“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs again, though he’s already kissing me like he’ll die if he doesn’t.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
He groans. “You make it impossible to be the good guy.”
“You’re not supposed to be the good guy.”
That earns me a rough, breathless laugh. Then his hand slides higher, pressing against my clit—just enough to make my knees buckle.
My gasp turns into a whimper. “Please…”
“Shh.” His mouth finds mine again, slower this time, deeper. “You deserve to be worshipped,” he murmurs against my lips. “But not like this. Not in a hallway. Not when I can’t take my time.”
He pulls back, breathing hard, cupping my cheek, and the tenderness in his gaze nearly unravels me completely.
He blinks once. Then twice. Gaze shuttering. “Good night, Emma.”
I can only blink, dazed, as he turns and starts walking away, every inch of him radiating with barely contained restraint.
“You’re leaving?” I squeak at his retreating back. “But—why—“
He turns.
“If I stay, I won’t stop.” His jaw ticks, his gorgeous face tightening almost in pain. “And sweetheart, not for nothing, but you deserve better than a rushed fuck against a hotel door.”
Taking three long strides, he closes the distance once again, planting a kiss on my forehead as he strokes my cheek.
His voice is a low thunder-roll I feel in my gut.
“Sleep,” he says softly. “Tomorrow’s another long day.”
And before I can find words, he’s gone—disappearing down the hallway, leaving me trembling against the door, lips swollen, heart racing, body aching for more.
I sink back against the wall, one hand pressed to my chest. Because for the first time in a long time, I believe it when he says I deserve more.
And God forgive me…I want that more to come from him.
Chapter twelve
~DONOVAN~
Twenty-two minutes after walking away from Emma in that hotel hallway, I’m pacing my penthouse like a man unhinged.
Jacket on the back of the couch. Tie draped over the lamp. Shirt open to the waist like I forgot how buttons work. I’m burning alive in five-thousand-thread-count cotton.
And I’m hard. Still. Painfully.
From the taste of Emma’s mouth, from the sound she made when I pressed her into the wall and cupped her through those wet, lace panties.
The lace I should’ve torn off with my teeth.
Instead, I walked away.
"Fucking idiot," I growl, dragging my hands through my hair like that’s going to purge the image of her from my skull. “Saint Donovan. Patron CEO of blue balls.”
I pour a double scotch, swallow half of it, letting it burn down my throat as I adjust myself in my slacks—a useless torture.
Because if I were twenty-two, I’d be seven floors down already, worshipping her against that door—on my knees with my hands holding her slick thighs open and my mouth on that wet little pussy until she forgot her own name.
