Chapter 42 - Donovan
Donovan
The first week without Stella is hell. Everything grates. My players, my assistants, the guy at the coffee shop who forgot my order—no one’s safe.
If I’m miserable, apparently everyone else has to be too.
We text constantly. Shower. Lunch. The driver’s seat before work. Little proof of life. Still here. I'm still missing you.
Our calls started softly ended with murmured I miss you’s. Now they end in low, dirty whispers that make me grip the sheets and swear. Her voice makes my hand move faster. Mine makes her catch her breath. We come apart miles away from each other, but it’s never enough.
We’re days from seeing each other again when her name lights my screen—Incoming Video Call: Star.
I answer. And she’s there. My wife. My undoing. She’s propped on the bed in a deep red bra that looks like it was sewn just to make me lose my mind. My throat goes dry. I can’t talk.
Her fingers start at her throat, drag slowly over her chest, then down, down—every inch making me burn.
Her breathing hitches. “Mmm, Donovan… I want your hands on me.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Fuck, Stell—”
“Shh.” A cut of sound. “You don’t talk unless I tell you to. You’re mine tonight. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” It leaves me raw.
Her smile is small, sharp. “Good boy. Now… take off your shirt.”
I set the phone against the headboard. Strip. Toss. She watches.
“Everything.”
The air grows thinner. I push my shorts and briefs down, cock heavy. My hand starts to move—
“Ah-ah. Hands behind your head.”
My body locks. My dick twitches. She’s not touching me, but it feels like she is.
“That’s better,” she murmurs, fingers slipping over the lace between her thighs. “I like knowing you’re sitting there like that—hard, and not allowed to do a damn thing about it.”
Silence stretches until my breathing sounds too loud.
“You want to be here, don’t you?”
“More than anything.”
“You want to worship me.”
“Yes.”
“Then watch.”
Her hand moves under the lace. Her chest lifts. Her lips part. She’s unmaking me with every breath.
The straps slide down her arms, her breasts spill free, and my hands twitch before I can stop them.
“Not yet.”
The ache climbs into my ribs. I’m on the edge of begging when she finally says, “Touch yourself. But don’t you dare finish before me.”
It’s a rush of air. My hand wraps around myself, pace locked to hers. My eyes never leave her.
She gasps my name, tight and breaking, and I follow—helpless.
Her smile is soft and lethal. “Good boy. Now go to sleep dreaming about how I’m going to ruin you this weekend.”
And I will.
Two days later, I step off the plane in Agave Hills. My carry-on is still on my shoulder when I see her.
She’s leaning against the wall like she owns the terminal—until she spots me. Then she’s running, airborne, arms around my neck, legs locked at my waist.
It’s been weeks. It feels like years.
I carry her to the car. Her mouth is on mine before we’re out of the lot. I drive too fast, too recklessly, until the desert opens and the mountain appears.
Our cove.
Park. She’s straddling me before the engine stops. Skirt riding up. Mouth on mine.
“You’ve been thinking about this since I called you,” she says.
“Every damn second.”
My hands find bare thigh—no underwear—but she catches my wrists. Pins them.
“Not yet. I wanted you to remember who decides when you get me. And right now? You don’t.”
She grinds once, cruel and perfect.
“I want you hard, aching, and still following orders. You can wait, can’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” My voice is sandpaper.
She slides off, smooths her skirt. “Knew you could behave. Drive me home.”
I grip the wheel the whole way, knuckles white. She stares out the window, hiding a smirk.
We get inside. No lights. Bag drops. Shoes off. She walks to the bedroom. I follow.
“Lock the door.”
It clicks. Not for privacy. For surrender.
She lifts her skirt. Bare. My cock aches.
“Clothes off.”
I strip fast. She watches like she’s inventorying something she already owns.
“On the bed.”
I sit back. She straddles me, skirt still on. Heat close enough to feel but not touch.
Her fingers trace me from jaw to chest. “Know what I’ve been thinking about since the cove?”
“Tell me.”
“How good you look when you’re trying not to touch me.”
My hips jerk. Her palm stops me.
“Not yet. You’ll take me exactly how I want. And you’ll thank me for it.”
When she finally sinks down, slow and merciless, skirt framing the movement, my hands lock on her hips.
Her voice is a growl wrapped in satin. “That’s my good boy.” She rolls her hips, once, twice, pulling a sound from me I didn’t even know I could make. “Now show me how much you missed me.”
I don’t start fast. I hook my hands around her hips, pulling her down as my hips thrust up, slow and deep, until she gasps. I do it again, savoring the heat, the way her skirt brushes my thighs, the way her eyes darken when I make her feel it.
“Like that?” I ask, my voice rough.
Her head tips back as her nails dig into my chest, a sharp bite of pain that only makes me want more. “Mmm… yes, Donovan… just like that.”
It’s all the permission I need. I grip her harder, pace turning sharp and deliberate, slamming her down to meet each thrust. The bed frame shudders beneath us, the air thick with the sound of our breathing.
Her breath catches, a small, broken sound that spikes my pulse. I do it again. And again. Her moan builds, winding tighter with every snap of my hips until she’s shattering above me.
She says my name like it’s the only word she has left, head tipping back again, and I push her over that edge. The moment she falls apart around me, I’m gone too—hips jerking, a low, ragged sound tearing out of my throat that no one else will ever hear.
She collapses against me, cheek to my shoulder, our breaths tangled and unsteady. Her lips brush my ear, soft and smug. “That’s how you worship me.”
And she’s right.
For a long minute, neither of us moves. Her weight is warm against me, the air thick with the scent of her skin and the faint sweetness of her perfume. My hands stay on her hips like I’m afraid she’ll slip away if I let go.
She’s the one who finally leans back, her palms sliding up my chest. “You missed me well, Donovan.” It’s soft, almost affectionate, but there’s still that glint in her eyes—the one that says she’s not done reminding me who’s in control.
I can’t help it. I cup the back of her neck, pull her in for a kiss that’s slow but heavy, the kind that leaves no room for doubt. She hums into it before pulling away, brushing her thumb over my jaw like she’s considering whether to let me stay like this.
“Shower,” she says finally, climbing off me. “You’re not getting back into bed like that.”
We spend the rest of the weekend in a rhythm that’s all ours.
Early mornings tangled in sheets, the air still warm from the night before.
Slow coffee in the kitchen, her bare feet padding across the tile, her hair messy from sleep.
Afternoons where I drive us out past the edge of Agave Hills just to watch her smile at the open desert, sunlight painting her skin gold.
Nights are for the cove—for stolen moments that leave me wrecked and her smug in that way I can’t resist.
Too soon, it’s over. At the airport, she kisses me like she’s memorizing the shape of my mouth, then turns away without looking back. I stand there until she’s gone, holding the echo of her lips like it’s the only proof the weekend was real.
The next two months blur together; the only thing that changes is the scenery—her city, one visit, mine the next.
Every trip is the same in the ways that matter. We worship each other in bed, chasing climax after climax until we’re wrung out, only to start again hours later. It’s never enough. No matter how much I take, or how much she gives, the craving doesn’t fade.
It’s my weekend to fly home. I clock out, send Stella a quick text that I’ll be home in a few hours.
“D’Angelo! My office, now!” Coach Headstrom’s voice carries down the hall, madder than a hornet in a Coke can. Maybe now isn’t the best time to remind him of my last name change—going by Carrington is the best thing I’ve ever done, but it’s still new enough to throw people off.
“Coach, you wanted to see me?” I step in and take a seat.
He tosses a paper down on the desk between us, the corner curling like it’s been gripped too tightly. “Got a situation I need you in on.”
That’s when I notice we’re not alone. A woman is perched in the chair beside the window, tablet balanced on one crossed knee.
She’s dressed like she’s about to walk into a boardroom—blazer sharp enough to cut glass, heels that don’t belong in a gym.
She glances up from whatever she’s typing, offers a polite smile, then looks right past me like she’s already filed me into whatever category I belong in.
“Donovan, this is our new PR consultant,” Headstrom says.
“She’s with one of the most powerful firms in the country, headquartered out of Arizona, and she specializes in high-profile crisis management.
She has an undefeated reputation; she’s handled bigger messes than ours.
Media, scheduling, and keeping the program clean while we’re in the spotlight. ”
She gives a small wave, her smile sharp. “Nice to meet you.”
I nod, barely glancing her way. My focus is on the sheet Headstrom just slapped down in front of me. It’s a printout from the (Virginia) Gazette, the headline bold enough to make my stomach drop: High School Athlete Involved in Late-Night Incident.
I skim the first paragraph. Noah Whitaker—JV sophomore. Fistfight behind a strip mall. Someone caught it on video.
“Kid’s fine,” Headstrom says, rubbing his temple, “but the story’s already spreading, and the district doesn’t want this touching varsity. Or the program’s image. That’s where she comes in.”
I glance toward the woman in the chair—she hasn’t said a word, just watching, her fingers moving over the tablet like she’s already drafting the spin.
“Elaine’s here to handle media, scheduling, and keep our name clean. She’s going to run point on the damage control, and we’re going to cooperate. That means player interviews, a couple of goodwill appearances, some volunteer work, and all eyes on us this weekend—not on that article.”
My chest tightens. “Starting this weekend?”
“Yeah.” He leans back, lacing his fingers over his stomach like the conversation’s already over. “Cancel your plans. We’re locking this down before it gets legs.”
The words land like a gut punch. Stella’s already counting down the hours until I’m home, and now I get to be the one who ruins it. I swallow it down, nod once, and slide the paper back across the desk, already dreading the text I’m going to have to send.
Me: Got roped into something for the team this weekend. Can’t get out of it.
Star: Define “something.”
Me: PR clean-up. Media stuff. Volunteer event. Headstrom’s orders.
Star: Mmm, so… instead of in my bed, you’ll be shaking hands and smiling for cameras?
Me: Pretty much.
Star: Shame. I had plans for you.
Me: You can’t say that to me right now.
Star: I can, and I just did.
Me: I’ll make it up to you.
Star: You always do.
I stare at her last message longer than I should. She’s not mad—not exactly. But I know her well enough to hear the space between her words.
I shove the phone in my pocket and get back to work, but the weight in my chest stays put.
By Sunday night, missing Stella is a weight in my chest, and Agave Hills feels like it’s on the other side of the world. I’m already carving the days into my calendar until I can get back.