Empire of Desire(Empire #1)(64)

I thrust my tongue inside and drink my cum from her mouth. It’s mixed with her now and it tastes like vanilla. I never even thought about doing this before, but it’s another thing that’s exclusive to her.

The girl who’s currently writhing against me, her naked tits glued to my chest as she kisses me back and lets me drink myself from her.

She lets me drink what I did to her.

And I kiss her harder, faster, long after my taste is gone, and it’s all her now. Fucking vanilla and ice cream and cupcakes.

I pull away when she’s wheezing, her neck red and her pulse thundering. Fuck. I was so engrossed in the act that I forgot to let us breathe.

She stares at me, her lips swollen and parted and so damn tempting. “You kissed me back.”

“Huh?”

“I thought you never would. Kiss me, I mean.”

“That wasn’t kissing. That was snowballing.”

“I love that. Snowballing. Let’s do it more.”

“You’re not vanilla, after all.”

“Not with sex, I guess.”

“How do you know that?”

“I want all the things.”

“All the things?”

“Yeah, everything.”

I’m going to fuck her again. I can feel it. And I will.

But I need to feed her first.

I begrudgingly get up and tuck myself in. “Take a shower and meet me downstairs.”

“Can’t we stay in bed for a bit more?”

“No, Gwyneth. We have work and you still haven't finished the workload I gave you yesterday.”

“Dictator,” she mutters under her breath.

“What did you just call me?”

She crosses her arms over her chest, squeezing her tits and accentuating them. “You’re a dictator, Nate. An impossible one.”

“Come down. You have fifteen minutes.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You don’t want to know. Behave.”

Her lips part at that, and I leave the room before I grab her and fuck her while she’s still sore.

I go to my room, and after I take a shower and put on my clothes, I go to fix breakfast. Martha gives me a look when she sees me. She’s probably figured things out about us, but she doesn’t say anything.

King knows how to hire staff who know not to meddle in affairs that are none of their business.

She offers to help me and I tell her I can take care of it, so she leaves to carry out her other chores.

By the time Gwyneth comes to the kitchen, I’m almost done.

“Sit down,” I tell her without turning around. “I’ll be finished in a bit.”

Her arms wrap around my waist from behind and she rests her chin on my back.

I pause frying the eggs. “What are you doing?”

“Hugging you because you look sexy as hell preparing breakfast in your suit and apron.”

Two polar opposite feelings slash through me at the same time. One is pride and a weird sense of joy I’ve never experienced before. But the other is red fucking alerts.

I might have miscalculated something.

Like Gwyneth’s habit of staking her claim on everything whenever she goes after something.

And I need to make sure that’s not the case here. That no “all in” is involved.

I turn off the stove and face her. “Are you having inappropriate thoughts about me?”

“Yeah, it’s a problem.”

“Only inappropriate thoughts, right?”

A delicate frown appears between her brows. “What do you mean?”

“Are there feelings involved that I should know about?”

“No,” she says quickly, without thinking, and something shreds in my fucking chest. That’s the answer I wanted to hear. So why the fuck do I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her?

“Good, because I don’t do that.”

“You don’t do feelings or you don’t do attachment?”

“Both, and you know that.”

“I do.” Her coy little smirk falls for a moment, and then it’s back in full bloom. “Don’t go having feelings for me either, I’m just using you for sex, Uncle Nate.”

I grind my teeth. “Why the fuck did you call me that?”

She steps back, giving me a sweet smile. “You are, aren’t you? Uncle Nate.”

“Stop it.”

“I like it, though.”

“Gwyneth.”

“What, Uncle Nate?”

I grab her by the throat and her fake sweet smile drops. “Say that again and I’ll fucking punish you.”

She goes still, but her lips tremble and there’s more blue in her eyes than the ethereal green from this morning. There’s an unnatural brightness, too, almost like moisture gathering in them.

I glare at her and she glares right back, her gaze defiant and filled with so many things unsaid.

A commotion somewhere in the house breaks up our glaring session.

Martha’s voice reaches us first. “Madam, you can’t come in.”

Before I can fathom what’s going on, the woman I could’ve gone a lifetime without seeing again barges into the kitchen. The woman who shouldn’t know about my arrangement with Gwyneth.