"Say it." He steps closer, hands braced on either side of the exam table, caging me in. "Say you want your stepbrother to breed you."

The words should feel wrong in my mouth. Dirty. Forbidden.

They feel perfect.

"I want... I want my stepbrother to breed me."

His eyes go black—pupils blown wide, swallowing the brown.

"Good girl."

Then he moves.

"Optimal position for conception." The table tilts, elevating my hips. "Gravity-assisted. Increases pregnancy chances by 15 percent."

He grabs a pillow from the cabinet, sliding it under my hips.

"Hips elevated. Cervical tilt maximized." His hands move to my thighs. "Legs wider. Need full access."

I spread wider, trembling.

"Perfect." His hand strokes down my inner thigh. "Stay exactly like this."

His shaft slides into my entrance. Big. Thick and long.

————————

"I could do it right now." He unbuttons it with practiced efficiency, shrugging it off and draping it over the counter. Underneath he's wearing a button-down shirt that stretches across his chest, and I can see the dark lines of tattoos beneath the fabric. "Get you pregnant."

"What—"

"You're ovulating. Peak fertility." He starts on his tie, loosening the knot. "I'm a fertility specialist. I know exactly how to ensure conception. Could fill you, breed you, make absolutely certain it takes on the first try."

My mouth goes dry. "You can't⁠—"

"I can." The tie comes off. His fingers move to his shirt buttons. "The question is whether you want me to."

I should say no. Should run. This is my stepbrother—seventeen years older, my mother's husband's son, the man I've been living with for a month. The man who watches me over breakfast with eyes that strip me bare.

The man whose hands know exactly how fertile I am right now.

"Your body is ready." He's down to three buttons now, and I can see his chest—broad, muscular, covered in intricate black-and-gray ink. Florals and filigree, script I can't read from here. "Your egg released approximately six hours ago based on your hormone surge. It's viable for twelve to twenty-four hours."

Two buttons.

"Your cervical mucus is perfect consistency for seeds transport. Your uterine lining is optimal thickness for implantation."

One button.

"If I bred you right now—" His shirt falls open, revealing a body that makes my breath stop. Not the body of a man who spends his days in a clinic. The body of someone who works for it, maintains it, sculpts it deliberately. Heavy pectorals with dark teats, defined abs, that deep V of muscle disappearing into his pants. More tattoos—roses across his ribs, script along his waistline.

He's thirty-seven and built like a god.

"There's an 80 percent chance of conception." He touches my stomach again, palm flat against my lower abdomen through the paper gown. "Those are exceptional odds."

The clinical assessment should kill the mood. Should make this feel sterile, medical, wrong.

It doesn't.

It makes it hotter—knowing he's calculated it, studied it, knows exactly what my body is doing right now and how to exploit it.

"This is insane," I whisper.

"Is it?" His hand presses firmer, possessive. "I'm thirty-seven. Seventeen years older than you. I've dedicated my entire adult life to fertility science. Helped hundreds of women get pregnant. And the one woman I want to breed most⁠—"

His eyes lock on mine.

"—is my twenty-year-old virgin stepsister, who's lying in my exam room at peak fertility. Tell me that's not fate."

"It's not fate, it's—" But I don't finish. Don't know how to finish. Because part of me—the part that's been watching him at breakfast, listening to him shower, wondering what his hands would feel like—that part thinks maybe he's right.

"Let me check something." New gloves snap on, and before I can process it his hand is between my thighs again. Not clinical this time. Not examining my cervix or checking positions.

Feeling how wet I am.

I gasp and grab the exam table as his fingers slide through my arousal, collecting it, making it obscene.

"Just as I thought." He holds up his gloved fingers, and they glisten in the fluorescent light. "You're aroused. Very aroused. That's not medical curiosity, Emily. That's sexual response."

He removes the gloves slowly, deliberately.

"Your body wants this."

My breath comes in short gasps. I should deny it. Should say he's wrong, that this is just biology, just hormones, just⁠—

"Yes."

The word falls out before I can stop it.

Ethan's eyes go dark. Hungry. He pulls the rolling stool over and sits between my spread thighs, eye level with my exposed center.

"I'm going to explain exactly what would happen." His hands rest on my inner thighs, thumbs stroking. "If I bred you right now."

"Ethan—"

"My seeds would swim through your cervical mucus." His voice drops to a murmur, intimate and filthy. "Reach your fallopian tube within minutes. You're ovulating from the right side this month—I can tell from the slight asymmetry in your ovaries on the ultrasound."

His thumb moves higher, almost touching where I'm aching.

"One seed would penetrate the egg. Within six hours, conception would be complete. Within six days, the embryo would travel down and implant in your uterine lining." He presses his palm against my lower stomach again. "Right here."

I can picture it. Can see it happening inside me.

"Two weeks later, you'd test positive." His other hand joins the first, both palms flat against my abdomen now like he's already feeling for the swell of pregnancy. "You'd be carrying your stepbrother's baby."

The taboo of it slams into me.

"Everyone would know. Eventually." He keeps going, relentless. "Your mom. My dad. Everyone. They'd know I bred my stepsister. That I got my twenty-year-old virgin stepsister pregnant in my examination room using all my medical knowledge to ensure it took."

His hands slide lower, thumbs dipping just barely between my thighs.

"Does that scare you?"

"Yes."

"Does it excite you?"

I can't lie when he's touching me like this. When his fingers are so close to where I'm throbbing.

"Yes."

He stands abruptly, and I whimper at the loss of contact. But then he's reaching for his belt, and my mind goes blank.

"Last chance to say no." He unbuckles the belt, the leather sliding free with a sound that makes me clench. "If you say no, I'll finish your exam professionally. Write you a prescription for cycle regulation. Send you home."

His hands move to the button of his pants.

"If you say yes—" The button pops free. The zipper slides down. "—I'm going to breed you on this exam table. Going to use every bit of my expertise to get you pregnant. Right now. Today. At peak fertility."

He pauses, pants open, the outline of his shaft visible against his boxer-briefs.

"What's it going to be, Emily?"

I should say no. Should think about my mother, about consequences, about the fact that pregnancy is permanent and binding and would tie me to my stepbrother forever.

I think about all of it.

And then I think about the way he's looked at me for four months. The way he's tracked my cycle, studied my body, waited for this exact moment.

The way he wants me.

"Yes."

It comes out barely audible, a whisper.

"Say it louder."

"Yes." Stronger now. Certain. "I want you to⁠—"

But I can't say the word. Can't cross that final line.

"Say it." He steps closer, hands braced on either side of the exam table, caging me in. "Say you want your stepbrother to breed you."

The words should feel wrong in my mouth. Dirty. Forbidden.

They feel perfect.

"I want my stepbrother to breed me."

His eyes go black—pupils blown wide, swallowing the brown.

"Good girl."

Then he moves.

Pants down. Boxer-briefs following. And God, he's⁠—

I stare.

He's big. Thick and long and already hard, a bead of precum at the tip. I've never seen a man undressed before, never seen a shaft in real life, but some instinct tells me Ethan is not average.

"That won't—I can't⁠—"

"You can." He wraps a hand around himself, stroking once, and I watch hypnotized. "Your body is designed for this. Trust the doctor."

He moves to the exam table controls, adjusting the angle with mechanical precision.

"Optimal position for conception." The table tilts, elevating my hips. "Gravity-assisted. Increases pregnancy chances by 15 percent."

He grabs a pillow from the cabinet, sliding it under my hips.

"Hips elevated. Cervical tilt maximized." His hands move to my thighs. "Legs wider. Need full access."

I spread wider, trembling.

"Perfect." His hand strokes down my inner thigh. "Stay exactly like this."

Then he's between my legs, positioning himself, and the blunt head of his shaft presses against my entrance.

"No protection," I gasp, realization hitting.

"Obviously." His free hand grips my hip. "The whole point is to get you pregnant."

He notches himself at my opening, and even just that pressure makes me whimper. He's too big, I'm too tight, this won't⁠—

"Breathe." Doctor voice, calm and controlled even as his shaft starts pushing inside me. "Just like I taught you. In through your nose, out through your mouth."

I breathe.

He pushes.

Burns. Stretches. Too much, too full, too⁠—

"Doing perfectly." He's watching where we're joined, clinical fascination mixed with pure hunger. "Textbook dilation. Your body is accepting me exactly as it should."

Another inch. Another. I'm whimpering, hands fisted in the paper gown, and then⁠—

Resistance.

He feels it. Freezes.

"Your hymen." His voice has gone rough. "I'm going to break it now."

"Wait—"

But he doesn't wait. One more controlled push, and I feel it tear.

I scream into my hand, pain white-hot and sharp.

"Shh." His thumb finds my rosebud, circling. "Breathe through it. The pain will pass."

He holds still, buried halfway inside me, letting me adjust. And slowly—so slowly—the burn fades to an ache, and the ache fades to fullness.

To need.

"More," I gasp.

He gives me more.

Pushes deeper, and deeper, until I feel impossibly full, stretched around him, stuffed with my stepbrother's shaft.

"All of it." He grinds against me, and I realize with shock that he's fully seated. Balls-deep inside his virgin stepsister. "Perfect. You took all of me."

His hand presses against my lower stomach, and I feel him inside me—feel the pressure from both sides.

"Your vaginal canal is the perfect depth." He pulls back slightly, then sinks in again, making me moan. "My shaft is pressed directly against your cervix. Optimal position for seeds delivery."

He starts moving. Slow strokes that drag against every nerve ending, in and out, clinical precision in every thrust.

"I'm going to breed you properly now." His pace increases. "Going to use fifteen years of fertility expertise to ensure my stepsister gets pregnant. Today."

The dirty talk combined with the medical terminology makes my head spin. He's not making love—he's breeding me. Deliberately. Methodically. Using science to ensure conception.

And God help me, it's the hottest thing I've ever felt.

"This angle—" He adjusts my hips slightly, and the new position makes me cry out. "—perfect for conception. Ensures deep penetration. This depth—" A particularly hard thrust. "—deposits seeds directly at the cervix. This pace—" He establishes a rhythm, steady and relentless. "—optimal for seeds motility."

"Mmm—mmm—" I whimper with every thrust, overwhelmed by sensation. Pain has transformed completely into pleasure, and I can feel pressure building low in my stomach. "Ahh⁠—"

"You're going to come first." His hand slides between us, finding my rosebud again. "Cervical contractions during climax pull seeds deeper. Increases conception rate by 30 percent."

He's using science to breed me. Using medical knowledge to ensure I get pregnant.

"I know female anatomy better than anyone." His fingers circle my rosebud in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. "Know exactly how to make you come. Where to touch—" He presses harder. "—how much pressure—" Circles faster. "—what angle—" He adjusts his hips, and his shaft hits something inside me that makes me see stars.

"Come for me, Emily." His voice drops to a growl. "Come so I can breed you properly."

I'm so close. Right on the edge.

"Come for your stepbrother, baby." He leans down, breath hot against my ear. "Come so I can get you pregnant."

I shatter.

climax rips through me, and I scream—"Ahhh! Oh God—!"—before Ethan's hand clamps over my mouth.

"Quiet. Nurses outside." The reminder of where we are, what we're doing, only makes it more intense. My kitty clenches rhythmically around his shaft, contracting in waves.

"Perfect." He's still moving, still screwing me through it. "Feel that? Those contractions—pulling me deeper. Pulling my seeds toward your egg. Your body knows exactly what to do."

The climax seems endless, rolling through me in waves while he keeps thrusting, keeps hitting that spot inside me that makes everything blur.

"Designed for this," he groans. "Designed to take your stepbrother's shaft. Designed to get bred."

His rhythm falters. Thrusts become erratic.

"Going to fill you now." He slams deep, grinding against my cervix. "Going to breed my stepsister. Get my twenty-year-old virgin pregnant."

He comes with a groan, and I feel it—feel the pulse of his shaft, the warmth flooding inside me. He keeps moving, grinding deep, making sure every drop goes exactly where he wants it.

"Take it all." Another grind. "Every drop. Let your stepbrother breed you."

His hips jerk again, another pulse of warmth, and he buries himself impossibly deeper.

"That's it. So full of my seeds. Going to make you pregnant."

Finally he stills, buried completely inside me, both of us breathing hard.

"Don't move." His hand presses on my hip when I shift slightly. "Need to keep my seeds inside you. Maximize conception chances."

"How long⁠—"

"Twenty minutes. You're going to keep your hips elevated and not spill a single drop."

His hand moves to my stomach, palm flat and possessive.

"My baby is going to start growing right here."