The Donafrio Donor (18+ Only) [COMPLETED]

PROLOGUE: In Which She Puts a Name to a Face

PROLOGUE: In Which She Puts a Name to a Face

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I suppose this is how men feel sometimes, I thought to myself, when absolutely random women show up on their doorsteps and claim to be their baby mamas.

Except that this was vice versa.

Angelo Donafrio was looking at me expectantly, waiting for any sign of a response to his incredible revelation. It was strange to feel so claustrophobic in my airy living room. It was strange to feel the beginnings of a hot sweat when the wind was billowing furiously outside and rainclouds were gathering. But it was even stranger to feel nothing – no zing of attraction to his shifty green eyes and bulging biceps – for the man who’d wanked into a cup for cash and donated it to a loser of a woman like me.

I vaguely remembered a picture of a caramel-skinned man with jet-black hair and the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. Granted, it was all a tiny bit cloudy in my imagination after three years but as soon as I’d seen that photo, I’d decided That’s him. That’s the man I want. Not want sexually. I was very clear about that with my conscience. For starters, he was nameless – just a gorgeous face with a healthy family history and good genes. He was an image of what my child could look like in the distant future. Besides that, he would never know who I was, either. Confidentiality, that’s what the sperm bank had emphatically promised.

Yet here he was, sitting across me in my living room with an untouched mug of black coffee and a plate of shortbread before him.

Realising that I wasn’t going to say anything anytime soon, Angelo said gently, “I know this is a little hard for you to –”

“How did you get my address?” I interjected, sounding angrier than I’d intended. And what the hell happened to you?

Sure, I hadn’t seen a picture of his entire body but body ink and piercings weren’t high on my list of attractive aspects of a person and I had made that clear at the bank as well. I had been extremely picky when it came to whose sperm I wanted inside me and a tattooed miscreant certainly hadn’t been what I’d wanted. Still, my son was healthy and that was what counted.

Healthy is a relative term, though, said a sad voice in my head. I shook it away.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Angelo, his eyes boring into mine. His last name sounded familiar and I couldn’t think why. I didn’t want to think why. “I don’t wanna take him from you, cupcake. You can believe that. Hell, I don’t even like kids.”

I got to my feet. “Then what do you want?”

“To see him. Just to see him.”

“No,” I said. “Get out.”

“Excuse me?” He stood up slowly, his steady smile disappearing from his face.

My pistol’s upstairs, I thought, my eyes straying skyward. But he’d probably get to me before I could get there.

“You’re thinking about how fast you can get your gun, right?” He chuckled at my shocked expression. “Females get all shifty-eyed when they think they’re in danger,” he explained, a cheeky grin on his face. “It wasn’t exactly rocket science to guess that you’d be packing something.”

“I should never have let you in,” I said to myself. Louder and with a rage I knew I had to keep in check, I snarled, “I’m going to sue everybody. Starting with that half-arsed clinic! And then you.”