Chapter 441: Don’t You Want to Be My Mrs. Augustine?

Olive didn't know how much time she had left, how long she could be with him. She only knew each moment was precious and couldn't be wasted. Blushing, she nodded quickly, "Yes."

Elvis's tall, handsome form slipped through the doorway. He closed the door behind him, kissing her small, youthful face. "I'll take a shower first," he said, stepping into the bathroom. The sound of running water followed.

Olive poured herself a glass of water, her heart pounding wildly. She'd been intimate with him before, but this formal setting felt like a first date. She was nervous.

A click announced the bathroom door opening. The refreshing scent of the shower, and Elvis's handsome figure, filled her vision. He'd showered quickly, now wearing a black shirt—unbuttoned, revealing his strong physique—and black trousers. Olive's eyelids fluttered. He walked over, took the water from her hand, placing it on the table. His large hand rested on her slim waist as he lowered his head and kissed her hair.

Biting her lip, she asked, "Why were you so fast? Are you clean?"

"Yes. If you don't believe me, let's see," he replied, lifting her into his arms and laying her on the large, soft bed. As Olive shifted, her vision swam. He took her hand, interlacing their fingers. Raising a handsome eyebrow, he didn't immediately kiss her. His voice, low and husky, was seductive. "Olive, let's remarry."

Olive hadn't considered remarriage, fearing her condition wouldn't allow it. Elvis's thin lips moved to her earlobe, whispering hoarsely, "Olive, why don't you say? Don't you want to be my Mrs. Augustine?" His breath on her skin brought a blush to her cheeks.

Did she want to be his Mrs. Augustine? Of course. Feeling weak, tears welled in her bright eyes. "Mr. Augustine, is this your proposal? Isn't it too perfunctory? I disagree. This time, you have to pursue me properly. I want to see your performance!"

Elvis pursed his lips. "Okay, I'll try." He bent to kiss her. Olive knew he wasn't serious; her "performance" wasn't what he meant. Smiling, she said, "Mr. Augustine, your reputation is a valuable asset; don't squander it."

"You are my Mrs. Augustine; I have no shame." Olive had never encountered such a brazen man. He reached for the strap of her dress. Olive remembered something and asked, "Mr. Augustine, do you have… contraception? I'm in my fertile window, and I'm afraid of getting pregnant."

Elvis frowned, looking at her charming face. "If you're pregnant, we'll have a baby. I'll raise both of you."

"But…" Her condition made conception impossible.

"But what?" He lifted her legs, wrapping them around his waist. His deep, husky voice was coaxing. "Don't you want a baby with me? We'll have two children."

Before she could answer, he silenced her lips. "Little liar, you deceive me. Let me see if your body tells a different story." Her head was pushed against the headboard as his hand covered her forehead, his touch both overbearing and tender. She closed her eyes, feeling herself dissolving.

Midnight. A dim lamp illuminated the room. A tall, muscular man was upon a slim woman, their bodies covered by a blanket. He kissed her repeatedly. Then, Olive's phone rang.

Her eyelashes fluttered. Opening her eyes, her face was flushed, her expression soft and seductive. Her hands rested on his chest. Her voice, tinged with tenderness, said, "President Augustine, the phone…"

Elvis frowned, holding her close. "Don't move…" The insistent ringing continued. Finally, he released her, pushing her bangs back and wiping the sweat from her forehead. He kissed her cheek, then leaned against the bed, answering the call. His voice was hoarse, a bit depraved and sexy. His upper body was bare, revealing scratches on his wheat-colored skin. Sweat glistened on his skin.

Olive gasped, curling up, exhausted. He had been passionate, almost wolfish. But why did he answer the call? Too tired to move, she let him take the phone.

A soft voice came from the other end: "Elvis, is that you? Where's Olive?" It was Damien. Elvis had seen the caller ID. It was late; why was Damien calling his Mrs. Augustine? Elvis already felt shameless, but Damien, he thought, was even more so.