Empire of Sin(Empire #2)(56)

His presence in my living space feels weirdly domesticated, and I’ve been trying not to get used to the company, to keep reminding myself that I’m on my own.

That at the end of whatever fucked-up fixation he has on me, I’ll be alone again.

But it gets harder every day, especially since the little bonding moment we had after his nightmare. We feel closer now, more in tune with each other than ever before.

His presence is like a potent chemical reaction—impossible to ignore and leaves me craving more.

And it’s not only about sex.

It’s about how I’ve converted him to being a fantasy novel fan and how he dedicates time to watching movies with me. Not only that, but Knox is also a fun conversationalist with a dark sense of humor that I relate to. With him, I get to be nerdy and talk about the latest technology without him judging me. If anything, he listens to me talk as if my words are the most sacred things to ever exist.

However, since he’s here most of the time, I have to call Babushka during work or before he gets here. I also check on the people from my previous life when he’s sleeping so that he doesn’t get a glimpse of them.

If it were up to me, I’d keep them and Knox worlds apart, but that’s wishful thinking, especially since they’re affiliated with Matt Bell—the man Knox is trying to defeat.

Sandra had a panic attack at the civil case pretrial hearing. I was on the verge of one as well from being in the midst of all those people, even though I hid outside.

The media’s attention to the case is insane, like absolutely atrocious, and all their questions to Sandra were vicious. Not only do they hunt her down every chance they get, but they also asked if she faked the panic attack to play on the judge’s sympathy.

Although I remained in the background most of the time, it was almost as if eyes were on me, as if my worst nightmare was coming true and everything would end.

I was more paranoid than usual and I nearly gave into the irrational fear, but I didn’t, because Sandra needed me. So I had to be there for her, even if my skin was crawling.

Even if I contemplated running away again and never coming back.

However, I don’t think that’s possible anymore, not when I’ve established roots I don’t like to admit having.

And most of those have to do with the man who sets my body and soul on fire and doesn’t shy away from being caught in the flames.

I wish I had his confidence or straightforwardness. I wish I was as assertive or as otherworldly as he is. Although I admit to being attached to him, I can’t admit that it could be more than mere attachment or simply a way to drive away the loneliness.

It’s becoming so much more, and it’s eating me up from the inside out to consider the hidden meaning.

As a direct impact of that thought, I can’t help the tinge of emptiness that grabs hold of me whenever he’s done fucking me.

Like now.

We’re in the supply room. He takes his time putting my clothes back on—and feeling me up in the process—after he fucked me fast and raw against the door. I’m barely standing, my limbs shaking and my pussy still throbbing. Knox does that to me all the time. The power of his thrusts often makes me delirious for a long while after.

And I’m glad he’s the one who puts my clothes in order, because I can hardly move, let alone function.

Finally, he places the glasses on my nose. He never fucks me with them on or allows me to wear them in my apartment, but he does respect my need to remain hidden in public. He doesn’t push me to answer his questions about my real identity either, even though he continues to ask them.

His lips brush against mine and I shudder, my heart lurching in my chest.

It’s such a light contact, a brush of lips and not even a kiss, definitely not as raw and passionate as before he fucks me.

But as much as I love his primal kisses, I’m addicted to his soft after-sex kisses, completely attuned to them and unable to get enough.

Because he doesn’t have to give me them, not when we’re well aware of the status of our relationship, but he still claims my lips.

He still kisses me as if he can’t get enough.

As if, like me, he could be feeling so much more than sex.

I internally shake my head, trying to push back that thought. If I get caught up in it and trick my brain into believing it, things will decline for the worst.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he whispers in that sensually sinful accent of his and pushes a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

“Are you going to cook?”

“If you’d like.”

“Of course I do.” I don’t really enjoy cooking. Before he came along, most of my meals were takeout or some burned dish I tried to follow the recipe for online.

I’m not ashamed to admit he’s much better at it than me, and he seems to enjoy it, too.

He pinches my cheek playfully, “You’re such a princess.”

“I’m not a princess.”

“You hate cooking, cleaning, and any house chores, basically.”

“It’s not that I hate them. I’m just not good at them.”

“Because you’re a princess.” He smiles. “But don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

And with that, he steps out of the supply room, leaving me absolutely helpless and confused and maybe a little bit lightheaded, too, because I keep licking my lips for the remnants of his taste.