An obsessive part of me—the one thoroughly fixated on Gianna’s every move—didn’t give a shit about consequences. Knocking her up would make its fucking day. It would finally give me a reason to throw my plans in the trash and make her mine. Sounded good, sure—but that side of me was as rational as Gianna’s wardrobe. It had the idea she could be this pretty little fuck toy, one who’d be perfectly comfortable warming my bed all day, spreading her legs for me whenever I wanted, while keeping all her questions to herself. In reality, she’d touch my shit. Reorganize my things. Fill my apartment
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