26. Donovan
DONOVAN
The pale band of skin on my left wrist feels surprisingly light.
I trace my thumb over the bare flesh, the friction grounding my pulse. The heavy platinum watch is sitting on an obsidian desk ninety floors above Manhattan, abandoned in an office I will never enter again.
The air in the master bedroom of the Brooklyn brownstone is thick, steeped in the scent of clean cotton and the lingering steam of the shower we just shared. All the dirt from the greenhouse has been washed away, swirling down the drain along with the last remnants of my mother's empire.
I am wearing nothing but a pair of low-riding gray sweatpants.
Elisa reclines against the center pile of white pillows.
The amber glow of the bedside lamp casts a warm, liquid halo over the breathtaking expanse of her deep espresso skin.
She wears absolutely nothing. The elegant architecture of her collarbones, the soft swell of her breasts, the faint, silver lines mapping her lower stomach—she is a flawless, unguarded sanctuary.
Her dark eyes track my movements. The fierce, defensive walls she built to survive the last five years are gone.
I crawl onto the foot of the mattress, the heavy springs shifting under my weight. I don't rush. The frantic, desperate urgency that defined our collisions in the past is over. The threat is gone. We have the rest of our lives.
I settle my weight between her spread thighs. I lean over her, bracing my forearms on the mattress on either side of her head. I press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the pulse beating at her throat, tasting the damp heat of her skin.
I shift lower, capturing the soft swell of her breast. I take the hardened peak into my mouth, sucking gently at first, then biting down with just enough pressure to make her gasp.
"Don..." My name slips out of her mouth, a breathless, broken sound. Her hands tangle in the thick waves of my hair, her nails lightly scraping my scalp.
I drag my tongue down the center of her ribcage, tracing the faint silver stretch marks on her stomach, loving every single inch of what she has endured.
I slide my hands under her right leg, lifting it and hooking her calf securely over my broad shoulder to open her up completely.
The scent of her arousal floods my senses, heavy and real. I lower my head, pressing my mouth directly against her slick, swollen center.
She writhes instantly, her heel digging into the muscle of my back. I use my hands to grip her hips, holding her steady as I use my tongue to find the exact, relentless rhythm that makes her unravel. I trace the delicate, wet folds, drinking her in. She tastes like sweat and pure, unfiltered need.
"Donovan, please." Her hips buck upward, chasing the friction.
I slide two fingers deep inside her tight, scalding heat. I curl them upward, stretching her as I match the wet, driving suction of my mouth. Every tremor of her thighs against my jaw, every fractured moan she makes, fills the hollowed-out cavern in my chest.
"Don't hold back," I tell her, my voice a rough murmur against her damp skin. "Give it to me."
She arches violently off the mattress. Her inner walls clamp down hard around my fingers as a fierce, consuming climax crashes through her. She cries out my name, her fingers twisting into the white linen sheets as she rides out the intense wave of pleasure.
I slide my hands up the length of her legs, shifting her off my shoulder as I haul myself up to hover directly over her.
Her chest heaves. Her dark eyes are clouded with exhaustion and a profound, beautiful trust.
I push my sweatpants down my narrow hips, kicking them away onto the floor. I catch both of her hands, lacing our fingers together and pinning her wrists gently to the mattress above her head. I align the rigid, blunt head of my erection against her wet entrance.
I press my forehead against hers.
"Tell me you're mine," I whisper, my voice rough with the craving to hear it. "Say it."
"I'm yours," she breathes, her chest rising and falling heavily against mine. "Only yours."
I push forward, sinking into her.
The entry is a tight, wet, completely overwhelming slide of heat.
Her body stretches to accommodate my size, enveloping me completely.
The physical sensation of burying myself inside her—without a single secret or corporate threat hanging over our heads—makes my chest ache with a heavy, desperate love.
A deep groan spills out of my lips as I seat myself entirely to the hilt.
"You are my whole world," I tell her, resting my full weight over her.
Elisa pulls her knees up higher, wrapping her long legs tightly around my waist to pull me flush against her chest.
I establish the rhythm. Long, heavy, and infinitely deep.
The sound of our bodies sliding together fills the quiet room.
Every deep thrust is a claiming, a physical vow pressed directly into her flesh.
I lower my head, capturing her mouth in a messy, desperate kiss.
She meets my hips, rising off the mattress to take every inch of me, her breath stuttering against my lips.
I unlace our fingers, sliding my hands down to grip her waist. I lift her hips slightly, changing the angle to drive even deeper. Her hands roam over the sweat-slicked muscles of my back, her nails scraping lightly over my spine, holding me to her.
"I love you," she gasps, the confession tearing out of her as I hit a deeply sensitive spot inside her.
The words shatter the last lingering remnants of restraint I possess.
"I love you, Elisa." I drive my hips down harder, burying myself inside her. "God, I love you so much."
The climax hits me with devastating force.
She clenches tightly around me, pushing me right over the edge. I drive into her one final, brutal time, a harsh, ragged sound tearing from my throat as my climax rips through me. A heavy, agonizing flood empties the absolute depths of me, binding me to her permanently.
I collapse, my chest heaving as I bury my face in the spot near her ear. I roll to the side, taking her with me, tucking her securely against my body and throwing one heavy thigh over her legs to keep her close.
The frantic thud of our synchronized heartbeats gradually slows, lulling us into a deep, unbroken sleep.
The sharp, blinding slice of morning sunlight breaches the gap in the blackout curtains.
A heavy, chaotic weight crashes directly onto the mattress, bouncing against my shins.
"Mommy! Donovan! The sun is awake!"
The high-pitched, demanding voice of the four-year-old obliterates the quiet of the bedroom.
I peel one eye open.
Derick stands in the massive bed. He wears a pair of bright green, dinosaur-print pajamas, his thick, dark curls standing up in a wild halo. His vivid green eyes stare down at the tangled mess of limbs beneath the white duvet.
Elisa groans, burying her face directly into the warm muscle of my chest.
"The sun is awake, but the humans are dead, baby," she mumbles, her voice a sleep-heavy purr.
I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her closer, while reaching out with my other hand to snag Derick. I yank him down onto the mattress.
He squeals, a bright, ringing sound of pure joy, tumbling into the space between us. He wedges his small body directly against my ribs.
The sheer magnitude of the moment settles heavily in my chest. A self-made florist and a four-year-old boy. The true legacy. The only wealth that matters.
"I need my Tyrannosaurus," Derick announces suddenly, wiggling to get free. "He is protecting the kitchen."
He begins to scramble off the tall bed, but I sit up, catching him gently by the shoulder.
"Hey, buddy," I say, my voice rough with sleep. "Hold on a second. Can I talk to you?"
Derick stops, sensing the shift in my tone. He sits back on his heels, clutching the duvet in his small fists. Elisa shifts beside me, pushing herself up on her elbows. She looks at me, her dark eyes wide and suddenly shimmering with unshed tears. She nods slowly.
I turn my full attention to the boy. I look at the curve of his jaw, the shape of his nose, the exact shade of his eyes.
"Derick," I start, my throat suddenly incredibly tight. "You know how your friends at preschool have dads?"
Derick nods his head, his curls bouncing. "Yeah. Leo’s dad carries him on his shoulders."
"Well," I swallow hard, fighting the overwhelming wave of emotion threatening to break my voice. "I want you to know that... I'm your dad. I'm your father, Derick."
The four-year-old stares at me, his brow furrowing as his brilliant, developing mind processes the information. He looks at Elisa.
"He is, baby," Elisa whispers, a tear slipping down her cheek. "He's your daddy."
Derick looks back at me. His green eyes widen, and a massive, gap-toothed smile breaks across his face.
"Like a real dad?" Derick asks, his voice hushed with awe. "I asked God for a dad when I blowed out my birthday candles."
A choked, watery laugh escapes out of me. I pull him entirely into my chest, wrapping my massive arms around his small frame. I bury my face in his chaotic curls, the tears finally falling hot and fast against his pajamas.
"Yeah, buddy," I whisper, holding my son for the very first time. "Like a real dad. I promise."
Derick hugs my neck fiercely for a long minute before pulling back. "Can I ride on your shoulders to the kitchen? To get the T-Rex?"
I laugh, wiping the wetness from my face. "Anytime you want."
I lift him up, swinging him onto my broad shoulders. He grips my hair tightly, giggling as I stand up from the bed, still wearing my sweatpants, and carry him to the door. I set him down in the hallway, and he takes off at a dead sprint down the oak staircase.
I walk back into the quiet bedroom.
Elisa is sitting up, the white sheet draped over her chest. The morning light catches the tear tracks shining on her cheeks, but she is smiling—a soft, incredibly tender, and completely whole smile.
I walk over to my discarded jeans pooling on the floor. My hand slips into the front pocket.
My fingers close around a small, square box wrapped in black velvet.
I pull it out, holding it in the center of my palm.
Elisa freezes. The breath halts in her throat. Her dark eyes lock onto the small black box.
I sit on the bed we just wrecked, looking at the woman who survived the war with me. I flip the lid open.
The morning sunlight strikes the ring.
It is not a Swanson heirloom. It was not extracted from a vault guarded by litigators.
It is a flawless, emerald-cut diamond flanked by two deep blue sapphires, set in brushed platinum.
I commissioned it from an independent jeweler in Brooklyn three weeks ago, funding it entirely from my own personal real estate investments.
"There is no empire," I state, my voice absolute and uncompromising. "There are no trusts, no board members, and no inherited wealth to use against you. I am just a man starting over from the dirt."
I pull the ring from the velvet.
"I will build an independent firm. I will earn every single dollar with my own two hands. I will never keep you in the dark, and I will spend every single second of my remaining life proving that you and Derick are the absolute center of my universe."
I reach out, taking her left hand, my thumb gently stroking the skin of her index finger.
"Marry me, Elisa."
A single, brilliant tear breaches her eyelashes, tracking a slow, wet path down her cheek. The fierce, impenetrable armor she wore for five years completely dissolves, leaving only a radiant, devastatingly beautiful truth.
She looks at the ring, then up into my eyes.
A single, brilliant tear breaches her eyelashes, tracking a slow, wet path down her cheek. She looks at the ring, then up into my eyes.
She doesn't hesitate. She reaches out, her hands framing my face as she pulls me in until our foreheads rest together.
"Yes," she answers, her voice fierce and completely certain. "Put it on me."