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“Donovan said you were by far the person with the most potential in any of his classes.”
“Leave it to Weston to be the one to bring you here,” he said quietly.
But the sweet burn couldn’t consume the seemingly obvious truth—that even though it had been Weston who got me here, it had been Donovan who had made sure I’d been single when I arrived.
“You know why I have to be here,” he said finally. “Goodnight, Sabrina.”
“I don't want you to touch me like Weston,” I said, once and for all. “I don’t want Weston! I want you!” Donovan let loose the smallest hint of a smile. “I know. I was waiting for you to know too.”
“I could have anyone’s mouth on me,” he said, his breaths short. “Any woman I want. Money can buy the prettiest lips, the most famous mouths, the deepest throats. And still, for ten years, all I can think about is your mouth. It’s only yours I want. Why can’t I get over your goddamn lips?”
There were men who were intended for futures, and there were men who were intended for filth. Donovan was intended for filth, and he was wise to lay it out from the beginning.
“You distract me,” he said quietly, honestly. “If I spend any time around you, I can’t focus for days. You sent that picture of your pretty little cunt, and I couldn’t even look at my phone all week without getting hard. I avoided you because it was the only way I knew how to deal with you.”
Death did that, skewed things, built nests of guilt out of twigs of misdeeds and neglect.
Number one—this was what he meant when he said he got obsessed with women he loved. Number two—Donovan was in love with me.
