Chapter 44 - Donovan
Donovan
Iwake up with a throbbing headache. Who the hell thought getting drunk with Coach Headstrom was a good idea? He insisted we go out to celebrate the “amazing work Elaine’s been doing with PR.”
The papers have finally backed off the fight, and Varsity’s name hasn’t been dragged through the mud. With training about to start, Coach is already talking about a three-peat for the championships.
We didn’t get to celebrate much for our second win—Stella was still reeling from losing her parents. A third one would look damn good on my record… and maybe, just maybe, on my future.
I’ve got breakfast going when Stella pads out of the bedroom, still wrapped in a blanket. Her face is unreadable—not angry, but not entirely relaxed either.
“Morning, Star. You want your eggs the same way?”
She nods. We move around each other in the kitchen, bacon to plates, coffee poured. My phone vibrates on the counter. She’s closer, so she shifts it aside, and her gaze catches the screen.
Elaine PR: Van Van, you better bring the good coffee on Monday ??
The flicker in her eyes makes something in my chest tighten. I pocket the phone, force a smile, and slide her plate across the counter.
After breakfast, I do the dishes. We end up on the couch with a movie playing low in the background. Stella’s asleep before it’s over, curled in my arms. I pull her closer, breathing in her scent, committing the weight of her against me to memory.
I tell myself this is enough, that she’s enough. So why the hell does my stomach feel like it’s full of rocks?
The plane lands an hour ahead of schedule, but I’m not going home. Not yet. Coach gave us an extra day off for the grind we’ve been putting in, and I’m cashing it in where it matters—with Stella.
Her car’s in the lot when I pull into Carrington Caskets. Through the glass, I see her behind the counter, head bent over her sketch pad. It’s almost closing time.
When I step inside, she doesn’t look up right away. “Welcome to Carrington Caskets, where elegance meets eternity,” she says, her voice warm but laced with dry humor.
I laugh low in my chest. “I can’t believe you actually say that, Star.”
Her head lifts, eyes locking on me. Surprise melts into something softer. “You’re a day early.”
“Couldn’t wait.” I don’t give her more than that before I’m pulling her in, crushing my mouth to hers.
She smiles against the kiss, then pulls back just long enough to twist the lock on the door and draw the blinds closed.
We’re barely two steps into the showroom before her lips are on mine again.
“Cameras, Coach,” she murmurs against my mouth.
“Yeah,” I rasp, “and we can watch it again later.”
I press her back into a row of display coffins, my hand finding the curve of her thigh and sliding higher under her pencil skirt.
“Donovan,” she warns, breathless. “I am not having sex on some grandma’s casket.”
A slow smirk curves my mouth. “Good thing these are just for display.”
I drop to my knees in front of her, hands sliding up the backs of her legs. I push her skirt up inch by inch until the fabric is bunched at her waist. My palms skim along the lace band at her hips before I nudge her legs apart—wider—until I have all of her in front of me.
The heat hits first, even through the thin barrier of her panties.
I lean in and drag my tongue up the soaked fabric, tasting her through it.
She gasps, the sound jagged and addictive.
I do it again, slower, pressing harder this time so the wet lace clings to my tongue before I hook my finger under the edge and push it aside.
One long lick from her entrance to her clit, and she’s already swaying, knees threatening to give. I grip her thighs to steady her, my mouth sealing over her as I work her with deep, relentless strokes. Her hips roll against my face, chasing the friction.
When I’ve had my fill—for now—I rise in one fluid move, kissing her hard, letting her taste herself on my tongue. My hands close around her waist, turning her, guiding her forward until her palms rest on polished mahogany.
I press in behind her, one hand steadying her while the other frees my belt.
My fingers wrap around myself, the heat of my own arousal slick in my grip.
I drag the head through her slick folds, smearing pre-cum across her clit before stroking myself once…
twice… slow, controlled pulls that make my breath hitch.
I line up, pushing in—not a hard shove, but a deep, deliberate drive that makes her fingers curl against the coffin’s smooth edge. I don’t stop until I’m seated to the hilt, her tight heat gripping me in a way that steals my air.
“You’re mine, Star,” I murmur, my lips brushing her ear.
I set a rhythm that’s unhurried but consuming—every stroke purposeful, every inch claimed. My chest presses against her back, my hand sliding up to close gently but firmly around her throat, holding her right there in my space.
Her moan vibrates against my palm, and my control frays. My hips slam forward, sharp, fast, pulling ragged sounds from her throat. I keep her pinned and take her harder, chasing the raw edge where I can feel her start to unravel around me.
She’s close—I can feel it in the way she clutches at me, the way her body grips and trembles. When she breaks, it’s with a sharp cry, her pussy milking my cock in tight, rhythmic pulses that drag me under with her.
“Fuck, Star,” I breathe against her skin, spilling into her in long, shuddering thrusts. My forehead falls to her shoulder, and for a few seconds, neither of us moves—not because we can’t, but because letting go feels impossible.
The red light catches me mid-turn, my blinker ticking.
My left hand grips the wheel, and my right rests on Stella’s thigh.
She’s staring out the window, probably watching the sunset melt into the mountains.
I should be enjoying the view too, but all I can think about is the way she felt in my arms earlier—the taste of her still on my tongue.
Two weeks apart, and the first thing I did was press her against a row of caskets like a starving man.
She didn’t even hesitate, just gave herself to me like she always does.
I’m not sure if I was trying to make her feel wanted or prove something to myself. Maybe both.
Sometimes it feels like maybe she’s pulling away.
Maybe living in different states is starting to wear on her.
It was selfish to chase this coaching job while she stayed here, but it’s the kind of opportunity that could put me on a college sideline—maybe even the pros one day.
Still, sometimes I wonder if I should have just come home and helped her through losing her parents.
I blow past Agave & Iron without thinking until Stella’s voice cuts in. “Donovan, where are you going? You passed it.”
I give her thigh a squeeze. “Guess my autopilot was heading home.” I U-turn, earning a small shake of her head as she pulls out her phone. I hope the whole dinner doesn’t feel like this.
The valet stand glows gold in the evening light. A kid steps forward, grinning. “Yo! Mr. D, it’s been ages.”
It takes me a second, then I see it. “Asher Crawford.” We shake hands, pull into a quick hug. “I thought you were playing college ball?”
“I am. Just transferring to Huntsville. Starting position. Coach says I’ve got a real shot at the draft next year.”
Pride swells in my chest. “That’s incredible, Asher. Put in the work, and you’ll get there.” I slip him a hundred and my card. “Call me if you need anything. Now I’ve got to take my gorgeous wife to dinner.”
Inside, the hostess—Maddie—greets us with that polished smile Stella’s always liked. “Your usual table?” she asks.
Our table sits tucked in the back, draped in black linen, the kind of spot that makes the rest of the restaurant fade. Stella settles in across from me, candlelight flickering over her face. She picks up the menu, even though she never changes her order.
It’s always been that way. On our third date, I’d scraped together extra allowance to bring her here again.
She’d laughed when I asked if she knew what she wanted.
I’ve known since the first time you brought me here, she’d said, brushing hair out of her face.
If I like something, I stick with it. Back then, I told her, If you hate it, we’ll order something else.
You never have to worry about wasting money.
Every penny’s worth it if it means I’m here with you.
Tonight, she orders the ribeye, medium rare, with mashed red potatoes and lemon garlic asparagus. And I’m still the guy who thinks the best thing on this menu is sitting right in front of me.
I pour each of us a glass of the cabernet she likes, watching her swirl it in the candlelight. “You look like trouble tonight, Star,” I tell her, low enough that it’s just for her.
Her smile curves slowly, dangerously. “That’s because I am trouble, Coach.”
We talk over dinner—the kind of talking we’ve always been good at, even when the rest of our lives feel like they’re on different coasts.
She tells me about the new shipment of Italian wood they got in, about Blythe’s ridiculous attempt to charm a client, and about the desert heat warping the showroom doors.
I tell her about practice, about the freshman who thinks he’s God’s gift to football, and about the championship game coming up.
At some point, my hand finds hers across the table. I rub my thumb over her ring, slowly. “I missed you,” I say simply.
“I know,” she says, and there’s a softness in her eyes now, the kind that makes me think maybe this weekend can be the reset we need.
We finish the night with crème br?lée, sharing one dish even though she pretends to protest. She scrapes the caramel top with her spoon, offering me the bite. I take it from her fingers instead, licking the sugar from my lips while her gaze drops to my mouth.
By the time the check comes, I already know we’re not going straight home. Not yet.
The rest of our weekend falls into this perfect, impossible balance.
Saturday morning, we wander through the city park, the air warm but edged with a light breeze.
Laughter carries across the grass—kids on swings, dogs chasing balls, someone strumming a guitar near the fountain.
For Arizona, it almost feels like Virginia with the shade and greenery.
We claim a spot under a tall cottonwood, my back against the trunk, Stella between my legs with her sketchbook balanced on her knees.
Over her shoulder, I watch her sketch a young mom spinning her identical twin boys in a dizzy circle.
The lines come alive under her pencil—you can almost hear the children’s laughter coming from the page.
I press a kiss into her hair and keep my arms wrapped around her longer than usual, as if I can anchor both of us there.
When she finishes, she tears the page from the pad and jogs over to the woman. There’s hugging, tears, a dozen thank-yous, and then she’s back in my arms like she never left. Something in my chest eases in a way I didn’t know it needed to.
That night, she makes my favorite alfredo with her grandmother’s pasta recipe. We eat on the back patio, music low, wine in hand. I keep the conversation moving, asking her about things we’ve discussed a hundred times—our first trip together, her old art teachers—anything to keep her smiling.
She tips her head back at something I say, laughter spilling out in that wild, unguarded way I love. The moonlight catches in her hair, and for a second, I think about how lucky I am she calls me hers… and how dangerous it feels to want to keep it that way at any cost.
We end the night tangled in the sheets, hair mussed, skin flushed.
She lies on her stomach, only her hips covered, and I rest my head between her shoulder blades, drawing lazy hearts on her back.
The world outside doesn’t touch us here—no long distance, no flights, no schedules, no damage control.
Just us. We talk about the future in the kind of unguarded way we haven’t in months, no sidestepping, no sharp edges.
It’s just after three in the morning when the storm moves in, the kind that feels personal, like the sky is arguing with itself.
Lightning spills white across the walls, thunder low and restless, rattling the glass.
She sleeps through all of it—hair spilling over the pillow, her soft snore pulling me back to the warmth we made hours ago.
The sheets still smell like her perfume, her scent: jasmine and sugar, clinging to my skin like it knows I need to keep it.
I rest my forehead against the glass, watching the sky split open, and the ache in my chest answers back.
And I wonder—how did I get here? How did I let myself slip this far down a hole I’m not sure if I can climb out of?