18. Donovan
DONOVAN
The heavy oak door of the Brooklyn brownstone yields to my key.
The immediate quiet of the foyer is a deceptive lie.
The dark, frantic energy radiating from the second floor strikes me before I even clear the threshold.
I drop my keys onto the console table. The silence of the sleeping four-year-old in the second-floor nursery is a stark contrast to the rapid, aggressive thud of bare feet pacing the length of the master bedroom right next door.
I take the stairs two at a time.
Elisa is a blur of motion in the middle of the room. She wears an oversized, faded college t-shirt and loose cotton shorts. Her thick hair is piled haphazardly on top of her head. A stack of heavily annotated vendor invoices sits abandoned on the rumpled duvet.
She grips the pen so tightly her hand trembles, using the blunt end to tap a frantic, punishing rhythm against the cover of a thick ledger.
"She talked about the Hamptons, Donovan." The words tear out of her throat, brittle and fraying at the edges. She does not stop pacing. "She was watching my face. Looking for a reaction when she mentioned my nephew. She knows. I can feel it. She demanded the invoices."
I step directly into her path.
The collision halts her frantic momentum. My large hands capture her shoulders, pulling her flush against my chest. Her muscles are locked tight, her body vibrating with pure adrenaline. The weight of the impending Gala and my mother's threats is grinding her down.
"She is fishing." I press a soft kiss to her temple, wrapping my arms around her. "She has no proof. The security detail is flawless. As for the invoices, I’ll handle it."
I did not tell her about the photo. I do not want her to worry even more. My team is still looking into it, suspecting my mother and the paparazzi.
"She doesn't need proof, she needs a thread." Elisa’s hands grip the fabric of my dark sweater. "If she pulls it, everything falls apart. The Gala is two weeks away, she is demanding the final phase invoices in person, and she is circling my son?—"
"Breathe." I slide my hands down her arms, my thumbs pressing deep into the tight, knotted muscles of her biceps. "Stop. Just look at me."
She tilts her head back. Dark shadows of exhaustion map the delicate skin beneath her eyes.
"When did you eat last?"
"I had lunch." She swallows hard, the lie snapping the second it leaves her mouth.
A loud, hollow rumble vibrates from her stomach, betraying her.
"The espresso you drank at noon does not constitute lunch." I wrap my arm around her waist, physically guiding her out of the bedroom and down the stairs to the kitchen.
I pull a carton of eggs and a block of aged cheddar from the stainless-steel refrigerator.
The quiet domestic routine offers a temporary distraction.
I whisk the eggs, the metallic clatter of the fork against the glass bowl filling the quiet space.
I slide a hot, perfect omelet onto a ceramic plate and set it on the kitchen island in front of her.
Elisa picks up the fork. She pushes the food across the porcelain, her throat too tight, the exhaustion swallowing her appetite. She sets the silver down with a soft clink.
"It seems you don’t have an appetite, but eat a few more spoonfuls and let’s go upstairs."
A few minutes later, I take her hand, pulling her away from the half-eaten food.
In the master bathroom, I twist the heavy brass fixtures of the deep, clawfoot tub.
Hot water cascades into the porcelain basin.
Thick steam immediately clouds the mirrors.
I pull a glass jar of dried rose petals from the mahogany vanity, crushing a handful between my calloused palms and letting the dark red fragments scatter over the rising water.
I strike a long wooden match, touching the flame to a line of thick pillar candles lining the corner of the tub.
The harsh overhead lights die with a flick of my wrist, leaving only the warm, dancing amber glow of the fire.
I turn toward the doorway. "Soak. I will wait in the bedroom."
Her fingers snatch the hem of my sweater.
The grip is frantic, desperate.
"Don't go." Her dark eyes reflect the flickering candlelight, the fierce independence she wears all day is nowhere to be seen. "Stay."
I do not hesitate. My hands grasp the hem of my sweater, hauling the heavy wool over my head and dropping it to the tile. The buckle of my belt hits the floor with a metallic clack.
Elisa strips away the oversized t-shirt and cotton shorts. The breathtaking perfection of her gleams in the low light.
We step into the massive, oversized soaking tub. The hot water bites into my skin, a sharp, grounding heat.
I pull her back against my chest, arranging her easily between my spread legs in the deep basin.
The water laps against her collarbones. I reach for the heavy glass bottle resting on the mahogany vanity.
The rich scent of crushed jasmine and damp earth bleeds into the steam as I pour the thick liquid into my palms, lathering the soap.
My hands slide over the slope of her shoulders. I map the sharp lines of her collarbones, washing her with slow, deliberate reverence. My thumbs press deep into the tight muscles of her neck, kneading away the rigid terror of the day.
"Is the pressure okay?" I murmur against her wet skin.
"Mhm. Perfect," she hums, sagging back against my chest with a long, ragged sigh. "Don't stop."
"I have you." I press a kiss into her neck.
The heavy anxiety in the room begins to fade, replaced by a slow, burning heat pooling low in my stomach.
I press an open-mouthed kiss against her wet shoulder. My hands slide beneath the water, cupping the heavy weight of her breasts. My thumbs drag across the hardened peaks, coaxing a soft gasp from her lips.
She turns her head, seeking my mouth.
The kiss is slow, deep, and searching. Her wet arms wrap around my neck. I taste the steam and the sweet, dark honey of her mouth.
When the heat between us becomes too demanding for the confined space, I break the kiss. I stand, the water sluicing off my chest and thighs, and step over the porcelain edge onto the thick bathmat.
I reach down, gripping her under the arms to haul her effortlessly up from the water. I grab a large, white towel from the heated rack, wrapping it securely around her dripping body before lifting her completely into my arms.
I carry her into the bedroom, laying her gently against the pillows.
I drag the towel over her damp skin, absorbing the water, leaving her bare against the dark sheets.
"Forget the invoices," I murmur, discarding the towel and coming down over her. I brace my weight on my forearms, looking down into her eyes. "Forget the Gala. Catherine cannot touch you here. Our son is safe down the hall. Tonight, it is only you and me."
I trace the line of her jaw with my lips.
I press wet, open-mouthed kisses down her throat, across the swell of her breasts, dragging my tongue down the flat plane of her stomach.
Her skin is hot, slick from the bath, smelling perfectly of jasmine and clean water.
Her hands grip my hair, her hips shifting restlessly against the mattress.
“Oh…” she moans.
I part her thighs, settling my heavy frame between her legs.
The intoxicating scent of her arousal mixes with the jasmine, a narcotic flooding my brain. I grip her hips, anchoring her to the mattress.
I lower my mouth.
A sharp, ragged moan escapes her lips instantly. She arches upward, her thighs trembling as my breath hits the wet, swollen center of her. "Donovan."
"Ambrosia," I rasp against the damp heat of her skin.
I devour her. I plunge my tongue deep into her slick heat, tasting her sweet juices, moving in and out with a relentless rhythm.
She whimpers, her head thrashing against the pillows as I drag the flat of my tongue upward, tracing the sensitive folds.
I slide two fingers deep inside her tight, wet passage, curling them upward to hit the exact spot that makes her scream my name.
"Donovan!" Her fingers grip my roots hard, pulling sharply. Her hips buck off the mattress, chasing the friction.
She tastes incredible. I consume her with an unyielding dedication, pushing her higher, faster, dragging her out of her own mind until she is a writhing, desperate mess beneath me.
"Please." She arches violently, her nails scraping my scalp. The muscles of her inner thighs bear down against my jaw. "Stop. Donovan, I can't?—"
She pushes hard against my shoulders, breaking the contact mere seconds before the climax shatters her.
She rolls, the sudden surge of strength catching me off guard as she flips me onto my back. She straddles my chest, leaning down to capture my mouth in a desperate kiss, tasting her own sweetness on my lips. Then, she pushes up, sliding her knees back along my hips to align us.
Elisa sinks down, taking every inch of me in one smooth, agonizing glide. The wet, slick heat of her tight muscles clamping around me feels so impossibly good my eyes roll back.
A deep, guttural groan vibrates in my chest. I watch her face as she takes me in.
She throws her head back, her spine arching in a perfect, elegant curve. Her nails score down the hard ridges of my abdominal muscles. I grip her hips, my fingers pressing into the soft flesh, anchoring her as she begins to ride.
The pleasure is an immediate, blinding rush.
"Take it," I growl, driving my hips upward, meeting her demanding rhythm. "Take everything, Elisa."
"Mine." She pants, her internal muscles clenching tight, milking me with every downward thrust. "You are mine. God, Dom!"
I flip us, pinning her back against the tangled sheets. I wrap her long legs around my waist and drive into her with deep, heavy thrusts.
The heavy oak headboard bangs rhythmically against the plaster wall. A relentless percussion of complete surrender. The world outside the brownstone simply ceases to exist.
"Elisa!" I shout her name, the climax ripping through my blood, a heavy, agonizing flood that empties the depths of me into her body.
“Donovan!”
She screams, her body bowing rigidly against the mattress as a violent cascade of spasms crushes around me.
We collapse against the pillows, chests heaving, skin slick with sweat.
I trace the faint, silver stretch marks mapping her lower stomach, my thumb brushing the physical proof of the son she protected for five years.
"You and Derick," I vow, pressing my mouth against her damp forehead. "Nothing else exists. I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe."
The exhaustion claims her quickly. She falls asleep wrapped in my arms, the rigid tension finally gone from her muscles.
The bedroom is quiet, the only sound is her slow, even breathing.
A sharp, electronic ping cuts through the dark.
My encrypted laptop, sitting closed on the mahogany dresser across the room, lights up.
I slide carefully out of the bed, ensuring I don't disturb her sleep. I pull on my dark trousers from the floor, crossing the hardwood.
I open the screen. The secure server channel tied to my private investigation team flashes neon red.
ALERT: Tier-1 Security Breach. Target: Fleming Botanicals Primary Operational Ledger. Access Granted via Third-Party Authentication Override (Bribed Internal Accountant). Terminal Origin: C. Swanson Holdings LLC.
The ambient heat of the bedroom vanishes. A cold dread settles in the pit of my stomach.
Catherine didn't just ask about the boy. She bought Elisa’s accountant. She has full access to the financial records of the firm.