Chapter 23: Empire of Desire: Chapter 22

Gwyneth is fast asleep.

I can’t stop staring at her. At the delicate lines of her face, at the slight flutter of her long, thick lashes over her cheeks. At how her fiery hair frames her face.

But most of all, I can’t stop staring at the blood.

Her virginal blood, because she hasn’t had sex before. She hasn’t let a dick inside her, and I acted like an animal and took her against the wall.

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.

Not now that I’ve had a taste of her.

Not now when she’s officially mine.

Fuck. I need to put a halt to these fucked-up thoughts, because my dick is pressing against my pants with the need to act on them.

I start to remove my hand, but she catches it in her smaller one and softly places it under her cheek, as if I’m her new pillow.

Ordinarily, I’d pull away and go to my room. I’d work out to deal with my own sleep problems, but I don’t this time.

This time, I lie on my side, facing her, facing her soft face and her dreamy expression. Then my hands are on that face, and I stroke her hair behind her ear.

“Don’t go…” she mumbles, and it’s probably about her father or maybe her mother.

But I’m the one who says, “I won’t go anywhere, baby girl.”

I wake up in pain.

My dick. It’s so fucking hard, it hurts.

I groan deep in my throat and open my eyes. Usually, I sleep in nothing because any friction from clothes causes this fucking discomfort.

I’m about to reach down and adjust it when my gaze lands on that colorful chameleon one. It’s so bright and shiny, like the green has slaughtered all the other colors.

“You slept here,” she blurts as if she’s been waiting for me to wake up so she can say the words.

Fuck. I did sleep here, and it’s early morning already. I don’t usually sleep that easily. I don’t sleep at all unless I exhaust my body in the gym first.

But I did. Last night. Even with my clothes on.

“I didn’t have a choice. You held my hand hostage.” I tip my chin at my palm that’s still under her cheek and how she’s gripping my wrist.

“I don’t care. It still counts.” She inches closer and I grunt when her thigh touches my raging erection.

At that, she stares down, her eyes widening. “It looks painful.”

“Whose fault is that?”

She sits up and the sheet falls away, exposing her tits that my eyes automatically go to. I love how comfortable she is in her nakedness around me. She doesn’t even attempt to hide from me anymore. “Mine?”

“Yes, it is. And do you know what that means?”

She shakes her head, even though her eyes are shining, still exploding with bright green.

“It means you’ll take care of it.”

Her teeth sink into the corner of her lip. “I will?”

“Get my dick out, Gwyneth.”

She scrambles between my legs, her small hands fumbling with my zipper, then my boxer briefs until she has my thick erection between her hands.

“What do I do now?” She stares from my dick to my face, and it’s that trust again. She trusts me to tell her what to do and she’ll follow through with it. No questions asked.

“Now, you put those pretty lips on it and suck.”

She strokes me a few times from bottom to top, and I grunt. My dick is turning harder with each of her innocent movements. But there’s nothing pure about the look in her eyes.

“I’ve always wanted to do this.” She licks her lips. “I’ve practiced.”

A red mist covers my vision at the image of her sucking someone else. The picture of her opening these lips to that kid with the not-some-normal bike hits me with fucking violence.

It’s illogical, doesn’t make any fucking sense, but it’s there and it’s starting a fire in my chest.

“You practiced?” I ask with a calm I don’t feel.

“Yeah, why do you think bananas are my favorite fruit? But you’re bigger…and…I don’t think I can take you all in. But I want to.” She bows her head and licks the crown of my dick and the drop of precum.

I suck in a harsh breath when she stuffs me into her mouth, taking as much of me as possible as she sucks and hollows her cheeks. Her movements are inexperienced, but that in itself is a fucking turn-on. What she lacks in experience, she makes up for with pure enthusiasm.

Her head bobs up and down as she sucks and licks, and I grab her by those strands, my hand fisting into them.

As if my hold spurs her on, her movements become longer yet out of control. She keeps her pace, on and on with her fingers fondling my balls.

“Fuck,” I grunt. “I love your mouth, Gwyneth.”

She quickens her pace and I use her hair to keep her in place as I rock my hips, hitting the back of her throat.

She sputters and chokes, but she doesn’t attempt to push me away. If anything, she encourages me. She opens her lips the widest possible and lets me fuck her mouth.

And I do it. I thrust forward until the friction is unbearable, until all my blood rushes to where her skin meets mine, where she’s handing me the reins to use her mouth any way I see fit.

My back muscles tighten with each jerk of my hips and I can feel the orgasm ripping through my balls.

Before I know it, a growl echoes in the air as I empty down her throat.

“Don’t swallow it all,” I order as I pull my dick out of her wet heat.

She stares at me with those eyes that I always feel the urge to see in order to gauge her mood through them.

“Keep my cum in that mouth.”

She clamps her lips shut and a trail of cum streaks down her chin. I sit up and pull her toward me by the arm and then my mouth is on hers.

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.

Her expression is snobby as she clutches her precious pearls. “Oh my God, Nathaniel! What are you doing?”

I release Gwyneth with a sigh. “Hello to you, too, Mom.”