Chapter 2
Chapter two
~DONOVAN~
The walk from the bar to my hotel should take seven minutes.
It takes twenty.
Not because we're walking slowly—though we are—but because the gorgeous brunette I left the bar with keeps stopping to look at things.
A street musician playing guitar under a palm tree.
A window display of vintage postcards.
A cat lounging on a restaurant's outdoor patio like it owns the place.
"Do you think he knows he's a cat?" she asks, crouching down to get a better look at the orange tabby. "Like, does he have that level of self-awareness? Or does he just exist in a constant state of 'I am, therefore I nap'?"
"That's a very philosophical question about a cat."
"All questions about cats are philosophical." She stands up, brushing invisible dirt off her shorts. "They're basically tiny, furry Buddhas who occasionally commit murder."
I laugh, and she grins at me like she's won something.
We turn onto Ocean Drive, and the hotel towers ahead of us, all sleek glass and dramatic lighting. Em tilts her head back to look at it, and I watch her profile in the streetlight—the curve of her nose, the way her wavy hair catches the breeze.
“Fancy,” she says with a low, appreciative whistle. “Let me guess. Corner suite? Probably has one of those rainfall showers and a mini bar bigger than my monthly grocery budget?”
"Penthouse, actually. And the mini bar is criminally overpriced, yes."
She snorts. “Of course it is. So… do you always stay in penthouses, or is tonight some kind of special-occasion splurge?”
"Business trip. The company's paying."
"Mysterious company that sends you to Miami and puts you in a penthouse." She bumps my shoulder with hers. "Are you secretly a spy? A jewel thief? Oh God, are you a cryptocurrency bro?"
"Would that be a dealbreaker?"
"Absolutely. I have standards."
"Good to know." I steer us toward the hotel entrance, where the doorman—Frederick, based on his nametag—gives me a subtle nod. "For the record, I'm not a cryptocurrency bro."
"Then what are you?"
"Boring."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting tonight."
She observes me for a moment, and I can see her deciding whether to push. Instead, she nods.
"Fair enough. I'm not here for your resume anyway."
She says it lightly, but something in my chest pulls tight anyway. I shouldn’t care why she’s here. I shouldn’t want it to be more.
We step into the lobby—all marble, modern art and low lighting.
Em looks around, cataloging every detail.
"This lobby could fit my entire apartment," she murmurs. "Possibly twice."
"You live in a small apartment?"
"I live in what my landlord generously calls a 'cozy studio' and what I call 'a shoebox with hopes and wishes.’” She follows me toward the elevators. "But it's mine, and the hot water works most of the time, so I'm calling it a win."
The elevator arrives with a soft chime, and we step inside.
The doors close, sealing us in, and suddenly the space feels smaller, more intimate. Em leans against the mirrored wall, watching me with those sharp hazel eyes.
"So," she says. "Are we going to talk about the fact that this is potentially a terrible idea?"
"We could."
"Or we could not."
"That's also an option."
The elevator climbs smoothly, numbers ticking by on the display.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Twenty-five.
"I don't usually do this," Em says suddenly. "Go home with strangers, I mean. Just so we're clear. This isn't my normal Saturday night behavior."
"Mine either."
"Really? You seem like you'd be good at this. All smooth and confident and—" She waves a hand. "—intimidatingly well-dressed."
"Intimidatingly well-dressed?"
"You know what I mean. Like you walked out of a cologne ad. Very 'man on a yacht contemplating his portfolio.'"
I bark out a laugh. "I don't own a yacht."
"But you've been on one. Probably several.”
"That's not the point."
"It's exactly the point," she says, grinning. "You're yacht-adjacent. I'm IKEA-furniture-assembly-instructions-adjacent. We're from different worlds."
The elevator dings.
Penthouse level.
"Good thing we're only visiting each other's worlds for one night," I say, and her smile turns into something softer.
"Yeah," she says quietly. "Good thing."
The penthouse is exactly as obscene as Em probably imagined—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, a kitchen I haven't touched, a living room with furniture that's more art installation than actual seating.
Em immediately walks to the windows, pressing her hands against the glass.
She looks young. Carefree. I squint at her, trying to guess her age.
She can’t be more than twenty-five, twenty-six. And suddenly, I’m much more aware of each of my forty-two damn years.
"Okay," she breathes. "This is officially unfair. I can see the entire city from up here."
"The view's better from the balcony."
"There's a balcony?" She whirls around. "Of course there's a balcony. Why wouldn't there be a balcony?"
I slide open the glass door, and she follows me outside where the Miami night wraps around us—warm and humid and alive with the distant sound of music and waves.
Em leans against the railing, closing her eyes and breathing in the salt air. "This is perfect. If I lived here, I'd never go inside."
"You'd get sunburned."
"Worth it."
I stand next to her, close enough that our arms almost touch, and for a moment we just exist in the quiet.
Below us, the city pulses with light and life, but up here, it feels like we're suspended above it all.
"Tell me something true," Em says suddenly, eyes still closed.
"What?"
"Something true. Not your resume. Just... something real."
I consider lying.
Consider deflecting with humor the way I usually do.
Instead, I clear my throat. “I can't remember the last time I did something just because I wanted to. Not because it was strategic or necessary or good for business. Just... because."
She opens her eyes and looks at me. "Is that what this is? Something you want?"
"Yes."
The honesty scrapes something raw inside me, and I watch her golden-green eyes haze over.
"Good," she says. "Me too."
She kisses me first, standing on her toes and pulling me down to her level as I slide my hands into her hair, tilting her head back.
A soft sound slips from her, hitting me low. Her hands find the buttons of my ruined shirt, fumbling with them while she laughs against my mouth.
"These buttons are judging me," she mutters. "They're judging my motor skills."
"They're just buttons."
"Fancy buttons. Probably Italian. Definitely judgmental."
I capture her hands. “Here. Let me."
I finish unbuttoning the shirt while she watches, her eyes dark and wanting in the moonlight.
When I shrug it off, she runs her hands over my chest, exploring, and I have to close my eyes against the sensation.
"You work out," she observes.
"Sometimes."
"That's a lie. Nobody gets abs like this from 'sometimes.'" She traces the lines of muscle with her fingertips, and I'm trying very hard to maintain some semblance of control. "What do you do? CrossFit? Please don't say CrossFit."
"I run. And I have a trainer who makes me regret living and breathing three times a week."
"Sounds terrible."
"It is."
"Then why do you do it?"
Because control is the only thing I have.
Because building my body is easier than examining my life.
Because I’ve learned that anything but perfection is unacceptable in my world.
I don't say any of that.
Instead, I kiss her again, backing her toward the open door, and she goes willingly, her hands already reaching for my belt.
We barely make it to the bedroom.
Em stumbles over the threshold, and I catch her before she falls, one arm locked tight around her waist as she crashes into me.
“Careful, sweetheart,” I murmur into her ear. “We haven’t even fucked yet and you're already falling for me?”
She laughs, breath hot against my neck. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, I’m not. I plan to earn every sound that leaves your mouth tonight.”
I kiss her again before she can respond—hard and deep.
Because she has no idea—no clue of what she’s gotten herself into.
Because the man in the karaoke bar she met is one thing—
But the man standing in front of her now?
He’s something else entirely.
In the boardroom, I command with numbers—contracts. Composure.
I speak and people move.
Deliver. Obey.
In the bedroom, the rules don’t change—only the stakes.
Which is why I have no problem guiding her gorgeous ass backwards until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed.
Keeping a firm grip on her hips, I settle her down on the mattress’s edge, standing between her spread thighs.
Within seconds, I have her tank top off, unmasking soft skin and a black lace bra that pushes her tits up—high enough to make my cock strain against my slacks.
“These yours?” I ask, dragging my thumb across the top edge of the cup.
“The bra?”
“No. These.” I palm them both through the lace, thumbs circling.
She moans when I pinch her nipples through the fabric, and a second later, when I drag the fabric of the cups down, each beautiful tear-dropped breast spills free.
And fuck me.
They’re perfect. Full. And seemingly soft.
I can’t help it. My mouth immediately finds one dark pink nipple, sucking soft and long.
The move is met with a whispered chorus of “Oh my God’s” from Em.
But I want more.
Dragging my teeth over her breast, I blow cool air across the wet peak until she’s practically squirming.
“Christ you’re beautiful.” I reach for her chin, tilting her head up so her gaze is fixed on mine. “Don’t hold back, Em,” I warn, “I want all of you, and I want you to get everything you came here for.”
Her hazel eyes widen, pupils blown, and she gives a tiny, shaking nod.
“Good. Now,” I say, tugging the bra off completely and tossing it aside, “take those shorts off. Panties too.”
I step back and watch, arms crossed, as she obeys. The sight of her sliding those tiny black panties down her legs while maintaining eye contact makes my cock throb harder.
Fuck.