Empire of Hate (Empire #3) by Rina Kent

My fingers latch onto the cover, then I slowly trail them to her frail neck, to the visible veins beneath her transparent skin and the delicate contours of her face.

She’s like a fucking sin waiting to happen.

A sin I should’ve committed a long time ago.

Her lids flutter and I retract my hand before I act on some disturbing necrophilic thoughts.

I glare at Lolli, the only witness of my fuckboy moment, then stride to my room, shutting the door behind me not so gently.

I spend ten minutes pacing, another fifteen minutes doing push-ups, and another ten minutes contemplating Pornhub for real.

But here’s the problem, I don’t need fucking Pornhub.

It’s not just any gratification that I’m after. My dick’s tastes have become singular and pickier than my stomach about food.

After getting rid of my clothes, I step into my shower and hit the cold water button.

The state of my hard-on, however, updates from mildly annoying to I probably need to fuck the nearest object. Slamming one hand against the shower wall, I grab my cock with the other one and jerk off like a teenager with anger issues—hard, fast, and with the intention to get the bloody hell off.

I jam my eyes shut, feeling the snarl lifting my upper lip as I pump the length of my dick.

And just like that, her face appears in front of me. The same face she made when I fucked her that time when she made me her first. The same goddess-like body she had back then.

Her tits are round and full and tipped with dusty pink nipples that make my mouth fucking water.

Her pussy is smooth and waiting for me to fuck it the hell up.

I’m thrusting inside that pussy now, over and over, until her moans echo in my ears, bleeding into my veins and infecting my system.

This is the reason I hate blondes. I always, without exception, see them as her.

With brunettes, I can keep my distance. I can pretend that my type isn’t the only woman with whom sex ever meant something.

Her moans echo in my ears and I up my pace, pretending that my brutish, callous hand is her inviting, delicate pussy.

A gasp reverberates around me and I frown. They’re supposed to be moans, not gasps.

Slowly, I open my eyes and stare at the source of the sound.

Nicole stands in the doorway of the bathroom, her limbs shaking and mouth open in an O.

Fuck me.

What are the chances that I’ll empty down that pretty throat that keeps bobbing up and down with her swallows?

Only one way to find out.





17





NICOLE





Are there signs of having a heart attack? Because I’m pretty sure I’m having one right now.

A nasty heart attack that’s coming due to the bane of my existence.

My whole body trembles and my eyes widen as they take in the view in front of me.

Daniel is in the shower, completely naked, with his hand wrapped around his thick and very hard cock.

A view I wasn’t supposed to walk in on or see.

A view that’s currently paralyzing my motor and cognitive functions.

When I jolted awake from an extremely forbidden dream, I was disoriented and surprised to find myself sleeping on Daniel’s carpet while Jay lay on his sofa. What was even more surprising was the fact that my brother and I were covered with blankets, and the papers I was reading through were neatly tucked on the table.

I meant to see if he was still awake and tell him we could take a taxi back home. He didn’t answer when I knocked on his door three times so I let myself in and planned on leaving if he was asleep.

But he wasn’t in his room either, and just when I was going to try his home office, I heard a grunt—or more like a growl—from the bathroom, as if he were in pain.

I must’ve been on drugs when I slowly pushed the door open. Or more accurately, I was showing symptoms of the “Daniel disease” and was inexplicably worried that something might have happened to him.

Something is happening to him all right, but it’s not the dangerous type I was concerned about.

Or maybe it is dangerous but in a completely different way.

The rough, unapologetic way he touches himself is nothing short of an exhibition of domineering masculinity. The type that should revolt me and send me running for the hills.

The type that’s been plaguing my nightmares and giving me sleep paralysis. When I open my eyes, the demon I find sitting on my chest always has his face. With that twisted sneer and mocking eyes.

But there are no demons now. Don’t get me wrong, no angel is in sight either. The scene in front of me is my worst nightmare mixed with my best dream.

And I choose to hang on to the dream.

To the twisted reality.

My legs won’t move anyway, not when my full attention is honed in on the way Daniel pumps his cock up and down with savage intent that makes me clench my thighs.

His muscled biceps contract and his hips jerk with the power of his movements. It’s like he’s angry at his cock for being hard, angry at what he’s doing.

Angry that he has to get himself off.

Anger is the last emotion coursing through me, though. There’s confusion, and it’s due to other feelings. The longing and the desire I can’t and shouldn’t be experiencing.

The desire to slip my fingers inside my knickers and do something I only do once in a blue moon.

The desire to grab my embarrassingly aching nipples and pull until they’re as painful as the expression on his face.