Empire of Desire(Empire #1)(62)

If I had an ounce of control, even a sliver, I would’ve stopped and carried her to a bed. I would’ve put on a fucking condom like I usually do. But all those thoughts didn’t exist when she had her legs around me, rocking against me as if she’d waited for that moment as long as I have.

There was no thinking, period.

I should’ve known better. I really should’ve known fucking better.

I leave her on her princess bed, with muslin curtains and fluffy pillows, and head to her bathroom to wash my dick.

It’s covered with remnants of my cum and her blood. And I can’t stop staring at it. At the evidence of her belonging to me. At the proof that she didn’t choose anyone else. Just me.

A wave of blinding possession grips hold of me. It’s harsher than the other times and more fucking violent because a screwed-up part of me likes this.

Fuck that. I don’t only like it, my dick is getting hard at the memory of tearing through her while she said those words. That she didn’t want to give it to anyone.

No one else but me.

I slowly shake my head and wipe my length with a wet towel, resisting the urge to get off in remembrance of her clenching around me like a vise.

What the fuck am I? A teenager?

Why the hell would I think about sex right after I just finished?

I don’t usually. It’s always about getting off for me. No more, no less. I make sure the women know that, too, so they don’t expect anything after a night of fucking and orgasms.

But usually, I don’t settle for oral either. I’m all about the act itself. The fucking. However, a part of me resisted that with Gwyneth for more than ten days. I tortured my dick and myself in a fruitless attempt to get her off my fucking radar.

But with each word out of her mouth, each orgasm, and each fucking sexy sound, my resolve crumbled. The last straw was seeing her on that not-some-normal bike with that fucker Christoph and knowing she’d been alone with him.

So I had to stake my claim in the most unsophisticated, animalistic way possible. Even now, I still don’t know what’s come over me.

I’m not like this.

I don’t fuck against walls. I don’t fuck virgins. And I sure as hell don’t fuck without a condom.

Gwyneth smashed all my rules to the ground. She’s muddying my logic and I should stop it. I fucking should. But that’s the last thing on my mind right now.

I tuck myself in, then I grab a few towels, wet them with warm water, and go back to her room. She’s sprawled on her back, her arms thrown above her head in a carefree position, and only her torn shirt and bra cling haphazardly to her shoulders and torso.

And the blood. It’s dried up between her thighs and down her legs to the fucking white sneakers that are all smudged in red now.

I sit on the edge of the bed, place the towels on the nightstand, then remove the scraps of clothes I savagely tore. She’s like a doll in my hands, completely lost in sleep, no matter how much I maneuver her and move her around.

It’s weird to see her so deep in slumber like this. She suffers from insomnia, which is why she bakes or watches horror movies late at night. I often find her sleeping upside down on the couch, her legs in the air and her head lolled to the side. I carry her to her room every night so she doesn’t break her neck in that position.

After I remove her sneakers, I place a warm towel on her pink, swollen pussy. She sighs, mumbling something incoherent. She talked in her sleep when she was a kid and Kingsley used to freak out whenever she sometimes called for her mom.

He’s always hated that. Gwyneth needing a mom, and the woman herself. He hates Gwyneth’s mother with a passion I’ve never seen him have for anyone else.

He thinks his daughter only needs him, that having him is enough, but he’s wrong. Gwyneth misses her mom, even though she’s never met her. I became surer of that after she mentioned the abandonment thing. She’s still wounded by it, and King was wrong to sweep her feelings about it under a rug. She needed to deal with it a long time ago—when she was a kid and talked in her sleep.

I wipe the blood away and it’s not as much as it seems. Thank fuck, because the sight earlier made me think about driving her to the ER.

Then I take my time cleaning my dried cum from her tits, nipples, and stomach. I want to engrave this sight into my memory so I can picture it later.

After I’m done, I cover her to her chin with the blanket, though it’s a fucking shame to hide her tempting pale skin and her beautiful tits.

“Ice cream…” she mumbles, and I can’t help the smile that breaks across my lips.

She has an unhealthy obsession with that. And milkshakes. And everything vanilla, basically. She’s been slipping it in everything I eat or drink, trying to convert me to her side.

I reach a hand out and push a stubborn auburn strand away from her forehead, and my hand lingers there, then slowly slides down to her flushed cheek.

I know I should feel guilty. I should be beating myself the fuck up and confessing to every god on the planet for fucking my best friend’s daughter and loving it. For thinking about repeating it. For being deranged and loving the fact that I’m her first.

But I’m not.

Because I’m a sick bastard and I’m not apologetic about it.

What’s the point of confessing if you don’t stop doing the act? And no, I surely don’t intend to stop.