Empire of Sin (Empire #2) by Rina Kent

And it’s not only because of the position. It’s his mad rhythm. He thrusts deeper, harder, rougher. The pace is so crazy and out of control that only the slaps of flesh against flesh echo in the air. Oh, and the sloppy sounds of my arousal.

I should be ashamed, but I’m not, not even a little.

I’m completely at a stranger’s mercy as he fucks me like he hates me. He fucks me like he owns every part of me while still having a vendetta against me, and yet I love it.

I love it more than I should.

It should be demented—handing so much control to a man I just met, but it’s a fantasy, right?

And fantasies don’t have limits.

Fantasies don’t have shame.

Fantasies are just like me when I was a little girl and pretended to be Wendy and had the whole forest as my audience.

My thoughts are scattered when he pulls on my hair harder and then a burning sensation explodes in my neck. He’s biting it, I realize. His teeth are so deep in my skin, I can feel it right between my legs.

Drool gathers in my mouth and just when I’m about to shriek, he sucks on the skin with an intensity that leaves me gasping.

What the hell is he doing to me?

I don’t get the answer to my question, because he does it again on another mouthful of flesh, then again and again, until I’m in a constant state of bewilderment and arousal.

“Your pussy is tight as fuck, it’s strangling me, beautiful.”

“Not like my mouth?” I don’t know how I speak—it’s shaky, like my breasts against the mattress.

“Even better. And that mouth will do another thing for me now.”

“What…?”

He slaps my ass and pulls on my hair. “Scream.”

My shriek echoes in the air. I can’t even bite my tongue, because if I do, I’ll just cut it off.

The wild orgasm hits me like a hurricane and I’m helpless in its hold.

In his hold.

So I scream, and for the first time tonight, I wish I knew his name because I want to scream it right now, I want him to hear how much he corrupted a good girl.

How much he made a good girl go bad.

A deep grunt echoes in the air as he fucks me even harder and faster, his ferocious pace intensifying by the second. I’m glad he’s holding me in place or I would’ve collapsed to the side a long time ago.

Then he stills inside me and I feel warmth through the condom.

That’s the last thing I sense as a smile grazes my lips and my eyes droop.

I’m not supposed to sleep. I should leave, but my mind has another idea and I can’t open my eyes.

“Are you okay?” His strong voice barges through my haze.

“Yeah, I just need to sleep a little. Give me five.”

There’s a pause, a shuffle of his body behind mine before he unties my wrists.

A soft moan leaves me, but it’s interrupted when I hear his demanding voice near my ear. “What’s your name?”

Jane is my fake name, so I say that, or I try to as I whisper, “Anastasia.”





When I wake up, I’m on a bed and I’m not alone.

Oh, God.

Please tell me I didn’t stay.

I stare to the side and blink rapidly when I see the man from last night sprawled on the bed, the sheet barely covering his cock.

He’s naked. All of him.

I didn’t see him naked when we had sex.

No, not sex.

That was definitely fucking. Harsh, raw, and primitive fucking.

My core still tingles in remembrance. It feels tender, too, just like my neck that’s bruised from all the marks he left behind, but I don’t focus on that. My attention is stolen by something far more important.

Tattoos.

He has a lot of them.

On his upper shoulder and bicep, there’s a full, angry-looking samurai as if he’s about to go to battle. The details on the warrior’s face are striking, haunting even.

And I can’t stop staring at him, at the darkened look in his eyes, as if he, too, doesn’t like eye contact.

For some reason, I didn’t think someone as put-together as this British stranger would have tattoos, but seeing that he does adds even more mystery to him.

Businessmen don’t usually have tattoos—not the ones I know, anyway. Unless his background is different from what I’ve been picturing.

I shake my head.

I really, really shouldn’t be curious about him. It was a one-time thing and it’s now over.

The clock on the wall ticks half past three in the morning. I can drive back before sunrise and sneak back into my room.

Slowly, I shift from under the covers and wince. I’m so sore, it hurts to budge an inch.

He must’ve cleaned me since there’s nothing between my thighs. Not even my own stickiness. He covered me, too, which is a kind gesture I wouldn’t have expected from this stranger. He seemed like the “fuck them then leave them” type of man.

Or maybe I’m reading too much into it.

I carefully put on my torn dress, grimacing every few seconds when my core throbs. It takes me some time to work around the ruined dress.

The brute stranger must’ve ripped it when he was removing it.

It’s not only a slight rip. There’s a long gash on the side that extends to my hipbone. I can’t possibly walk outside like this.

So I grab his jacket and put it on. It swallows me and the dress, but it’s better than nothing. His scent fills my nostrils and I try not to think of that or what happened a few hours ago.