Fake Empire(45)

“I don’t have anything.” I wait to see what she’ll say.

Something passes across her face. It looks like regret, mixed with some uncertainty. Then she shrugs and moves away. “Okay.”

Okay?

I’m pissed. Annoyed she’d kiss me like that and then turn it off just as fast. Blood is racing through my veins as fast as my heart is pounding, and she’s leaning back on the chair, looking the same as she did when I came out here—completely unaffected.

This push and pull has become a predictable pattern between us. But this time, I push harder.

I crawl over her, rubbing my erection against the inside of her thigh. Her breathing quickens, like she’s struggling to pull in enough oxygen. Scarlett can control her words. Her body is another story.

I kiss her—hard, deep, and bruising. She kisses me back. I can feel her fighting the urge to arch against me. I stop kissing her, pulling back so I can study her face for a minute. Her cheeks are flushed and her dark hair is spread out in a wild tangle.

Seeing Scarlett in her wedding dress was a shock. This feels like another new experience—like I’m seeing her for the first time. She consumes every thought without even trying.

Her skin is as smooth as the silk she’s barely wearing. The transition between the two is subtle. Her soft gasp when I slip my hand up and under the hem of her short nightgown is the only sound I’m aware of. I keep my eyes on her as I trace the wet lace between her thighs, watching as her eyes close and her lips part.

“Look at me, Scarlett,” I command. Like hell is she pretending this is some other guy touching her.

She fights me for a minute, keeping her eyes stubbornly shut. I wouldn’t expect anything less. But then she’s looking at me. Electricity crackles between us, as consuming as anything I’ve ever felt.

Scarlett bites her bottom lip. She’s still fighting—not to react, not to make a sound.

“Show me your tits.”

Her eyes widen. Not just with surprise, but with arousal. She likes being bossed around in bed.

Slowly, Scarlett reaches up and tugs at the thin straps holding her nightgown up. The fabric slides down, revealing more and more of her pale skin. My dick jerks as her breasts come into view. The hard points of her nipples pebble under my gaze. Her dress is pooled around her waist, only covering a small strip of her stomach. The rest of her body is bare, laid out before and beneath me.

I’ve fantasized about seeing Scarlett naked an embarrassing number of times. Unlike most things, the reality exceeds my imagination. Her body is perfect. But it’s the fact it’s her body—that it belongs to the woman who fights me on everything but is letting me see her like this—that has me feeling like I’ve never seen a naked woman before.

I don’t move. I look, soaking in my fill of her feminine curves and creamy skin. Another woman might shirk from the appraisal. Cover herself or look away. Scarlett does neither. She holds my gaze with a hint of challenge sparking in her eyes, looking at me like I’m the vulnerable one.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am.

She’s perfect. And in one permanent way, she’s mine. “Spread your legs for me, baby.”

There’s no hesitation this time. No pet name in an annoyed tone. Eagerness is the predominant emotion on her face as she parts her thighs as wide as they’ll go, opening herself up to me.

I slide lower, yanking her panties off so they’re out of the way. Her breathing turns fast and ragged. I lower my head and lick her with a long, thorough drag.

Her hips rise and roll, her legs falling further open. Trying to coax me where she wants me. Chasing pleasure and offering temptation. I like her like this. Under me. Focused on me. For all her posturing about property and prizes, I don’t think Scarlett realizes how much power she holds. Over everyone. Over me.

She inherited. But she also built. Conquered. Expanded. Like an empress, not a queen. That’s rare in our world, where people hide unhappiness under cars they don’t drive and houses they don’t live in and vacations they don’t enjoy.

She’s a force, my wife, and right now she’s writhing. Silently begging for my fingers and my tongue because she’s too proud to say a word.

I tease her slowly and seductively, avoiding the spot I know will set her off. The hard ridge of the chair digs into my knee and my aching cock presses against the cushion, desperate for some attention. The pool lights cast shadows over the patio, the steady glug of the water filter the only sound aside from Scarlett’s fast breathing. Her skin tastes like salt and sin as I coax her close to the edge and then pull back.

When—and I’m betting it’s a when, not an if, based on how wet she is—we’re in a position like this again, I’ll pay for this slow torture. I’m sure of it. But right now, she has no choice but to lie back and take it. I’m guessing most guys she’s been with have been too horny and desperate to pleasure her like this. To drag anticipation out every sweet second.

She tries a new method the next time I look up, tracing her fingers between the valley of her breasts and then cupping her left tit. Her lips tilt up, mischievous and enticing.

We’re playing with fire. She’s asking to be burned.

I slip one finger inside her, then two. A breathy gasp falls from her lips, which are a natural, rosy pink rather than her signature red. She clenches around my fingers, squeezing them tight. I curl them, and she explodes, convulsing and moaning. Panting and primal.