But tonight?
Tonight she’s mine.
Saturday morning: breakfast with Michael Cho and his team. Emma presenting market data while I tried not to think about how she looked, back arched, pussy wrapped around my cock, body clinging to me while I fucked her into oblivion.
Saturday afternoon: contract negotiations.
Four hours of legal terminology while sitting across from Josh fucking Hanlin, watching him wither under my stare as I dared him with my eyes to undermine Emma's credibility.
Sunday: private site visits to potential Chicago office locations. Emma pointing out square footage and infrastructure while I cataloged every tiny detail—the way she bites her lip when she's calculating numbers, how she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's nervous, the subtle curve of her smile when she catches me watching.
A hand on her lower back that lingers too long.
Her fingers brushing mine when passing documents.
Stolen glances that say everything.
But that’s all it’s been since that night in my hotel room.
Because through it all, I've watched her get progressively paler, more exhausted, fighting waves of sickness she thinks I don't notice.
Now we're finally heading home, and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or terrified.
Because the moment she walks into the cabin, I know it’s going to be a masterclassin torture.
"How to get Emma Sinclair back to Manhattan without completely losing my mind."
She’s in jeans and an oversized sweater—somehow looking even younger, effortlessly sensual, and far more vulnerable than I’m prepared for.
Her chestnut-brown hair's pulled back in a messy ponytail, and those purplish shadows under her pretty hazel eyes are somehow even darker.
”Hey," she says, not quite meeting my eyes as she settles into her seat.
"Hey,” I hear my voice say.
My mind says everything else.
Are you okay? Did you sleep? Are you thinking about Friday night?
I clear my throat, talking over the nagging voice. "Rough morning?"
"Something like that." She buckles her seatbelt, then immediately unbuckles it. "Actually, Ineed—bathroom. One second."
She's up and stumbling toward the back before I can respond.
And I hear it—the unmistakable sound of her being sick.
Again.
I'm out of my seat before the pilot can even start taxiing, heading toward the bathroom where Emma's currently having what sounds like a very bad time.
"Emma?" I knock gently. "You okay?"
"Fine," she gasps between what are clearly not fine sounds. "Just—give me a minute."
"I'm coming in."
"Donovan, don't—"
