Chapter 13 Mandie
Chapter thirteen
Mandie
The first thing I noticed was the warmth.
A slow, heavy pulse against my cheek, the kind that made my skin prickle with the kind of drowsy comfort that only comes from sleeping somewhere you shouldn’t.
My lashes fluttered, sticky with the last remnants of sleep, and the world blurred into shape.
I could see the faint outline of a thigh beneath my face, the steady rise and fall of a chest.
Donovan.
His scent was everywhere, something warm and faintly metallic, like old books left in the sun too long, mixed with the sharp tang of whatever product he used to keep his hair in that perpetually tousled state.
I exhaled, my breath hot against the denim of his jeans, and for a second, I let myself pretend I was allowed to stay like this. That I hadn’t spent the last six months convinced I was better off alone.
Then reality kicked in.
I shifted, my neck stiff from the angle, and the movement jostled him. His thigh tensed beneath my cheek, just for a second, before I forced myself to pull away. The couch cushions groaned under me as I sat up, my tattoos catching the dim glow of The Keystone’s ambient lighting.
Donovan was still asleep, his head tipped back against the couch, mouth slightly open. Messy black hair fell over his eyes, shadowing his face in a way that made him look even younger than he was.
Twenty-one. Christ. I was old enough to know better.
I padded toward the kitchen, my hoodie riding up just enough to let the air hit the bare skin at my waist. The coffee machine sat on the counter like a monolith, all sleek silver and glowing buttons, mocking me. I stared at it. It stared back.
“Fucking hell,” I muttered, jabbing at the power button.
Nothing happened. I tried again, harder this time, and the machine beeped once, its screen flashing to life.
A menu unfolded. Espresso, latte, macchiato—why the hell are there so many options?
I stabbed at the one that looked least likely to require a degree in engineering.
The machine whirred, then spat out an error noise.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
A shift in the air. The couch creaked.
“Everything ok?” Donovan asked.
I didn’t turn around. “Go back to sleep.”
Donovan’s voice was rough with disuse, the kind of gravel that made my stomach clench. “Need help?”
My fingers curled into fists at my sides. “No.” The word came out sharper than I meant it to. The machine beeped again, taunting me. I glared at it and then changed my mind. “Yes.”
His footsteps were quiet, barely there, like he was trying not to startle me.
He didn’t comment. Just reached past me, his sleeve brushing my wrist, and pressed a sequence of buttons with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times before.
The machine whirred to life, water hissing through the system.
“Yeah.”
He nodded, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet above. They clinked together, a soft, domestic sound. The coffee dripped into the first cup, dark and rich, the aroma curling into the air between us. I swallowed. My mouth was dry.
He started pouring the second cup, steam rising in lazy spirals. He handed me mine, his fingers brushing against my palm for half a second longer than necessary. I told myself it was an accident.
“Thanks,” I muttered, wrapping both hands around the mug. The heat seeped into my skin, grounding me.
He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked back toward the couch, his movements loose, unhurried.
I followed, because what else was I going to do?
Stand in the kitchen like an idiot? The couch dipped under my weight as I sat, leaving a careful foot of space between us.
Donovan took a sip of his coffee, his throat working as he swallowed.
I took a large gulp of the coffee. It was sweet caffeine goodness. It made me come alive. The silence stretched until I finally broke it.
"Sorry I fell asleep on you," I said.
"No worries. All part of the duties of being a babysitter." He smiled, showing his dimples.
I laughed at him. "I am nine years older than you. It makes more sense if I‘m the babysitter."
He shrugged. "Boss's orders."
"Fuck your boss. You should respect your elders, young man."
I stood up and headed to the kitchen counter. I plucked a muffin and held it up. "Hungry?" I asked him.
He smirked, and his tongue elongated and snapped towards me, snatching the muffin and recoiling it back to him.
"Yes, thank you." His smirk got bigger.
"Oh, you are in trouble." I glared at him.
"I‘m the babysitter. I can't be in trouble."
"We went through this. I am older, so I am the one in charge. And I had no idea you could extend your tongue. I thought it was just your arms and legs?"
He shook his head. "No, my whole body."
"Really?" I said, with an interest in my voice.
No, my whole body. The second the words left his lips, something in me snapped.
That fucking tongue of his, long and sinuous, snatching the muffin like it was nothing.
Like he could do anything with it. My pulse kicked up, heat pooling low in my gut, and I didn’t even try to hide the way my gaze raked over him.
His gray eyes flicked up, just for a second, before darting away like he’d been caught doing something dirty. Good. He should feel exposed, because I was about to peel him open further.
I didn’t walk back to the couch. I stalked. Each step deliberate, my feet silent. Donovan sat there, all lean lines and gothic edges, his black nails tapping restlessly against his knee. He looked like he was trying to disappear into the cushions.
Not happening.
I stopped in front of him, close enough that my thighs brushed his knees. A jagged breath escaped him.
“Ever put that tongue to good use?” The words came out low, rough, like I’d been smoking for decades instead of just chain-drinking coffee. His messy black hair fell into his eyes, but not before I saw the way his pupils blew wide.
“Not really. It doesn't really do much for fighting crime or saving people,” he stammered.
A devilish grin covered my face. “Don’t be coy, Donovan. You’re not as innocent as you pretend.” The words tasted like a threat on my tongue. His fingers twitched against the couch, like he was fighting the urge to reach for me.
Before he could sputter out another lie, I swung my leg over his lap and sank down, straddling him. The heat of his body seared through my hoodie, his thighs tensing beneath mine. His hands flew up, not to touch, just to hover, like he was afraid of burning himself.
I grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the back of the couch, leaning in until our faces were inches apart.
“You’ve got a fucking gift,” I murmured, my lips brushing his ear. “And I want to see what you can do with it.”
His breath came faster, shallow little gasps that made my cunt clench. I could smell him, like leather and burned sugar. The scent of his shampoo clinging to his hair. My fingers tightened around his wrists, my nails digging in just enough to make him whimper.
“Mandie, the boss won't like this...” he started, but I cut him off by slamming my mouth against his.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claiming.
His lips were soft, too soft, like he’d never been kissed like this before.
It was like he’d never been taken. I bit his lower lip, hard enough to draw another whimper, then soothed the sting with my tongue.
His body jerked beneath me, his cock already half-hard against my thigh. Fuck, he was responsive.
I deepened the kiss, my tongue sweeping into his mouth, demanding entrance. For a second, he hesitated. Then his hands curled into fists behind the couch, and he kissed me back.
Not like a boy. Like a man starving.
His tongue tangled with mine, hot and wet, and I moaned into his mouth, grinding down against him.
The friction sent a jolt straight to my clit, my panties already damp.
His hands broke free from my grip, sliding up to my arms, his fingers digging into the tattooed skin like he was afraid I’d vanish.
I loved it. Loved the way his breath hitched when I rolled my hips, the way his cock twitched against me. Loved the little sounds he made. All of his whimpers, gasps, the occasional broken “fuck” was magic. It was like he was drowning, and I was the only air.
I tore my mouth from his, both of us panting. His lips were swollen, his eyes glazed, his hair a mess from where my hands had fisted in it.
“Prove it,” I ordered, my voice rough. His chest heaved, his gray eyes dark with something raw and hungry. He nodded, slow, like he was in a trance.
Then his tongue flicked out.
It wasn’t human. Not anymore. Longer, thicker, the tip splitting slightly as it traced the line of my jaw. I shivered, my head falling back as he dragged that fucking thing down my neck, the wet heat of it making my skin prickle.
“Fuck,” I gasped, my fingers tangling in his hair, yanking him closer. He obeyed, his mouth sealing over my pulse point, his tongue lashing against my skin like he was tasting me. Marking me.
My hoodie was in the way. I ripped it off, tossing it aside, leaving me in just a thin tank top.
His hands found my waist, his thumbs pressing into the dip above my hips, holding me steady as his tongue slid lower.
Over my collarbone. Down the valley between my breasts.
I arched into him, my nails scraping his scalp, a broken “yes” spilling from my lips.
The cool air hit my damp skin, but all I could feel was him. his breath, his tongue, the way his fingers flexed against my ribs like he was memorizing the shape of me.
“You’re so fucking good at this,” I panted, my voice trembling. His tongue swirled around my nipple through the fabric of my tank, the wet spot darkening the cotton. I whimpered, my back bowing, my thighs squeezing his hips.
“Fuck.”