“Too much?”
“No,” she breathes. “Not enough.”
Christ.
I bring the glass to her lips. “Sip.”
Following instructions, her throat works as she drinks, she sighs, and lets her head rest against the pillow, eyes closing.
Obedient. Wrecked.
Glorious.
As for me, I’m too busy running the towel over her again—between her legs, across her thighs.
“I don’t share,” I murmur as I work.
She opens her eyes again, slowly. “What?”
“If we do this again—and we will—I need you to understand that.”
A beat passes,then two. “Okay.”
“You’re not dating anyone else. You’re not fucking anyone else. No late-night text flirting. No backup plans. Just me.”
“Donovan…”
I pause. Not because I’m unsure. But because I want Emma to hear this next part.
“I’m aware of how incredibly lucky I was to find you again, Emma. I’m not going to be coy about this. I don’t do casual. And I don’t do halfway.”
She stares up at me like she’s seeing the man under the control for the first time.
“I’m not scared of you,” she says, smiling softly.
“You should be.” I brush a strand of hair from her damp forehead. “Because I want you more than is good for either of us.”
I wipe the last of the slickness from her thighs, then fold the towel and toss it toward the bathroom door. By the time I look back, she’s already curling toward my pillow, and with what little control I can muster not to take her again, I pull the blanket over her barebody, then reach out and trail my fingertip along the curve of her hip.
“You did good tonight at dinner, Sinclair,” I murmur.
A sleepy smile curls on her lips. “Still professional?”
I smirk. “Not even fucking close.”
Soon, the gorgeous goddess in my sheets is asleep, and I watch her for a moment, letting myself take the sight of it all in.
I run my palm down the curve of her hip, the outline of her bare thigh beneath the sheet. Enjoying the softness of her skin—and her—pressed against me.
Truth is, I should be asleep too. I have meetings in the morning. IPO timelines. Strategic partnerships. A billion-dollar company to steer.
But my brain won’t shut off.
Not when I’ve just crossed every professional, ethical, and rational line I spent years telling myselfmattered.
Because Emma is in my bed, in my suite, wearing nothing but the marks of my hands and the memory of my voice.
And tomorrow might be complicated.
