Her chest is heaving at this point, her beautiful breasts rising and falling fast.
"Yes." The word comes out shaky. "All of that."
“I’ve kept my distance, Ms. Sinclair. Barely.”
Her breath catches. “You don’t look like someone who’s barely keeping anything, Donovan.”
“Then you’re not paying attention.”
A car horn blares nearby, breaking the spell, and she steps back, smoothing her dress with trembling hands. "I should go."
“Not yet.” I catch her wrist, and her pulse jumps under my fingers. “Not until we acknowledge this.”
“Acknowledge what?
“That Miami wasn’t enough.” My hand slides from her wrist to her waist. “That I’m done pretending these last two weeks of ‘distance’ fixed a damnthing. That every time you walk into a room, it takes everything in me not to drag you out of it.”
“Donovan…”
“And that you’re thinking about what happens next.”
Her honey-colored eyes burn into mine, molten and terrified and wanting. “And what happens next?”
Before I can answer, a sleek black town car pulls up.
Of course.
“Your car,” I say, letting my hand fall away even though every instinct tells me to grab her again.
“Donovan, we can’t—”
“I know all the reasons we can’t.” I open the door for her, my voice low and steady. “But I’m running out of reasons why we shouldn’t.”
She looks at me like she wants to argue.
But then she rises onto her toes and kisses me.
And nothing about it is soft. Hesitant.
It’s a release. A confession.
Two weeks of pressure detonating between our mouths.
I groan into her, one hand sliding to the back of her neck, the other gripping her waist and pulling her flush against me. Her fingers clutch my suit jacket, nails biting through the fabric as her lips part for me, as she opens willingly.
I deepen the kiss—slow, consuming, exactly the way I’ve been dreaming of every fucking night since Miami.
I take control because she lets me, because she wants me to, because this—this—is the version of us that feels right.
She makes a quiet, desperate sound in her throat.
The kind of sound a man keeps. The kind he memorizes and lives on for months.
The kind that turns my cock into pure steel.
Hardand throbbing, my thumb grazes her jawline, tilting her where I want her, guiding her mouth with a mastery I can’t restrain, and everything about my little strategist is soft.
Warm.
