I take another bite, a little bigger. It sits fine. My stomach doesn’t revolt. For the first time all day, the nausea recedes to adull whisper.
I open my eyes to find him still watching me, intent and hungry in a way that has nothing to do with food.
"What?" I ask, heat creeping up my neck.
"Nothing." His gaze dips briefly to my mouth. "Just making a list."
"Of what?"
"Things that make you moan like that. So far, I have pasta, hotel sex, Chicago, my private jet, and the moment you heard the heartbeat."
My face goes nuclear. "You can't say hotel sex like that in the same sentence as the heartbeat."
"You're right." He comes around the island toward me. "The heartbeat goes first."
He stops in front of my stool, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to see him.
"Donovan," I warn. "We just had a very serious talk."
"And we will have more very serious talks," he says. "But I’m also allowed to want you."
His hand comes up, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. His thumb grazes my jaw, the touch light but focused.
"Finish eating," he grunts. "Then I'm going to make you moan for a completely different reason."
My fork clatters against the bowl. "That's…bossy."
"You're surprised?" His mouth curves. "Emma, you’ve seen me in boardrooms and hotel rooms. You know exactly how bossy I am."
Heat gathers low in my belly, mixing with the warmth of the food and the memory of that ultrasound heartbeat.
I manage the last two bites before he plucks the bowl away, setting it in the sink without breaking eye contact, then steps back between my knees, hands gliding up my thighs, thumbs circling over denim.
"Tell me to back off," he says quietly. "If you want space. If this is too much. You say the word, and I walk you to the elevator, and we keep it PG-13 until you decideotherwise."
I swallow. "And if I don't say it?"
"Then I'm going to fuck you senseless right here on this counter," he says, voice dropping to that dark, commanding register that liquefies my spine. "And remind you exactly how good it feels when you let me take care of you with more than pasta."
The smart part of my brain wants to make a flowchart. The rest of me is already leaning in.
"Don," I whisper. "Kiss me."
His eyes flare. "Good answer."
Cupping my face, he tilts my head, and then his mouth is on mine, hot and sure.
The first kiss is slow. Testing. His tongue slides against mine, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to relearn every inch of me.
But the second kiss? Nothing about it is slow.
He deepens it, angling my head so he can take more, one hand sliding from my cheek into my hair, the other anchoring at the curve of my hip.
And I melt, fingers curling into the front of his T-shirt, dragging him closer.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to murmur against my lips. “Every time I close my eyes," he hums, kissing the corner of my mouth, my jaw, the sensitive spot beneath my earlobe, "I see you bent over, ass in the air, soaking my cock from tip to base.”
A whimper slips out before I can catch it.
