Enflame

by S. Layne

  Donovan Lore.

  The man who slid his cock inside of me—the first person to do so—and whispered my name in the most tender manner.

  It can’t be him.

  But I already know it is.

  Closing my eyes, I inhale a deep, steadying breath before letting it out through my lips.

  This is really happening.

  I can’t believe the man who took my virginity and then took off is standing in front of me.

  And damn it if he doesn’t look even better than he did eight years ago.

  His golden brown hair, which reminds me of brown sugar, is perfectly styled and cropped short on the sides, slightly longer on top. His green eyes are staring directly at me. I notice as he drops his gaze and slowly brings it back up until our eyes meet.

  I don’t know how long we stand in the entryway, the silence and tension growing thicker with each bated breath that pounds wildly in my chest.

  I swallow, knowing I need to speak, but words have failed me.

  Plastering on my fakest smile, one that instantly begins making my cheeks ache, I take a step toward him and stop. One is enough.

  “Hello, Donovan.” I watch his gaze dart between me and Jeremiah.

  “I’m surprised to see you,” he says and his voice is firm. It’s also deeper than it used to be, but I’d recognize the timbre of it anywhere.

  His presence rattles me to my core, and while there are a thousand things I could say to him, number one being “I wished I’d never see you again,” I stop myself.

  This is still my place of business, and I’m a role model for the half-dozen teenagers who are now surreptitiously watching my interaction with this man.

  This man who happens to be dressed in a designer charcoal-colored suit, just like Marisa told me. It’s not hard to figure out that Jeremiah is related to him in some way, and now I realize why he always held a hint of familiarity.

  “You know Jeremiah?” I ask, ignoring the unspoken question in his statement. What am I doing working at a teenage counseling center? He shouldn’t be surprised. I always knew I wanted to do something like this with my life. But the fact that he is surprised stings. As if he doesn’t remember the times we shared, the nights I lay in his arms and spilled my dreams in whispers.

  Donovan looks at Jeremiah. Jeremiah’s scowling at Donovan.

  Donovan slides his hands into the front pockets of his dress pants. It opens the bottom of his suit coat, and if my eyes were to look lower than his full lips, I’d get a great view of his crotch.

  Somehow, I find the willpower to avoid it and keep my eyes on him.

  “Yeah,” Jeremiah finally huffs, his sarcastic and angry tone clear. “I know him.”

  Donovan shoots him a look and nods toward the door. “Go get in the car. Bentley’s waiting for you.”

  “Fucking great,” Jeremiah grumbles. “Just what I need—a sixty-year-old babysitter.”

  “If you stayed in school and stopped beating the crap out of everyone—” Donovan stops his rant and scrubs the back of his neck with one hand. He releases an exasperated sigh and Jeremiah rolls his eyes. Donovan’s voice is softer when he says, “Just go get in the car, J. We’ll talk in a minute.”

  I’m pretty sure I hear him mutter “fan-fucking-tastic” before he looks back at me. “Bye, Miss Merchant.”

  I smile and lift my hand. “Manners,” I remind him gently.

  A slight smile tugs at the edges of his lips, and I know we’re both thinking of his cursing.

  “See you soon, Jeremiah. Come by whenever.”

  “That won’t be happening,” Donovan clips.

  With another teenage angst-filled huff, Jeremiah charges past Donovan. The front door bangs against the wall as it opens and then again when it shuts.

  I cringe at the sound. I don’t have the money to replace the old, rickety door.

  “You work here?” Donovan asks when Jeremiah is gone. “Not the place I’d ever expect to see you.”

  I ignore the faint reminder in his tone that we know one another, and that he’s apparently forgotten what’s always been important to me.

  “Talia started this place three years ago. It’s a fantastic and caring place for teens who need some help staying out of trouble to come to. She’s done amazing things for the community and for the hundreds of our kids who have walked through these doors since the time we’ve been open,” Marisa says, choosing this moment to speak up.

  My mouth is gaping wide by the time she’s done rambling.

  Shooting her a silencing glare, I look back at Donovan.

  “You own this place.” It’s a statement, not a question, so I don’t bother confirming.

  “You can go now,” I snap, and instantly chastise myself. The last thing I want is for him to know how painful it is to be standing in front of the man I had saved myself for.

  What a bunch of crap.

  Five months spent dating me, trying to get in my pants—all while promising he could wait until I was ready—and the second I give it up, thinking I’m falling madly in love with Donovan and that nothing could tear us apart—not the gossip on campus, not the fact that we came from completely different worlds, and not the fact that his mother hated me—he just took off.

  I woke up, a tender ache at the apex of my thighs and a smile on my face, only to roll over and find an empty spot next to me.

  And I didn’t get anything. Not a note. Not a phone call.

  Today is the first time I’ve seen or heard from Donovan Lore since that very night, and the reminder of how much it hurt then, how much that one night changed who I am…

  I can’t handle it.

  “Good day, Donovan.” I nod and turn to leave, but my feet freeze when he asks me a question. It’s the pain, the hesitancy in his voice that has me stopping and looking at him over my shoulder.

  “Does he talk to you? Jeremiah, I mean. Does he say much when he’s here?”

  “He shows up for a few days every couple of months, bruised and bloody.” I arch a brow, silently asking a question.

  “Fights at school,” Donovan says, and if I’m not mistaken he’s trying not to growl at my silent accusation. “I wouldn’t touch him.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t know a thing about you.”

  He flinches slightly. I blink, and when my gaze is refocused on him, I see a completely different Donovan in front of me from the one I dated in college and the one I was just speaking to.

  His features have hardened and there’s a glint in his eye. His gaze drops and rakes down my body as if he’s moving in slow motion. I feel it like he’s touching me everywhere, even though he’s several feet away and a desk separates us.

  When he finally blinks, his expression says he’s decided something—only I have no idea what. It seems as if he’s just made a plan and chosen a way to accomplish a set of goals all while staring at my body, which is clothed in skinny jeans, high-heeled boots, and a long cream-colored sweater.

  He slides a card onto the counter of Marisa’s desk and taps it once with his index finger. “If he escapes his driver again, call me.”

  I’m not given another chance to speak before he turns on his heel and walks out the door.

  Marisa hustles to the desk and picks up the card. When she glances at me, our eyes meet and I cringe again. I know exactly what she’s seeing.

  “You know Donovan Lore? CEO of Lore Enterprises?”

  The implication in her tone, coupled with the one arched eyebrow, is clear.

  Leaning in, ensuring I keep my voice at a whisper, I hiss, “I am not asking that man for money to save this center. I’d rather lick dirt.”

  Marisa’s eyes sparkle and she waves the card. “How do you know him?”

  “I don’t.” My hands rub the sides of my jeans. My palms are sweaty and hot, and I hate that seeing him for mere minutes can elicit such reactions in my body. My heart is beating fast. My skin feels tight.

  It all feels wrong.

  “Sure did
n’t look that way to me,” she says, and wiggles her eyebrows.

  “This isn’t up for discussion.” I lift a hand, silencing her just as she opens her mouth. “I’m serious. Donovan Lore will never be discussed inside these walls again.”

  “Okay.” She shrugs and flashes an impish grin. “Want to do dinner tonight?”

  A laugh falls from my lips before I can stop it. “No—now get to work.”

  She huffs but does what she’s told.

  I return to my office but I can’t concentrate.

  In truth, it’d be the easiest thing in the world to swallow my pride and contact Lore Enterprises. In addition to being the premier commercial building developer in Grand Rapids, they donate millions of dollars every year toward charities, nonprofits, and helping small businesses succeed.

  They are the perfect company to reach out to for funding.

  But I’ll never do it.

  I wasn’t lying to Marisa, either, because I don’t know Donovan.

  It took me weeks to realize after he left school without a word to me that I might have fallen in love with an apparition and not a real man.

  It didn’t matter that even after I found out his dad had died, and that was most likely the reason for him leaving my bed in the middle of the night, he still never returned my phone calls.

  A year later, when he married Cassandra Kyle—the girl who made my life hell on campus while Donovan and I dated—I faced the horrible truth that Donovan was most definitely not the man I thought I had known.

  I’d been young, blinded by his looks and his money and his manipulative words.

  I was the poor girl, a mechanic’s daughter, fighting tooth and nail to keep my academic scholarships so I could stay on campus, praying every semester that the money would come in.

  He was the golden boy.

  We were never meant to be together, but I’d thrown on my rose-colored glasses and ignored all the odds stacked against us and fallen in love with him anyway, despite the risks.

  In the end, I’d been the only one to end up looking like a fool.

  “Are you sure you don’t need me to come out and see you?” Laurie asks, the concern evident in her voice.

  “No.” I rub my fingers across my forehead to soothe the tension that’s been building all week. I still can’t get Donovan out of my head. “I’ll be fine, babe. It was just that one run-in.”

  “Has Jeremiah been back?”

  “No.”

  Which sucks. I want to see him. For the first time, even through his scowls and sighs and teenage angst, I almost felt like he was finally going to begin opening up to me.

  “That’s too bad,” Laurie says, her voice softer. “I can come this weekend, though—take you out and get you drunk so we can forget all about Donovan.”

  Ugh. That name. My body betrays me, and warms and pulses with indistinguishable lust like it’s been doing all week long. I press my thighs together to soothe the slow burn that just thinking of his name causes inside me. Or thinking about the way he looked. Damn.

  “How are you and James?” I ask, changing the subject.

  Laurie and her husband have had a horrible year. As much as I don’t fully believe in everlasting love, they seem to be working on their issues, and the last time I saw them, they looked and acted happy. Every time I talk to Laurie, she says things are continually getting better—although they’re still seeing a weekly marriage therapist. They moved back to their hometown of Ann Arbor just over a month ago. I hate not seeing her all the time.

  “We’re good, I think,” she says, her voice taking on a wistful tone.

  I laugh. “You’re looking at him right now, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, we’re cooking dinner.”

  I laugh harder. “You’re such a girl, drooling over your husband when he’s in the same room.”

  “I know,” she says, and I can practically see her grin widen as she runs her hands through her hair nervously, all while unabashedly staring at James.

  “You’re a dork. I’ll let you go.”

  A muffled deep voice comes through the background and Laurie comes back on. “Okay, sounds good. But let me know if you need anything, and James said that if you see Donovan again, to let him know and he’ll come out and kick his ass.”

  “Right.” Because that’d happen. James is too much of a gentleman—despite his one-night stand with his assistant, who also happened to be a friend of mine and Laurie’s—to get in a fist-fight. “Tell him thanks, and I’ll talk to you later.”

  After our final goodbyes, I hang up the phone and then collapse onto my couch.

  It’s old and worn and completely comfortable.

  Closing my eyes, I have to fight the vision of Donovan standing at the center. That suit. Those penetrating eyes. The slightly crooked nose and strong jaw. The hint of scruff on his jaw that said he’d shaved that morning and would need to do it again the next day.

  “Shit,” I whisper, aware my hands have taken on a mind of their own and I’m squeezing my full breasts while I picture him.

  One hand trails slowly down my stomach. I squirm from my own ticklish touch.

  I shouldn’t be doing this, but it wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve masturbated to thoughts of Donovan Lore all week.

  Damn him and his sexiness.

  As my hand slides lower, beneath the waistband of my tight yoga shorts, the fingers of my other hand begin teasing my nipple beneath my lace bra.

  “Oh,” I groan as my fingers find my warm, wet center. My finger slides easily through my folds, and my hips arch into the arousing touch.

  Donovan. His voice. His strong hands. The way the suit fit him like it’d been made for him.

  I almost laugh. With the amount of money he has, it probably was.

  My fingers keep moving, teasing my nipples with one hand, alternating breasts, and I slide two fingers of my other hand inside my swollen, sensitive flesh.

  I rock my hips, press my thumb against my clit, and it doesn’t take long—moments—until I’m making myself whimper, my body shivers, and I come…thinking of Donovan and what it would feel like if it were his hands…his cock…his tongue doing all the work instead.

  I squeeze my eyes closed as the tremors leave my body and my chin drops to my chest.

  I’m sick of this.

  I need to get laid. Find someone else to take my mind off the damn man.

  Donovan Lore will never be an option for me again. Hell, besides the fact that he’s married, he’d never want someone like me. He made that clear eight years go.

  Pushing off the couch, I head to the restroom to clean up.

  My cheeks are flushed, and I take a few minutes after I wash my hands to splash cold water on my face and fix my ponytail, redoing it so it sits at the base of my neck. The few strands that escaped earlier are slicked back into place.

  I’m drying my hands in my small hall bathroom when the buzz of my doorbell echoes in my quiet house.

  I frown into the bathroom mirror, my heart skipping a beat.

  Wondering who it could be, I quickly hurry to the front door.

  I live in an older neighborhood in Denton. The houses are small, and most are showing signs of their age at over fifty years old. A lot of my neighbors are either retired or getting close to that age, but I like that it’s quiet and safe.

  But it also means that sometimes the older ladies like to stop by and keep a young, single woman company. Usually that makes me laugh. They’re so certain I’m lonely, living all alone without a man to take care of me. Since my dad’s stroke, visitors have come more frequently, and while unnecessary, I actually appreciate the company.

  Especially Mrs. Bartol. She’s seventy-two and seems to have an uncanny ability to know when I need a glass—or a bottle—of wine. At least once a month she shows up on a late Saturday morning with mimosa fixings in her hands, and we spend the day talking and drinking.

  I pretty much want to be her when I grow up.

  Lost in tho
ughts of Mrs. Bartol and our last mimosa-drinking day, where she waxed poetic about the pros and cons of her husband’s little blue pills—something I didn’t need to know—I forget to check the window next to my door to see who my visitor could be.

  When I open it, I’m shocked to see Marisa standing on my front porch step.

  “Hey,” I say, my voice showing my surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  I push open the storm door and wave her in.

  The fall breeze is kicking up and it’s chilly outside. I quickly shut the doors, shivering from the cold wind.

  “I had to talk to you,” she says, unwrapping her gray-and-white checkered scarf from around her neck.

  Her fingers are shaking as she does it, and by the tone in her voice, I don’t think she’s just cold.

  “What is it?” I back up to give her more room…

  She digs through her purse and whips out a folded sheet of paper.

  “This.” She shoves it into my hands. “Why didn’t you tell me we’ve found funding?”

  My head jerks back and the paper in my hand crinkles. “What?”

  She points to the paper in my hand. “That. I was running the bank statements before I left work and that…” she waves her index finger back and forth, “came in right before closing time today.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I mutter, and unfold the paper.

  I hear Marisa following me as I head to the kitchen to get us a drink.

  My eyes scan the top of the statement from our bank account, glancing over today’s date.

  “Holy shit,” I mutter as my own fingers begin trembling.

  With widened eyes, I snap my gaze to Marisa. Her expression is a mixture of excited and wary.

  “What the hell?” I ask, as if she knows.

  “I know. One million dollars.”

  I shake my head and glare at the paper, as if inspecting all the zeros on my bank statement will give me answers.

  “Who did this?” I ask, and thrust it in her direction.

  “I thought you would know.”

  I don’t. I have no idea. In fact, before I left the center early this afternoon, I had just been declined funding from the last foundation I could think of to contact.