Empire of Hate (Empire #3) by Rina Kent

It’s all the invitation I need.

I pull out of her at the same time as I jostle the plug out and throw it on the ground.

Grabbing Nicole by the hips, I bare her to me and use her juices to coat her inviting hole. She whimpers, then moans, and I slide in the first two inches. She gets on her tiptoes, her eyes closing shut.

I release one of her cheeks and grip her chin. “Look at me, Nicole.”

Her eyes slowly flutter open, they’re drooping with pleasure and something else I can’t put my finger on.

“Relax, let me in.”

Her muscles loosen around me and I’m able to thrust a few more inches. She moans this time, her mouth falling open, and I can feel her welcoming me to her warmth.

So I kiss her, stimulating her nipples and her clit until I’m all the way in.

“Fuck, baby. I love your arse as much as your pussy.”

“It…feels so full.”

“Do you like it?”

She nods a little, her mouth open and her eyes drooping with hazy desire.

I become unhinged and thrust into her with the urgency of an animal. I can’t stop or get enough. The sound of her moans and gasps is my aphrodisiac.

And when she comes, I keep going and going at my ruthless pace until I release deep inside her.

Fuck.

Sex with Nicole will either suck me dry or become my cause of death.

An option I’m not entirely opposed to if not for anything, then to see how she talks about my dick at my funeral if she’s the one who murdered it.

I slowly slide out of her, reveling in the sight of cum that trails down the back of her thighs.

Is it wrong that I want to see this for the rest of my life?

That way, she’ll be mine.

Only mine.

My lips find hers and I’m flat out making out with her pubescent style, waiting for my dick to resurrect to life so I can pick up where I left off.

I might have an obsession with kissing Nicole. I like to think I’m a healthy man without serial creeper tendencies, but deep in my mind, I know I’d kiss her any chance I get for all the times I couldn’t.

For all the times I wished I could trap her in a room and kiss her until she looked at me the way she did that day she almost died.

Like I’m the only one who mattered.

After a few minutes of kissing me like in one of her cheesy black and white romance films, Nicole pulls back with a gasp. “Oh my God, we’re going to be late.”

“For the second round? Don’t worry about that, it’ll happen in about two minutes.”

“The dinner.” She pushes me away.

“That can wait. In fact, I’m not hungry.”

“Well, I am.” She wraps herself in a towel and winces when she steps into the en-suite room.

I guess having dinner wouldn’t be so bad.

And yes, I’m trying to pacify my urges and keep up the “I’m not a sex addict” façade. Stay out of it.

Nicole tells me to hurry up and meet her downstairs.

By the time I put on some trousers and a shirt, I’m ready to shove food down both our throats so we can go back to a much more fun activity.

How much Minions merch should I buy Jay so he goes to bed early tonight?

A commotion of voices scatters my master plan.

My steps to the dining room turn heavy, instead of light, and the snap of emotions jerks my spine into a line.

This isn’t real.

I probably frustrated the tea monsters enough that they put something in my water.

Maybe this whole thing ever since Nicole showed up at Weaver & Shaw has been a dream and I’ll wake up to find myself dashing, every girl’s wet dream and so fucking alone, authors should write nihilistic books about my brain.

But the moment I step into the Victorian-like dining room, I know this is, in fact, real.

The two people I only wished to see at my funeral while I was in a casket and they threw skulls at me are here.

My mother and my fucking brother.





30





DANIEL





My childhood is a phase that I like to consider nonexistent.

It was a splash of eating disorders, a loss of faith in my cheating father, and a deep-seated hatred for the woman who allowed him to get away with it.

The woman who chose misery for herself and her sons instead of walking away about…thirty-one years ago, before Zach was even born.

The Zach who held her hand and couldn’t care less about her status as a meek woman who didn’t mind being used any way Benedict Sterling saw fit.

Both of them are staring at me now.

Mother is grabbing the napkin that’s on her lap with long, skinny fingers that reflect the rest of her body. She’s an abstract of bones and flesh wrapped in a designer dress and jewelry that cost a small fortune.

She doesn’t even wear the known brands; the actual rich get to dress from obscure brands only people like us know about. Brands that sell you a shirt for twenty thousand pounds to make you feel more important than the mainstream brand people.

Her red lips part before she reaches a hand and pats her perfectly styled French twist. Her hair is a dark shade of blonde that she passed me a portion of.

But I always had my father’s eyes. A fact we both hated but never voiced out loud.

“Daniel.” It’s my brother who speaks, his voice toneless, and his stance is upright but not rigid.