Chapter 7
Chapter seven
~DONOVAN~
Sleep hasn’t come easily since the break room. Or at all, if I’m honest.
Six nights, and I’m still stuck in the loop of it—Emma Sinclair’s flushed face under bad fluorescent light, the tremor in her hand when I touched her elbow, the way she said my name like she didn’t mean to.
It should’ve been nothing.
A late night. A vending machine.
A tired employee.
But the second I got home, I was exhausted.
And hard as a rock.
And absolutely furious about it.
I told myself I’d take the edge off, then sleep.
But the second my hand wrapped around my cock, all I could see was her—Emma, standing in that gray skirt, looking up at me like she wanted me to be the mistake she didn’t walk away from.
Every noise that came out of me was hers.
Every breath. Every curse.
And when I came—twice—it didn’t even help.
Because the minute I closed my eyes, she was still there.
That soft voice. That smart mouth. Those goddamn golden-green eyes making me imagine things a man like me has no business imagining.
Now I can’t walk into my office without imagining her on her knees in front of my desk.
I can’t look at a cup of coffee without thinking about the way she stirs hers—slow, counterclockwise, wrist flicking just so.
And I can’t get through a single night without jerking off to the memory of her moaning my name in that Miami hotel room.
Three nights in a row, I’ve come undone to the thought of her.
And it’s still not enough.
Or so my secretary seems to think when she knocks on my office door this morning.
"You're distracted," Margaret comments ten feet away from my desk, tablet in hand.
It's Friday—eight-thirty in the morning, and my secretary’s dressed like she's about to negotiate a hostile takeover.
Red suit. Hair in a slick bun. Reading glasses perched on the tip of her disapproving nose.
I don't look up from my laptop. "I'm focused."
"You've been staring at the same email for ten minutes." She walks in, setting a coffee on my desk. "What's going on? Is it the board? The product launch? That investor meeting next week?"
"Nothing's going on. I'm reviewing quarterly reports."
"The quarterly reports you approved two days ago?"
Damn.
"I'm being thorough."
Margaret quietly examines me for a long moment, and I can practically see her mental filing system updating…
“Donovan is acting weird. Investigate later.”
"Fine," she says. "But you have the strategy team meeting in thirty minutes. Conference room B. Carmen wants to discuss the new hires' integration."
The new hires.
Emma.
"I'll be there."
"Are you sure? Because you've canceled three meetings this week."
"I rescheduled them."
"Because you were 'busy’, even though your calendar showed no conflicts."
She's right, and we both know it.
I've been avoiding unnecessary interactions with anyone who might ask questions I don't want to answer.
Like "You seem different, is everything okay?" or “Why are you mysteriously hiding your crotch when Emma Sinclair passes?”
Because everything sure as shit is not okay.
Everything has been much less than okay since I walked into a reception and discovered that the woman I spent four and a half weeks thinking about is now employed by my company.
"I'll be at the meeting," I say firmly. "Was there anything else?"
Margaret's eyes narrow, but she doesn't push. "Your two o'clock conference call got moved to three. And Logan wants to know if you're still going to the Knicks game Saturday.”
"Tell him yes."
"Are you actually going to go this time, or are you going to bail at the last minute like you did for the last two games?"
"I'll go."
She doesn't look convinced, but she leaves anyway, closing the door behind her.
When she’s gone, I close the laptop and drag a hand over my jaw.
I’ve had a lot of sleepless nights in my life—board takeovers, late flights, mergers. None of it compares to this.
It’s pathetic. Unprofessional.
And it’s completely true.
“Get it together, Donovan,” I mumble to myself.
I’ve got an empire to run, an IPO in eight weeks, and a product line that could change everything.
What I don’t have is time to fixate on the one woman in this company whose body I could map with my tongue.
The Market Strategy meeting is exactly as tedious as I expected.
Carmen leads the discussion, walking through integration plans for the new hires, reviewing their first-week performance, discussing team dynamics.
I'm supposed to be paying attention.
Instead, I'm acutely aware that I haven’t spoken to Emma since the break room yesterday…and she’s now sitting three seats down from me.
Hair pulled back. Burgundy blouse. Tight pencil skirt that clings to the flare of her hips.
I tell myself not to look.
Then I look anyway.
She hasn’t glanced over. Which is smart.
Professional.
And infuriating.
Every time she speaks—calm, articulate, that low voice that sounds too much like sex—it screws with my head.
I can still hear her from Miami, breathless and begging, voice breaking on my name—
"Donovan?"
I blink. Everyone's looking at me.
"Sorry, what was the question?"
Carmen frowns slightly. "I asked if you had any concerns about the Q4 expansion timeline Emma proposed."
Emma's eyes finally meet mine, and for a split second, I see the same awareness I'm feeling reflected back at me.
Then she blinks, and it's gone.
"No concerns," I say, forcing my attention to the presentation on the screen. "The timeline is aggressive but achievable. I'd like to see a more detailed risk analysis before we commit resources, but the foundational strategy is sound."
Emma nods, making a note. "I can have that to you today.”
"Monday is fine. No need to rush."
"I don't mind. I want to make sure we're moving forward with the best possible information."
Of course she does.
Because, like me, Emma Sinclair doesn't do anything halfway.
The meeting continues for another thirty minutes, and I manage to contribute in a way that seems reasonably engaged and not at all like I'm distracted by the woman three seats away.
When the meeting ends, the team filters out—Carmen chatting with two analysts, the others clustering near the digital whiteboard.
Emma lingers, rearranging her files like she’s waiting for me to move first.
I should leave.
I don’t.
I close the door to the conference room, a soft click echoing in the silence.
“Mr. Titan,” she says carefully, like the name might burn.
“Your presentation was solid,” I say. “Carmen’s impressed.”
Her lips curve. “That’s good to hear. You’ve been... hard to read.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been avoiding meetings all week.”
I exhale. “Scheduling conflicts.”
“Three of them?” she presses, a ghost of a smile playing at her mouth. “I didn’t realize the CEO’s schedule included so much avoidance.”
“Ms. Sinclair—”
She folds her arms, chin tilting up. “If this is about Miami—”
“It’s not.”
“Because I’m being professional, and you—”
“I am being professional.” I say, the words come out low, commanding, enough to still her mid-sentence.
Emma blinks, startled. But her chin lifts a fraction, defiance sparking behind those hazel eyes. “You have a funny way of showing it.”
“Careful,” I grit back. “That sounds a lot like you’re questioning your boss.”
Her mouth parts. Then closes.
A flicker of awareness crosses her face, that quick flash of memory—Miami.
My thumb against her clit.
Her breath in my ear.
I lean back against the conference table, deliberately casual. “You’re right, though. I’ve been avoiding you. You want to know why?”
She crosses her arms. “Can I guess.”
“Take a stab at it.”
“Because you can’t stand being reminded that I exist.”
“No.” My voice drops, rougher now. “Because every time I see you, I think about bending you over and fucking you against this table. And I can’t decide whether that’s unprofessional or inevitable.”
Her breath catches, and the sound is quiet, but I hear it. Feel it.
“Donovan—”
“Don’t.” I push off the table, closing the space between us in two strides. “Don’t say my name like that. Not here.”
“We said we’d be professional,” she manages.
“I’m trying.” I stop just short of touching her. “But I don’t do halfway. Not in business. Not in bed. And right now, every time I walk into a room and you’re in it, I have to remind myself which side of that line we’re on.”
She swallows, hazel eyes dark. “And which side are we on?”
“The one where I have to keep my hands to myself.”
Her lashes flutter, and she gasps softly, pink lips parting. “You think saying things like that makes it easier?”
“No. But it keeps me honest. And to be clear, Ms. Sinclair, just because I’ve been giving you space doesn’t mean I’m not paying attention.”
She’s breathing faster now. “So that’s what this is? You showing me that you’ve been paying attention?”
“Not exactly. This is me warning you.”
Her brows lift, barely. “Warning me?”
“That when I stop holding back, you’ll know.” I glance down at her mouth. “You won’t have to wonder.”
She sways—just slightly. Her fingers grip the edge of the table like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the floor.
The seconds drag, heavy and electric, until I finally step back, breaking the tension like glass underfoot.
“Now, go home, Ms. Sinclair,” I tell her quietly. “Before I stop staying on my side of the line.”
She stares at me for another heartbeat, then turns for the door. Exhaling just once, she walks out, and for ten seconds, I don’t move.
Then I sit back on the edge of the table she was standing against, jaw tight, and drag a hand through my hair.
Because if this is what “staying on my side of the line” feels like…
I don’t want to imagine what happens when I finally stop pretending there’s a line at all.