Fake Empire(85)

Charlie finishes making the drink. Now he’s pretending like he can’t hear our conversation, although I’m sure every word is audible.

“You knew what tonight was,” Crew replies. “What this world is like.”

“I want us to be different.”

“We are different.”

“It doesn’t feel like it right now.” I drain the rest of my drink and wave goodbye to Charlie. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

He smiles and nods. I stuff a couple of hundreds into his tip jar.

Crew follows my attention, and a muscle jumps in his jaw. I wobble as I step, yanking my elbow away when he tries to steady me. “I’m fine.”

“You’re drunk.”

I laugh. “No, I’m not. Stone cold fucking sober, thanks to you.”

Confusion mars his handsome features. “What? I didn’t tell you not to drink.”

I begin to walk toward the exit, leaving him to trail after me. The staccato of my heels pounds the marble like an angry march. I’m mad. At Crew, at myself. Mad I might ruin everything. Mad I care if I ruin everything.

He’s following me. I can sense it, and I’m mad about that too.

I barely register the feel of his hand gripping my elbow before he pulls me into one of the empty galleries that line the hallway leading to the lobby. In one smooth motion, I’m up against the wall.

“Scarlett. What’s wrong?”

It’s dark in here. Only the barest hint of light from the hallway creeps in. “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

I kiss him. He groans as I tug his bottom lip between my teeth. Suddenly, I’m desperate. Clawing at the jacket of his tux and then fumbling with his pants.

“Scarlett. Scarlett.” He says my name again, but I’m focused on one thing. I need a distraction. Intimacy. Him.

“I need you.”

Another groan as I tug his cock out. I can’t see anything. But I can feel the soft skin harden in my hand as I grip him in my palm.

He kisses me the way I want him to fuck me. Skilled and hungry and rough. I started this, but Crew’s mouth makes it clear I won’t control it. His lips are fierce and dominant as one palm slides underneath my dress and up my thigh. I arch against him as his fingers discover how wet I am, barely aware of the hard press of the wall against my spine.

The silky material of my dress is bunched up around my waist and my thong is pulled to the side and then he’s inside of me. I hiss at the intrusion that sates one need and feeds another.

“I’m not wearing anything,” he whispers as he starts moving. “I’ll make a mess.”

“I know.” I wrap a leg around his waist, opening myself up further. “It’s okay. I want you to.”

His lips are back on mine, hard and demanding. All I’m aware of is Crew and how he’s making me feel. No matter how many times we do this—and it’s a high number at this point—it always feels this way. Like the first time, and the best time.

He’s setting a brutal pace. Nothing about this is languid. It’s raw and primal and hard and deep.

I close my eyes because I can barely see anything, anyway. It heightens the sensations. The sound of his harsh breathing. The smell of his cologne. The feel of him sliding in and out of me.

His greedy lips swallow my moans.

Distantly, I’m aware of the voices and commotion that remind me where we are. How scandalous this would be. How few of the people milling about down the hall have probably had sex in a semi-public space because they were utterly consumed by the other half of their marriage.

I’m so close. Each thrust pushes me closer to the edge. I can feel the pressure building, the heat forming and my muscles tensing.

Crew’s mouth moves to my neck, nibbling and sucking at the sensitive skin. “You’re always so wet for me, Red,” he murmurs. “So responsive. So eager. Are you ready to come for me, baby?”

Everywhere burns. I use his tie to tug him closer, forcing more friction between our bodies as I grind against him, chasing my release. Pleasure builds and expands, chasing everything else away. I’m so close to the precipice; I’ll do anything to reach that point. “Yes.”

One more thrust, and I shatter. Break apart into a million pieces that act as the sweetest oblivion. I’m still experiencing the orgasmic high when I feel Crew’s release fill me.

He pulls out a few seconds later, leaving sticky warmth behind that leaks down my inner thigh. We’re both breathing heavily. He tucks his half-hard dick back into his Armani tux. I straighten. The silk skirt of my dress falls to the floor, covering my legs and the wetness between them.

The only sound in the large gallery is our breathing.

“We should go,” Crew says finally. “People came for dinner, not a show.”

I don’t smile at the lame joke. He can’t really see my face, anyway. I just walk out of the gallery and back into the hallway, heading in the direction of the lobby. By some small miracle, we don’t encounter anyone. Crew’s hair is mussed and his shirt is wrinkled. I’m sure it would be obvious to anyone what just took place between us.

The hot air waiting outside smacks me in the face like a sauna, seeping away the cold, dry air conditioning and saturating my dress and hair with humidity instead.

Roman isn’t waiting outside. The car that gets pulled up outside in front of the fountains is Crew’s black Lamborghini.