocative manner. “I could help."
Isy forced herself to gulp a deep breath. “I bet you could. No, thanks. Go."
Vicki tossed her curls over a shoulder. “Suit yourself.” She started toward the front door. Halfway there, she spun on a red high-heeled shoe and almost lost her balance before reaching out for a wall to steady herself. “I almost forgot. Mr. Jones came by earlier. He said he'd return later to see if you're available for dinner."
Isy swore under her breath. Trevor Jones had been taking her out a couple of times a week for the last month. Usually, she was thrilled to share his company. He was fun to talk to, easy on the eyes, and unlike most men who either discounted her or clutched their balls the moment they sized up her age, Trevor seemed to genuinely care about her. And that was the major problem.
Lately, Trevor's veiled flirtation had grown less subtle. He'd hinted at taking things to the next level, but she'd been deftly dodging his innuendos and feigning ignorance when his arm “accidentally” brushed her breast, or when his fingers trailed too close to the apex of her thighs during dinner.
Despite the strict laws and the Medical Board's propaganda that urged older women to remain celibate, some still refused to surrender their femininity the moment they blew out their fortieth candle. The risks were significant, however. For a few moments of bliss, a woman past her prime caught in the midst of a sexual act could be fined or imprisoned, depending on the gravity of her crime.
As a med school graduate, Isy knew the reasons for the extreme caution. Some days, she even agreed with them.
Tonight, when her sensitive pussy pulsed with trembling desire, Trevor Jones was the last thing she needed. “Well, I'm not. Testing this new potential client could take a while. Can you call Mr. Jones and let him know not to come?"
Vicki wrinkled her nose, looking like she was about to argue. Isy slanted her a pointed glare, and the younger woman ran back to the reception area.
She reached for the phone. “I'll tell him. Then I'm outta here."
Isy fought back the rising envy that threatened to pound against her chest. Vicki had turned twenty-one the previous month. On her birthday, she'd chosen to add herself to the Conception List, which made her one of the young women who took turns spending their free evenings with fertile males. These days, the girl lived for the buzzing in her pocket that told her she'd be needed for a night of frenzied fucking.
When she'd been Vicki's age, Isy had chosen to marry instead of making herself available to any man with a cum-spewing cock. Back then, marriage was still seen as a virtuous choice.
Only Isy hadn't cared about virtue, or about what other people thought of her. When she'd married Max, she'd dreamed of happy endings like the one in Connor's play. But real life didn't turn out that way. She wished someone had told her it rarely did.
"Hello, Mr. Jones? It's Vicki Burns from Ms. Warren's clinic."
Isy waited until Vicki's back was turned and her brow wrinkled in concentration before walking to the gleaming silver terminal that housed all their security equipment. Sneaking a peek over her shoulder to make sure Vicki didn't glance her way, she typed her ID code into the small keypad, cringing when she noticed her hands shook. As soon as the pad flashed green to indicate the code had been accepted, she flicked off the surveillance cameras that kept constant vigil over the clinic, the lab, and the upstairs apartment.
"Yes, yes, I'll tell her."
Vicki hung up and fluffed her thick curls. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Mr. Jones says he's very disappointed. I think he had something planned for tonight."