Chapter 12 #2
“I want you to remember this,” I growl, rubbing circles over her clit. “Every time you walk into a meeting and try to pretend I don’t own this body. Every time some smug prick looks at you and smiles like he's got a chance.”
“I—oh God—”
“No one gets you like this. No one else makes this pussy come.”
“Please, Don…”
Fuck.
My fingers slip inside her, and every inch of her pussy is wet, absolutely fucking dripping.
I pulse my fingertips, curling them inside her as she moans.
“Yes! God, fuc—yes!”
But it isn’t enough. Nothing will be enough until I have Emma wrapped around me.
With a growl emanating from somewhere deep inside me, I snap. I grab her hips, flipping her over with a fast, fluid motion.
She whimpers as I pull her to the edge of the bed, spine arched, ass lifted, thighs parted enough to give me a view I’m never going to forget.
“Fuck. You're too much.”
I run my palm down her back, stopping at the curve of her hip, gripping one ass cheek and squeezing.
“Don,” she gasps. “Please fuck me. I need it—need you—”
“Sweetheart.” I rub the inside of one shaking thigh. “You drove me crazy all fucking night. In that dress. Putting those lips on me. Getting on your knees. Now you’re going to get every fucking inch you’ve been asking for.”
Her breath hitches.
And just like that, my control shatters like glass.
I stroke my cock in my hand, hard and heavy, before pressing the thick head of it against her entrance, gripping her hips, and thrusting inside with one rough, claiming stroke.
And I nearly see God.
Because just like in Miami, my Emma is impossibly tight—a reminder that this body is a goddamn blessing.
She cries out, red fingernails curving into the sheets. “God, Donovan—”
“You’re mine now,” I grind out, hips snapping forward. Each thrust drives her harder into the mattress, the sound of skin on skin filling the room, the scent and feel of her wet pussy breaking my self-control.
How she drips down my cock, soaking us both.
Reaching forward, I claw a hand into her heavy dark hair, fisting it, arching her back deeper as I pound into the pussy that belongs to me now, a rolodex of filth falling from my lips as I fuck Emma into oblivion.
“You like being fucked deep by your boss, don’t you, sweetheart? Admit it. This greedy pussy loves being used senseless by the man who signs your paychecks.” I say, grinding into to her wet heat. “Listen to you. Fucking singing for me. You like being fucked hard, don’t you baby?”
I set a relentless rhythm, designed to make her feel exactly what she does to me.
“Touch yourself.” I order. “Rub that little clit while I ruin this pussy.”
I don’t hold back. And she doesn’t either.
Because if there’s a more perfect fuck on Earth, I haven’t found it.
Because Emma—crying out in pleasure, her heart-shaped ass slapping against my hips—is the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.
I realize she’s coming before she even does, and I hold her steady through it, trapping her in place as her whole body locks, cries breaking free from her throat as she clenches around me.
I follow soon after, pumping deep inside her, hips jerking, brain blank with the force of it.
And for a moment, all I hear is the hard pounding of my heart in my ears. Then breathing.
Hers. Mine. Ours.
And it’s simultaneously labored, ragged—satisfied.
I stay that way, buried deep inside her, as I kiss her spine.
“You were so good baby.” I murmur roughly.
She smiles, still gasping, still twitching around me. If only that were enough…
Because the second I pull out of her, I don’t let her collapse. Instead, I catch her by the waist, dragging her back against my chest, one hand cupping her breast, the other sliding down to her slick, pulsing center.
I press a kiss to her temple. "Stay here.”
She doesn’t move, and I ease her back onto the bed, before taking several strides to the ensuite bathroom.
One fresh towel I dampen with warm water, and a half-filled glass later, I return, sitting on the edge of the bed as Emma blinks up at me, long dark lashes fluttering.
“That was amazing.” she whispers, voice raspy.
I smirk and wipe between her thighs gently with the warm wet towel. “That was the point.”
She shivers.
“Too much?”
“No,” she breathes. “Not enough.”
Christ.
I bring the glass to her lips. “Sip.”
Following instructions, her throat works as she drinks, she sighs, and lets her head rest against the pillow, eyes closing.
Obedient. Wrecked.
Glorious.
As for me, I’m too busy running the towel over her again—between her legs, across her thighs.
“I don’t share,” I murmur as I work.
She opens her eyes again, slowly. “What?”
“If we do this again—and we will—I need you to understand that.”
A beat passes, then two. “Okay.”
“You’re not dating anyone else. You’re not fucking anyone else. No late-night text flirting. No backup plans. Just me.”
“Donovan…”
I pause. Not because I’m unsure. But because I want Emma to hear this next part.
“I’m aware of how incredibly lucky I was to find you again, Emma. I’m not going to be coy about this. I don’t do casual. And I don’t do halfway.”
She stares up at me like she’s seeing the man under the control for the first time.
“I’m not scared of you,” she says, smiling softly.
“You should be.” I brush a strand of hair from her damp forehead. “Because I want you more than is good for either of us.”
I wipe the last of the slickness from her thighs, then fold the towel and toss it toward the bathroom door.
By the time I look back, she’s already curling toward my pillow, and with what little control I can muster not to take her again, I pull the blanket over her bare body, then reach out and trail my fingertip along the curve of her hip.
“You did good tonight at dinner, Sinclair,” I murmur.
A sleepy smile curls on her lips. “Still professional?”
I smirk. “Not even fucking close.”
Soon, the gorgeous goddess in my sheets is asleep, and I watch her for a moment, letting myself take the sight of it all in.
I run my palm down the curve of her hip, the outline of her bare thigh beneath the sheet. Enjoying the softness of her skin—and her—pressed against me.
Truth is, I should be asleep too. I have meetings in the morning. IPO timelines. Strategic partnerships. A billion-dollar company to steer.
But my brain won’t shut off.
Not when I’ve just crossed every professional, ethical, and rational line I spent years telling myself mattered.
Because Emma is in my bed, in my suite, wearing nothing but the marks of my hands and the memory of my voice.
And tomorrow might be complicated.
But tonight?
Tonight she’s mine.
Saturday morning: breakfast with Michael Cho and his team. Emma presenting market data while I tried not to think about how she looked, back arched, pussy wrapped around my cock, body clinging to me while I fucked her into oblivion.
Saturday afternoon: contract negotiations.
Four hours of legal terminology while sitting across from Josh fucking Hanlin, watching him wither under my stare as I dared him with my eyes to undermine Emma's credibility.
Sunday: private site visits to potential Chicago office locations.
Emma pointing out square footage and infrastructure while I cataloged every tiny detail—the way she bites her lip when she's calculating numbers, how she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's nervous, the subtle curve of her smile when she catches me watching.
A hand on her lower back that lingers too long.
Her fingers brushing mine when passing documents.
Stolen glances that say everything.
But that’s all it’s been since that night in my hotel room.
Because through it all, I've watched her get progressively paler, more exhausted, fighting waves of sickness she thinks I don't notice.
Now we're finally heading home, and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or terrified.
Because the moment she walks into the cabin, I know it’s going to be a masterclass in torture.
"How to get Emma Sinclair back to Manhattan without completely losing my mind."
She’s in jeans and an oversized sweater—somehow looking even younger, effortlessly sensual, and far more vulnerable than I’m prepared for.
Her chestnut-brown hair's pulled back in a messy ponytail, and those purplish shadows under her pretty hazel eyes are somehow even darker.
”Hey," she says, not quite meeting my eyes as she settles into her seat.
"Hey,” I hear my voice say.
My mind says everything else.
Are you okay? Did you sleep? Are you thinking about Friday night?
I clear my throat, talking over the nagging voice. "Rough morning?"
"Something like that." She buckles her seatbelt, then immediately unbuckles it. "Actually, I need—bathroom. One second."
She's up and stumbling toward the back before I can respond.
And I hear it—the unmistakable sound of her being sick.
Again.
I'm out of my seat before the pilot can even start taxiing, heading toward the bathroom where Emma's currently having what sounds like a very bad time.
"Emma?" I knock gently. "You okay?"
"Fine," she gasps between what are clearly not fine sounds. "Just—give me a minute."
"I'm coming in."
"Donovan, don't—"
But I'm already opening the door, because I've completely abandoned any pretense of boundaries where she is concerned.
She's on the floor again, looking pale and miserable and so small it makes my goddamned chest ache.
"This is becoming a pattern," I say, crouching beside her with a damp towel and bottled water I grabbed from the galley. "And not a good one."
"I'm aware." She takes the towel gratefully. "It’s nothing. Just…food hasn’t been sitting well with my stomach lately.”
"Which is exactly why you're seeing a doctor the second we land.”
"Donovan—"
"That's not a request, Emma. That's me, as your boss and as someone who gives a damn about you, telling you that you're seeing a doctor today."
She looks up at me, something vulnerable flickering in her gaze
I help her stand, keeping one hand on her elbow as she leans against the counter.