Empire of Desire by Rina Kent

So it couldn’t have been a dream, because Nate never goes into my room. Never.

Oh, and my panties were missing. Yup. I slept all night without underwear and kept rubbing my thighs together in a desperate attempt to recreate the friction but failed miserably.

So I left early this morning because I didn’t know what would happen if I saw him hovering over me at breakfast. That’s what he does sometimes since he moved in. He hovers, leaning against the counter with his legs crossed at the ankles and drinking from his coffee until he makes sure I’ve eaten something. Because apparently, drinking my milkshake doesn’t count as breakfast.

And I didn’t want to be babied by him. I also didn’t want to be faced with his strict features and punishing eyes or the fact that he might pretend nothing happened.

It would have killed me slowly, and I wasn’t ready for the D-word yet. But here I am. Once again under his scrutiny, and he isn’t pretending that nothing happened.

Hell, he even called me his wife. In his office. During working hours. And why is that so hot? Because I feel myself on the verge of hyperventilating even as I step between his thighs. His strong, powerful thighs that can squeeze and bend me with ease.

“And now what?” I breathe out.

That’s how my voice becomes when he’s so close that I can soak in his warmth, so close that I can see the line of his jaw and trace the contours of his face, with my gaze, of course, because I don’t think I have the courage to touch him. Or if I’m allowed to. So I grip the desk behind me and lean against my hands so that I won’t have the chance to act on that compulsion.

“Not a word, Gwyneth.”

“Why?”

“You’re a bad girl, right?”

“I am. So, so bad.”

“Bad girls don’t get to talk, so when I tell you to shut up, you do.”

“Okay.”

“You’re still talking.”

I purse my lips, leaning further into my hands until my knuckles dig into the hollow of my back. And it’s tingling, my back or my spine, I’m not sure. The explosion of sensations is more than I can take or fathom.

“Now get on the desk.” The order in his voice is coupled with the gradual darkening of his irises.

My limbs shake as I use my hands to hop onto the desk until my feet are dangling and I can glance down and get a direct view of his erection.

Holy. Hell.

I hadn’t noticed it earlier—I didn’t get the chance when I was looking at his face—but now, there’s no mistaking the bulge in his dark pants. And I can’t take my eyes off of it. I can’t focus on anything but it, not even on my shaking insides.

“Do you like what you see?”

“Yeah…” I say absentmindedly.

“Why do you like it?”

“Because you want me.” The words leave me in a whoosh and my fractured breaths follow soon after when I finally meet his gaze.

A shadow crosses his face and a muscle tics in his jaw. The hardness in his expression robs me of air and leaves me heaving.

“I never thought you’d want me,” I confess in a low voice, urging whatever upset him to go away. But it gets worse. The veins in his neck tighten and bulge and his chest muscles expand so wide that I think it’ll explode out of his shirt and jacket.

“Who said I want you? Maybe I only want to play with you.”

“You’d have to want me to want to play with me, Nate.”

He narrows his eyes on me. “You’re supposed to say you’re not a toy and I shouldn’t want to play with you.”

I lift a shoulder. “I don’t care.”

“You don’t?”

“A normal person probably would, but I’m a little weird and a very bad girl, so you can play with me all you want. I’ll be your toy.” At least that way he’s not putting a thousand walls up between us.

That way, I can get close, even if only by sex. I’m fine with sex. I like the feelings it brings and the surrender of it all. And if what happened last night is any indication, sex with Nate will probably bulldoze through all my thoughts and expectations.

As if to prove that it’ll go way different than I’ve fantasized, Nate reaches a hand to the waistband of my skirt and toys with the zipper, his thumb grazing my hipbone beneath my shirt. “You’ll be my toy, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I can play with you?”

“You can.”

“Do you let boys play with you often, Gwyneth?”

“Sometimes…”

He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like it one bit, and that translates through the crowding tension in his shoulders and the way his touch turns from explorative to downright dominating. He grips me by the hip, hard, even though his tone is still calm. “You do, huh?”

“Uh…”

“Answer the question.”

“Yeah.”

I thought he was seeking confirmation of my earlier words, but his hold is tightening by the second. “What do you let them do?”

“I let them touch me, grope me, and take my nipples into their mouths.” I’m not sure why I’m saying this, but I like how it drags out the harsh dominance from inside him, so I don’t stop. “It feels good, when my nipples are between their teeth, when they’re tugging and pulling and biting.”