Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
~DONOVAN~
Saturday morning, one week after Emma and I painted the nursery together—I wake up with her in my arms.
Not in some metaphorical, romantic way.
Literally. Her body is draped across mine like a very pregnant, very warm blanket, one leg thrown over my hip, her face pressed against my chest, dark hair everywhere.
Sun filters through the bedroom windows, turning everything gold and soft. Outside, Central Park is waking up—joggers and dog walkers and the city beginning its weekend rhythm.
Inside, it's just us.
Emma and me and the baby she's carrying. Our family.
It still makes my chest tight with the kind of fear that has nothing to do with work or deals or anything I can control.
But it also makes me feel more alive than I've felt in years.
Emma shifts, making a soft noise that's half-asleep, half-awake. Her hand moves across my chest, fingers spreading over my heart.
"Morning," I murmur into her hair.
"Mmph."
"That's not a word."
"It is now. I'm inventing new languages in my sleep." She doesn't open her eyes. "What time is it?"
"Eight-thirty."
"Ugh. Too early."
"We have the ultrasound at ten."
That gets her eyes open. They're hazel-green in the morning light, still sleepy but already focusing on me with that intelligence that first drew me in.
"Right. The ultrasound. Where we find out if Bean is a boy or girl."
"If you don’t want to know. We don't have to—"
"I want to know." She props herself up on one elbow, and the sheet falls away, revealing the t-shirt of mine she wore to bed. "Don't you?"
"I want whatever you want."
"That's a cop-out answer."
"It's a diplomatic answer."
She pokes my chest. "I'm pregnant with your baby and living in your penthouse. I don't need diplomacy. I need honesty."
I catch her hand, bringing it to my lips. "Honestly? I'm terrified either way. Boy or girl doesn't matter. What matters is that in four and a half months, we're going to have an actual human who depends on us not to screw them up too badly."
"Wow. Inspiring speech. Real father-of-the-year material."
"I'm serious, Emma."
"So am I." She leans down, kissing me softly. "We're going to screw up. That's parenting. But we're going to screw up together, which means we'll at least have someone to blame when our kid needs therapy."
I laugh. "That's your pep talk?"
"It's realistic. Which is better than whatever bullshit Pinterest version you're imagining." She settles back against my chest.
I wrap my arms around her, feeling the slight swell of her stomach against mine, and let myself believe it.
That we can do this. That I can do this. That being a father doesn't mean being perfect—it means being present.
"I love you," I say quietly.
"I know." Her fingertips flick the sparse hair on my chest. "You built me a nursery. That's basically a declaration of love in home renovation language."
"I'd build you a hundred nurseries."
"Let's start with one and see how it goes."
We lie there in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and I find myself thinking about the past week.
About Emma moving in officially—her few belongings blending with mine, her clothes in my closet, her toothbrush next to mine.
About the late-night conversations we've been having, working through all the fears and wounds we've been carrying.
About the way she laughs at my awful cooking jokes while I make pasta, and the way I'm learning to read her moods—when she needs space versus when she needs closeness.
And it's real. Better than any fantasy I could have imagined.
"We should talk," Emma says, breaking the silence.
"That sounds ominous."
"Not ominous. Just... practical." She sits up fully, pulling her knees to her chest. "We need to figure out the logistics. Work. Living arrangements. How we're going to handle all the gossip when people realize we're together."
"I've been thinking about that."
"Of course you have. You're Donovan. You probably have a spreadsheet."
"I have several spreadsheets."
Her laughter fills me. "Of course you do."
I sit up, leaning against the headboard. "I'm restructuring my role at Titan."
Emma's expression shifts to surprise. "What?"
"I've been talking to the board. To Thane and Logan. We're promoting Christine—our COO—to handle day-to-day operations. I'll still be CEO, still be involved in major decisions, but I won't be working eighty-hour weeks anymore."
“Wait, are you sure—“
"I built this company," I continue. "I spent twenty years proving I could create something from nothing. And I'm proud of that. But now?" I reach for her hand. "Now I want to build a life. With you. With our baby. And I can't do that if I'm living at the office."
Emma's eyes are bright. "You'd really do that?"
"I already did. The board approved it yesterday." I squeeze her hand. "I want to be at doctor's appointments. I want to help with midnight feedings. I want to be the father who shows up, not the father who sends apologies from business trips."
"That's... that's different for you.”
"It's necessary." I pull her closer. "You and this baby are my priority now. Not Titan. Not the IPO. You."
She's crying now, which seems to be her default state lately, but these are good tears.
"Okay," she says. "Okay, if you're restructuring your entire career, then I need to figure out my job situation."
"About that—"
"I'm no longer quitting."
"I wasn't going to suggest you quit. I was going to suggest we create a role that works for you." I brush tears from her cheeks. "What do you actually want, Emma? Not what you think you should want. What do you want?"
She's quiet for a moment, thinking.
"I want to work," she says finally. "I love strategy. I love solving problems. I don't want to be just a mom—I want to be both."
"Then be both."
"But people are going to talk. They're going to say I only have the job because I'm sleeping with the CEO—"
"Let them talk." My voice is firm. "You deserve your position. And anyone who suggests otherwise can deal with me."
"That's very CEO-threatening of you."
"I'm serious. We'll be transparent. We'll tell HR about our relationship. We'll make sure there's no conflict of interest. But Emma?" I cradle her face. "You don't have to choose between your career and our family. You can have both. We'll figure it out."
"What if I want to work from home sometimes? Or need flexible hours after the baby comes?"
"Then we make it work. We hire a nanny. We adjust schedules. We do whatever you need." I kiss her forehead. "This isn't you against me. It's us against the problem. Together."
She's crying again, harder this time.
"Stop making me cry," she says. "I'm going to look like a mess at the ultrasound."
"You're beautiful when you cry."
"You're full of shit."
"I'm full of love and shit. It's possible to be both."
She laughs through her tears, and I pull her back against me, holding her while she collects herself.
"We should probably get ready," she says eventually. "Appointment's in an hour and a half."
"Plenty of time."
"For what?"
I roll her onto her back, settling between her legs. "For this." I kiss her neck, then her collarbone, working my way down. "We can be quick."
"Quick is not romantic."
"Quick can be very romantic." My hand slides under her shirt—my shirt—finding warm skin. "Trust me."
"I do trust you. That's the problem."
But she's already arching into me, already making those soft sounds that drive me crazy.
"Ten minutes," I murmur against her skin. "Give me ten minutes and I'll make you forget we have anywhere to be."
"Five minutes," she counters. "I need time to shower and—oh God—"
I've found that spot on her inner thigh that makes her lose her train of thought.
"What was that about needing to shower?"
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"No, I don't."
She’s beneath me now, flushed and breathless, her legs falling open on the bed. Her hair fanned out against the pillow, wild and dark. Her breath catches as I kiss a line down her neck, her collarbone, her sternum.
“Don,” she warns, “we don’t have time for—”
I kiss her, hot and hard, trying to swallow whatever protest she has left. My hand slips between her thighs, fingers sliding through the slick heat already waiting for me.
“Jesus, Em.” I stroke her firmly. “You’re soaked. That doesn’t say you’re in a hurry to leave, sweetheart?”
She arches into me, a whimper escaping her throat.
“It says you’re fucking starving for it.” My voice drops, I drag my tongue down her throat, over her chest, nipping her breast through the fabric.
Her breath catches as I suck her nipple through the cotton. “You’re obsessed.”
“Damn right I am.”
I shift lower, kissing over her belly, my hand never leaving the rhythm between her thighs.
“This pussy,” I murmur, “was made to be fucked by me. And you know it.”
Her hips jerk. “I—we have to—“
“Shh.” I push two fingers inside her. Deep. Slow. My thumb presses up, circling her clit just right.
She’s already panting, golden eyes wide and glassy, one hand gripping the edge of the headboard as I pump my fingers into her, watching the way her skin flushes from her chest to her ears.
“You’re already close, aren’t you?” I rumble against her throat. “Always so fucking needy for it.”
Emma moans, hips tilting to chase every thrust, her thighs trembling on either side of mine. I pull back slightly and stroke her with the wet glide of my thumb.
“God, Don—”
“That’s it.” My voice is rough, rasping against her ear as I crook my fingers inside her, watching her unravel.
When she falls apart—writhing beneath me, mouth open in a silent cry—I don’t let her come down gently. I slide down between her legs, tasting her, tongue greedy and possessive, lapping at her like a starving man until she cries out again, body spasming.
“You always taste so fucking good after you come,” I growl, lips wet with her arousal as I kiss up her inner thigh.
I strip the T-shirt from her body in one steady motion, eyes raking over her curves—the full weight of pregnancy softening her edges, making her even more devastating.
“You’re everything,” I tell her, voice gone thick. “All mine. This body, this mouth—” I lean in, lips slanted against her pink mouth “—so perfect. Made for me.”
Emma’s hands fumble at my waistband, and I let her pull down my briefs, my cock straining, thick and swollen with the need to be inside her.
I press forward, lining up at her entrance, dragging the head through her folds before pushing in. Her head falls back, as I swear into her skin.
The stretch. The burn. That perfect fucking slide.
I bottom out, fully inside her, Emma’s pussy clenching tight around me like a velvet vise.
“Jesus,” I grit. “You feel so fucking good around my cock, baby.”
Her nails claw at my back. “Just stay like this.”
I hold still, letting her feel every thick inch of me before I even start to move.
What starts as a slow grind transforms to hard thrusting, the filthy drag of skin on skin filling the room with slick slapping and moans.
I fuck Emma, hard and deep, snapping my hips in the exact rhythm I know pulls her apart, her heels hook behind my ass and hold on.
“Fuck, you drive me crazy,” I groan into her neck. “You like it when I fuck this gorgeous pussy hard, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she whimpers.
“Christ, beautiful.” I snap my hips deeper and she gasps. “Does this pussy want it rougher.” Another thrust. “Faster.”
“Yes, Donovan, please.”
“You don’t need to beg, baby,” I exhale, wrapping my arm under her knee and tilting her hips up for better angle. “But I fucking love it when you do.”
My free hand moves to her throat, holding here there as her whimpers turn to sobs, as her gasps melt into moans, her delicious cunt squeezes around me, pulsating in dizzying waves.
Her eyes lock on mine, hungry—desperate, and I just can’t help myself.
My hips thrust forward again and again, fucking her wildly, dragging every ounce of pleasure from her until she’s choking on it, nails digging crescents into my shoulder blades.
“Fuck, baby, I can feel you coming.” I bite out, watching her perfect tits bounce as she shakes. “That's my dirty girl.”
Head lowering, I latch onto one rigid nipple, sucking wetly, and Emma comes hard again, her heat convulsing around my cock. I follow seconds later, groaning into her mouth as I bury myself deep and spill hard inside her.
We stay like that—panting, skin slippery with sweat—until the world sharpens back into focus.
Eventually, I roll to the side, dragging her with me, and when she curls into my chest, breath still shallow, I kiss her temple, one hand resting on the soft curve of her belly.
The other hand wipes the wet strands from her face, barely resisting the urge to fondle her swollen clit.
“Still think we don’t have time before the ultrasound?” I ask the woman I can’t fucking breathe without.
She lets out a shaky laugh, teeth digging into her bottom lip—a lip I reach over and suck. She grins when I let go. “You’re going to be the death of me, handsome.”
I grunt, voice gravel-rich against her mouth. “You’re starting every morning like this. Stuffed full of my cock, and shaking for me before you even think about coffee.”
Her eyes flutter, lashes dark and damp, mouth soft and open as she breathes. “Every morning?”
I grip her hips and roll once more, letting her feel how ready I still am.
“Every. Damn. Morning.”
“Donovan,” she hums, even as her legs fall open again, “if you make us late, I swear—”
“We’ll blame traffic.”
Already hardening again, I reach down, swipe a slow, filthy stroke across her still-swollen clit, and grin as her words dissolve.