Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
~DONOVAN~
Twenty-two minutes after walking away from Emma in that hotel hallway, I’m pacing my penthouse like a man unhinged.
Jacket on the back of the couch. Tie draped over the lamp. Shirt open to the waist like I forgot how buttons work. I’m burning alive in five-thousand-thread-count cotton.
And I’m hard. Still. Painfully.
From the taste of Emma’s mouth, from the sound she made when I pressed her into the wall and cupped her through those wet, lace panties.
The lace I should’ve torn off with my teeth.
Instead, I walked away.
"Fucking idiot," I growl, dragging my hands through my hair like that’s going to purge the image of her from my skull. “Saint Donovan. Patron CEO of blue balls.”
I pour a double scotch, swallow half of it, letting it burn down my throat as I adjust myself in my slacks—a useless torture.
Because if I were twenty-two, I’d be seven floors down already, worshipping her against that door—on my knees with my hands holding her slick thighs open and my mouth on that wet little pussy until she forgot her own name.
But I’m not twenty-two.
I’m forty-two. Sixteen years older than my new subordinate.
Which apparently means I’ve replaced animal instinct with restraint and all the self-sabotaging sense of a gentleman.
Except I don't want to be a gentleman right now.
And as if I need the reminder, my phone chooses that exact moment to buzz.
I check it.
Logan. Of course.
LOGAN: How’d dinner go?
ME: Fine.
LOGAN: Did you close?
ME: Cho’s interested. We’ll finalize tomorrow.
LOGAN: And Sinclair? How are you handling being alone in the same hotel as your biggest weakness?
I glare at the screen.
ME: She’s fine. Brilliant. Professional.
LOGAN: And you?
ME: Drunk. Horny as a motherfucker. Losing my mind.
I don’t send that last one.
Instead, I toss the phone onto the couch and stalk to the minibar, pulse pounding. I don’t pour more scotch. I brace one palm against the edge of the marble counter and try to breathe as the other palm adjusts the hardness pressing against my zipper.
I shouldn’t care. I’m the CEO of a billion-dollar company. I sign million-dollar contracts before lunch.
I don’t chase women. Especially ones half my age who work for me.
And yet—
A knock.
I freeze.
A slow, deliberate knock. Not housekeeping. Sure as shit not room service. Not at this hour.
No one would knock on my door at midnight unless—
I’m halfway across the room before I realize I’ve moved. I open the door, and just as I expected, there she is.
Emma.
Messy hair. Swollen lips. That burgundy dress hugging her like obsession stitched in silk. My goddamn key card in her hand.
“Hi,” she breathes. “You dropped this.”
My cock twitches, my gaze lowering to the card in her hand. "You came all the way up here to return my key card?" I blink. "I do have another one, you know."
Her perfume hits me next—citrus and heat and something that punches straight into the primitive part of me that wants to throw her against the wall and fuck her senseless.
"Well," she steps closer, bold and trembling, like a lamb offering herself to a wolf. "I thought you might need it.” She holds up the card. "And also—"
I surge, pressing my mouth to hers.
No hesitation. No sweet kiss goodnight.
Everything about it says “you’re fucking mine”.
And she is.
I growl low and grab her—waist in my hands, soft curves yielding to my grip—and drag her into the room like a man possessed, slamming the door shut behind her with a hard booted kick.
She’s mine now. And we both fucking know it.
Spinning Emma, I pin the gorgeous, little brunette against the door and lick into her pink mouth like I’m starving…
Because I am.
Because for a billion dollar self-made man, I’m now reduced to a hungry deprived predator, and for the first time in forever, Emma goddamned Sinclair is the only meal that can satisfy me.
And when she moans, I almost lose it.
Fuck me, that sound.
I want to bottle it, harvest it, and force-feed it to every fucker who ever thought she was too much or not enough.
I break the kiss, cupping her jaw. “You want this?”
She nods frantically. “Yes.”
“You sure you want me, sweetheart?” My voice drops an octave, laced with need. “Because there’s no part of me that can walk away from this again tonight.”
Lips part, her pupils dilate over her hazel irises, thighs pressing together as my fingertips move to her hips.
“Yes,” she breathes. “I want all of it. All of you.”
“Then show me, Emma” I step back slightly, cock straining against my slacks. “Show me how much you want this.”
She freezes for half a second. Then slowly sinks to the floor.
The sheer vision of her lowering herself down to the hotel suite’s Persian rug, and looking up with flushed cheeks and parted lips is enough for me to come on the spot.
Fucking Christ.
My hand tangles in her hair on instinct, gently but firmly guiding her. “That’s it. That's my girl." I rasp. "Take me out, princess.”
She unfastens my belt with trembling fingers, then undoes the zipper with agonizing care.
“Good girl,” I murmur, as I feel her fingers wrap around me.
She lets out a strangled sound, then pulls my cock free.
Hard. Thick. Already leaking at the tip for her.
“Oh my God…”
“Is that what you want?” I grit out. “Your boss to fuck that pretty mouth?”
She lets out a whimper—one that shoots straight to my spine.
“Open,” I say.
She obeys—like the perfect employee she is, and I feed myself into her slowly, watching as her lips stretch around me, her tongue flattening obediently. I don’t go deep. Not yet.
I want to watch her. Feel every inch of her giving into me again.
“Fucking Christ.. look at you. So fucking eager to suck my cock.”
She moans low, vibrating against me.
My hand tightens in her hair. “Good girl. Take more.”
I guide her deeper, just a little at a time, until she’s gagging softly and her eyes are watering—beautiful, ruined, and perfect.
"Fuck that feels so good,” I hum. “on your knees, gagging on my cock. You want to drive me crazy, don’t you?”
She whimpers again, fingers digging into my thighs, and I give her a moment—let her breathe, praise her for taking it so well—before I finally start to move.
The first thrusts are shallow—measured control, and all the while, Emma is the perfect receptor. If I thought I was fucked when it comes to conference and break rooms, I was wrong. So wrong.
Because there’s nothing sexier than watching Emma’s cheeks hollow out as I pump my hips, the sight of my cock reappearing and disappearing down her slender throat as I fuck her mouth.
“Jesus Christ,” I grit out, picking up pace, too close to the edge of coming. “That's it. Use your tongue, this cocks been begging for you.”
Emma whimpers around my cock, but I forced myself to ease out before I explode right here, breath ragged.
I smile, hand still curled in her hair. “Is that little pussy ready for me, sweetheart?” I say darkly, “You going to let me fuck that too, baby?”
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, chest heaving, golden eyes glazed.
“Yes,” she whispers. “Please.”
The “please” is all I need. I pull her up in one smooth motion, and lift her into my arms, shifting her over my shoulder.
With a surprised yelp, she half gasps-half laughs as I stalk towards the California King bed.
There, I deposit her on the expensively silky sheets where she bounces lightly on the mattress, dark brown hair fanning around her, her cheekbones rosy and flushed.
Even under nothing but moonlight, I can see Emma’s full lips are swollen, tonight’s burgundy dress still clinging to her like a second skin.
And God almighty, this girl is a fucking vision.
My undoing.
“Very romantic,” she murmurs, breathless.
“I’ll show you romantic later,” I rasp, undoing the last of my shirt buttons and tossing it aside. “Right now, I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk straight.”
Her pupils darken as she licks her bee-stung lips “Promise?”
“Sweetheart, that wasn’t a promise.” I kick my pants and boxers across the room in one motion, cock fully erect, glistening from her mouth. “That was a warning.”
I stalk toward the bed while she props herself up on her elbows, watching me as I reach for the zipper on the side of her dress.
“Condom—” I manage, but she shakes her head, gaze on me.
“Birth control is covered." she pauses. "Have you been with anyone since—“
“Since you?” My heart pounds in my chest, as my hand tightens around her zipper. “No. Don’t you get it by now? There’s been no one since you, Emma. I can’t fucking think, breathe any other woman but you.” I confess.
“And this silky thing,” I say, dragging the zipper down slowly, exposing inch after inch of smooth skin, “has been driving me insane all night.”
She gasps when I push the fabric down her shoulders, baring her chest. No bra.
“Jesus, Emma…”
Her breasts are flushed, almost fuller then I remember, her dusky-rouge nipples already hard, like her body’s been waiting for my mouth all damn night. Instantly, I lean over, dragging my tongue over one taut peak, sucking it into my mouth.
By the time I switch to the other, Emma is already arching on the bed, offering her body beneath me.
“The way you walked into that restaurant tonight,” I murmur between licks, “like you owned the room. Like you knew every man wanted you… including me.”
She moans, writhing, and I shuck the rest of her dress, spreading her thighs wide, I let my eyes take in every detail of what my memory has been jacking-off to since Miami. I slide my hand between her legs and cup her pussy with my open palm.
“You know what it made me want to do?” I snarl. “It made me want to fuck this so hard you can’t think of anybody else but me.”
“Don—”
I stroke her softly, just enough to make her hips buck. Her cries are raw now—louder. Messier.
She’s unraveling.
And I love it.
“Look at me, Emma,” I bark.
She opens dazed, hazel eyes.