Empire of Desire by Rina Kent

“You will, huh?”

“Yup, and I will metaphorically punch her, too. I can’t do it physically or she’ll sue me for assault and then will tell a sob story to the media, and they’ll believe her. Yikes.”

“That’s smart.” He glides his thumb under my eye and I realize I have moisture there and he’s wiping it away. “Though she won’t have a chance when I’m your lawyer.”

“Hell yeah, she won’t. You’re the best lawyer I know. Aside from my dad.”

“I am?”

“You’re the best, Nate. You must hear that from everyone every day.”

“Not from you.”

“And that’s important?”

“It is.”

“Like when I love it when you praise me?”

“When you behave, which is a rare occurrence.”

“Oh, please. You like it when I’m a bad girl.”

“Do I, wife?”

“Uh-huh.” I wrap my arms around him because I like it. I like how he looks at me as if he’ll have me instead of food, and I like how he touches me. I like how his veiny hands stroke my face and grab me so tight that I become so small in comparison to him.

But what I like the most is him, and I want to engrave him in every cell of my body, take everything he has to offer, and make him all mine.

A mortal trying to trap a god.

Don’t all of those stories end in tragedies? Everyone says it’s impossible for two different worlds to collide. They need to stay separate, watching from afar.

But I’ve already touched him and he’s touched me. And I don’t only mean physically. There’s an ease to our relationship now, and it feels peaceful, normal while still being exciting and fun.

It’s full. That’s the type of effect Nate has on me—he makes me full and I want that fullness. I fucking need it.

And it’s not because I’m dependent on him. It’s not because I grew up watching him being a god among humans.

Those aren’t the reasons why he fills me up. It’s because he’s Nate. The cold, stern Nate with a broken side. The one who has forts so tall, but he still opens them for me to steal a peek inside.

The protective, possessive Nate who wouldn’t allow anyone or anything to hurt me.

Even if he does it himself sometimes.

Even if his knife stabs me deeper with each passing day that his lips refuse to meet mine.

Once upon a time, I thought I’d gotten over him.

Turns out, I’m still waiting for him to kiss me back.





29





Nathaniel





Gwyneth said she doesn’t like hiking.

Then she wakes up early this morning, puts on her clothes, and says, “Take me hiking, husband.”

So I did exactly that, then fucked her against a tree to teach her how to behave and not be a flirt. Although, in her case, that only makes her act out more.

Over the weekend, hiking has grown on her so much that she doesn’t even need me to carry her on my back anymore. I’ve done it anyway because her tiny body wraps all around me and she plays with my hair and face and neck and anywhere her hands can reach.

She’s a touchy person. One who needs physical contact to feel connected. But she doesn’t go around touching everyone, just her inner circle that she deems safe.

At the moment, I’m in the middle of that circle and it’s a fucking wild ride.

Any time spent in her presence is. Even when she’s sleeping, she stretches her body out all over me and hides her face in my neck. Or she lays her head on my lap and flings her legs in the air.

Like right now.

She was reading her negative words list and telling me how she worked hard to desensitize herself to them. Not only is Gwyneth a storyteller, but she’s an entertaining one at that, which is why I know she’ll make a good lawyer, especially for civil cases. She’ll be able to spin her own stories and capture the audience, and that’s what makes the best lawyers. Even those who only chose law due to having a grudge against the system, such as Knox, can succeed as long as they’re good storytellers.

“Dad never knew about this,” she says in a sleepy voice, then closes her eyes.

As if King wouldn’t know anything about her.

He’s the one who put her in therapy because he’s so attuned to her and her needs. She thought he did it because of her sleep-talking, but it was also because she showed signs of depression. She started showing them after she accidentally learned that her mother threw her away without looking back.

I slowly pull the notebook from her fingers, not wanting to wake her up. Her insomnia has gotten better lately and she sometimes sleeps through the night.

Still keeping the notebook in hand, I slowly put her legs down. She doesn’t open her eyes as she climbs into my lap, wraps her arms around my shoulders, and hides her face in my neck.

Her breathing slowly evens out and she sighs into the hollow of my throat. The small puff of air makes my dick fucking hard and I release a breath through my clenched teeth.

Gwyneth makes me a sex addict, unable to get enough, no matter how much I take her. No matter how much I feel her warmth and hear her moans, I need more. And it is a need. One I can’t fucking stop or restrain.

I’m about to close her notebook and carry her to bed when the page flips to the letter M.