Empire of Desire by Rina Kent

But my hand is too soft and it’s not enough, even when I twist my clit and roll my hips.

I think it’s because he’s there and he’s watching with his jaw set in a line. Although I want him to watch me, to see me, so what’s wrong?

I can’t reach that peak, no matter how much I try, and it’s not due to my lack of arousal, because I’m so soaked that there are probably wet spots on the sheet.

“What’s wrong, baby girl? Having trouble?”

My fingers pause at that. Baby girl.

I think I became wetter, too, but that might be because he’s pushed off the wall and is stalking toward me. And it’s downright stalking, with his shoulders squared and his steps slow and measured.

And I can’t help feeling the sensation that I’m the prey who caught the attention of the big, bad wolf, but unlike in the fairy tale, I won’t be able to escape.

Damn how beautiful he is. And it’s not only about his face that seems to be cut from solid marble or his physique that could crush me as effortlessly as he carried me. It’s about everything else. It’s about the masculinity that oozes from each of his movements. It’s about that delicious authoritativeness that I can’t get enough of.

Before I can think of anything to say to make him call me “baby girl” again, he does something.

He gets on his knees. At the foot of the bed. In direct view of the apex of my thighs.

My hand freezes, and I don’t realize it until he motions at it. “You can’t get yourself off?”

“I…can.”

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

“I do…usually.”

“Not today, apparently.” He reaches a hand to where my panties meet my hip and I stop breathing when it makes contact. When his skin kisses mine and then drags them down my thighs.

They’re in his hands now, my lace panties that I’m thankful I chose this morning.

And then they’re in his pocket. Not on the floor, not somewhere no one would care about. They’re with him.

“Open your legs wide. Let me see.”

My fingers tremble on my folds and I do as he tells me, parting my thighs, letting him observe how drenched I am because he’s been watching me.

He grabs my ankle and pulls. My elbow gives out, and I squeal when my back hits the mattress as he drags me to the foot of the bed. But that’s not all.

My legs are on his shoulders. They’re hanging loosely on those broad, hard shoulders and he’s so close that I’m intoxicated with his scent. I feel like those spices from his scent now, hot and tingly and unable to cool down, even if there was water.

“Did I say you could remove your hand from your pussy, Gwyneth?”

It’s then I realize my hand has fallen to the side. “No.”

“No, I didn’t, and that means you put it back in and you don’t remove it until I say so.”

God. Why the hell does he sound so hot when he’s dishing out orders as if this were a war and I’m a soldier in his battalion?

Because there’s something else his orders do. They make me even hotter with a chance of melting right beneath his gaze.

When I take my time to comply with his order, he grabs my hand and places it back on my core. I’m burning now, blushing something furious beneath his touch. But it doesn’t end there, because he jams my middle finger inside me.

Just like that.

Like he’s had the right to do that for a long time. My back arches off the bed and I bite my lower lip to keep from moaning or screaming like a whore.

But maybe that’s what I am right now.

I’m a whore in his hands, and all I want is more.

“Is this how it felt inside? With his fingers filling you?”

“There needs to be another one for them to be fingers. Now it’s just one finger,” I breathe out, trying to be as coherent as possible to not make a fool out of myself.

“The fucking talking back.” He grabs my other finger and I’m ready for the intrusion. It’s the only way I’m able to get myself off. Two fingers and teasing my clit.”

I can’t help staring down at where his hooded eyes are focused on how he’s still holding my hand.

But it’s not my finger that enters me. This one is thicker, harder, and makes me gasp.

It’s inside me now, his middle finger, and it’s stroking mine that’s also in there. The friction is strange and unbearable and so damn new that I nearly black out.

“Oh, God…”

“Is this how full it felt, baby girl?”

Stroke.

Up.

Down.

Thrust.

“Or was it less satisfying because you couldn’t feel his limp fingers?”

He sounds angry, but I can’t focus on that, because there’s a fire consuming me from the inside and it is so wild and big that I can’t breathe.

Any attempts of sucking in oxygen vanish when he slips another finger—his, not mine—into my tight channel. Both of his fingers imprison mine and he moves the three of them in a maddening rhythm. The friction builds hard and fast and rough. I can feel it deep inside me and I want to throw up or maybe I want to come, because I think that’s what the shaking means.

“Or perhaps it’s full like this. So full that you want to burst.”

“Yes, oh, fuck…”