Empire of Desire by Rina Kent

“Answer me,” he insists, still angry, still on the verge of something.

I stare up at him, and I think Nate’s face should be on the list, too. Nate’s body as well and, more specifically, Nate’s presence. Because that’s what turns me into a bundle of hyperaware nerves. That’s the actual thief that steals my breath and sanity.

But I can’t stop staring at him, at his broad silhouette that’s bathed in the late afternoon sun and at his gorgeous hair that’s so perfect, I want to run my fingers through it and mess it up a little, maybe mess him up a little, too, because he’s perfect and I hate that.

I hate the dependency.

“Chris and I went out.” I can’t tell him about the police, because he’ll make sure I find nothing. He’ll take away my investigation and if I insist it continues, he’ll take over it.

And that’s dependency, right? Leaving everything in his hands and letting him handle it all. And since I loathe the thought of it, I’ll change it. Fuck that word. Fuck dependency. I won’t depend on him anymore. From now on, I’ll take care of everything myself so that no one can say that word again.

I’m adding dependency to the stupid D list that keeps growing.

“You went out with Christoph,” he repeats slowly, menacingly, and my fingers shake. They shake so hard, I think he sees the effect he has on me. He sees how much he rattles me. But I don’t hide it, because his eyes rage a dark color that leaves me breathless.

His reaction to my shaking is wrong. My reaction to him is even more wrong.

We are wrong.

“Yeah. We went out.”

“Where?”

“Around.”

“Around isn’t a fucking answer, Gwyneth. Where did you go?”

“To the…uh…park.” It’s such a stupid, lame place to pick, but I’m not good at lying and that’s what came to mind first. I should’ve said to his house or something to gauge Nate’s reaction.

But I don’t need to, because he’s approaching me now, stalking actually, with his jaw set and his broad shoulders eating up the horizon, at least for me.

“You went with Christoph to the park on the back of his bike, is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“And what did you do?”

“Stuff.”

“What type of stuff?”

“Talking and…” I trail off, because he’s right in front of me and I’m drunk on his scent and the masculine warmth that’s emanating from his chest.

“And what?”

I jerk up, and my head hits the wall, but that doesn’t matter. I lose sense of pain and reality when he’s so big in front of me. His sheer size makes me feel so small, and I clench my thighs because I’m sure he can smell my arousal, the reaction I have because our size difference turns me on.

“Go on. What else did he do? Did he touch you?”

“W-what?”

“Did he put his hands on this face?” He cups my cheek, his skin hot. Or maybe it’s mine since I’m on the verge of combusting.

“No.”

He drags his palm down to my throat, to the pulse point that’s about to burst and spill my heart out. “How about here? Did the fucker touch you here?”

“No…”

The hand that was just touching my face is now wrapped around my throat. Tight. Not so tight that it cuts off my oxygen, but it’s tight enough that all my attention is zeroed in on him and on the nerve endings of my jaw where his thumb is grazing it.

His other hand bunches my shirt and he pulls, tearing it open with more ease than any man should have. I don’t see the flying buttons, but I hear their sound as they scatter on the stairs.

My breasts bounce out, and even though they’re covered by a bra, that doesn’t last for long. He pulls it down, ripping the straps on my shoulder, and I gasp, the sound so aroused, I don’t recognize it as coming from me.

He exposes my pale naked breasts tipped with two hard rosy nipples that ache and harden with each passing second.

And the air hitting them has nothing to do with it.

He grabs them in his large hands, in those strong, veiny hands, and squeezes the tips together with so much force that it makes me whimper.

“Did he touch these tits? Did he cop a feel, Gwyneth?”

“No…he didn’t.”

“Did he try? Did you let him?”

“No…” I can’t stop whimpering and moaning at the same time because he’s mashing my breasts together, squeezing my nipples, and making them more tight and sensitive than I’ve ever experienced before.

Zaps of pleasure flood through me and cause arousal to pool in my panties, and I know he’ll feel it, too. He’s about to find out how much he affects me when he releases my throat and unzips my skirt, letting it fall around my ankles.

He cups me over my panties, digging his long fingers into my needy core with a raging possessiveness that makes me go up on my tiptoes.

“How about here?”

I’m struggling for a sliver of oxygen because I can’t speak. I can’t even think. His intensity is too raw and thick, wrapping around my throat, which is still tingling from his grip.

“Tell me, baby girl. Did he touch my fucking pussy?”

“No…”

“He didn’t, huh?” He squeezes my nipples, then glides his fingers over my dripping folds and teases my opening, and even though it’s only through the material, I’m nearing that edge that only Nate can drive me to.