Fake Empire: Chapter 10

When I wake up, I’m the only one in the bed. I stretch one hand out, feeling the cool fabric where Scarlett should be. My sore knuckles protest the movement. I wince, both from the pain and the memories of how I ended up with a swollen hand. A glance at the clock on the bedside table tells me it’s just past three a.m.

I flip onto my back, trying to fall back asleep. Eventually, I give up. I climb out of bed and pull on a pair of athletic shorts. I don’t bother with a shirt before heading out into the hallway. Josephine and Hanson’s room is in the opposite wing of the house. Unless they make it a habit of wandering around in the middle of the night, which I very much doubt, I don’t need to worry about running into my in-laws.

It doesn’t take long to find Scarlett. The lights are on in the kitchen and the door leading out to the patio and pool is ajar. As soon as I step outside, I spot her sprawled out on one of the chairs, holding a wineglass in one hand and paging through a paperback with the other.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask as I take a seat at the end of the lounge chair she’s lying on.

She shoves her book aside and takes a sip of wine before she answers. “You snore.”

“No, I don’t.”

Scarlett sighs. “No, you don’t. But you were there.”

I know what she means. We have yet to sleep together, in the literal or the sexual sense. The forced proximity of this trip isn’t unwelcome, but it’s definitely weird. I never know how to act around her. Every time I think we might have made some progress, we slide right back. She can’t even sleep next to me.

I rest my elbows on my knees and stare at the flat surface of the pool. The filters form small ripples that refract the moonlight beaming down. “Is this how it’s going to be, Scarlett?”

“Is this how what is going to be?”

“Us. Is this what you want?”

“We’ve never been about what I want.”

I laugh. “Bullshit.”

Her eyes flash. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. If you didn’t want this, we wouldn’t be married.” I stare her down, daring her to deny it.

She looks away. “I expected this to be different.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know. Just…different.”

I sigh. Nothing is ever simple or straightforward with this woman. “I’d like to know what it’s like to fuck my wife, Scarlett.”

She doesn’t flinch at the crude statement. Doesn’t react at all. “You can get that elsewhere.”

“Are you? Still?” I add that last word just to be an ass. To see her angry expression. She’s more forthcoming when she’s mad.

“None of your business.”

I laugh. “But it was my business after the Rutherford gala?”

She’s silent.

“What about kids?”

“You mean heirs?” She scoffs. “I’m not ready. Between Haute and the new clothing line, I barely remember to eat. I can’t handle a baby right now.”

“Okay.”

She eyes me, clearly suspicious about my lack of argument.

“Do you want me to move out?” I ask.

“What?” Scarlett looks genuinely shocked by the question. “After you insisted on moving in with your two closets worth of suits and filling the fridge with cow milk?”

She sounds more disgruntled about the second fact than the first, and I almost smile. Phillipe already informed me Scarlett prefers non-dairy milk to the real thing and wasn’t happy about my lack of substitution appearing in the fridge.

“I moved in because we’re married, Scarlett. If you want to pretend like we’re not, that’s fine.”

She sits up. “I know we’re married. And I’m holding up my end of the bargain. I don’t know what else you want from me.”

“Nothing you’re willing to give, clearly.”

“Sex. Right.” She snorts. “You’re such a guy.”

“Yeah. I want to have sex with you. I also want to know why you asked me to kiss you before our wedding. Why you fight me on everything. I don’t know shit about you, Scarlett.”

“You know everything that matters.”

“Or everything that doesn’t,” I counter.

She sighs. Looks away. Fiddles with the pages of her book. “Were you named after the sport?”

I blink. What? Scarlett stares at me. I raise a brow. “That’s what you want to know about me?”

Scarlett takes another sip from her wineglass. “Answer the question.”

“No, it’s a family name.” I shift so I’m facing her, not the pool. “Were you named after the color?”

The amusement is brief, but it appears. “My mother was a Margaret Mitchell fan.” She flips over the book beside me, revealing the faded cover of Gone With The Wind.

“So you were named after a tease hopelessly in love with a guy who married his cousin?”

She narrows her eyes, but not before I see she’s surprised I’ve read the book. “Scarlett is strong. She’s a survivor. She saves herself over and over again, never accepting defeat or relying on a savior.”

“It suits you.”

Her pink-tipped nails tap the edge of the crystal she’s holding. She sucks on her bottom lip, and I imagine doing the same. “I don’t want you to move out.” Color rises in her cheeks, but she holds my gaze.

“Scarlett…”

“I’ll try, okay? I’ll try.”

“It wasn’t an ultimatum,” I say softly.

“Good.”

She abandons her spot on the chair, crawling into my lap and shocking me into stillness. She settles directly on my crotch. Just like that, I’m uncomfortably hard.

“Thank you.”

“For what?” I choke out.

She looks down at my red, swollen knuckles. “For that.”

“I’ve wanted to punch Camden for years. Guy’s an ass,” I lie. Camden Crane is an asshole. But I’ve never contemplated punching him until I overheard him speculating about what Scarlett is like in bed.

I can tell from her expression she knows the truth, but she doesn’t dispute it. “People will talk.”

“Let them.”

“Won’t your father be upset? He does business with Sebastian Crane.”

Upset? More like furious. “Contrary to what some people think, I don’t make my decisions based on my father.”

Rather than reply, she kisses me. She tastes like tart wine. Sour and sweet. Intoxicating.

The last time our lips touched, we were standing in a lobby with hundreds of people on the other side of the wall. I was wearing a tux, and she was wearing a white dress. Now it’s the middle of the night. There’s no one else around. She’s grinding on my lap, wearing a silk nightgown that barely covers her ass.

Heat surges through my veins. Sparks between us catch, burning with intention. With want and need and other consuming emotions that wash away rational thought.

I don’t usually pay much attention to kissing. It’s a courtesy, a stop on the way to the final destination. Sprinkled between desperate touches and tearing clothes off. But with Scarlett, I savor it. Maybe because it’s been a month since her lips were on mine. Kissing her feels like a gift—a privilege.

Just like with everything else, she challenges me. Her teeth scrape my lower lip and I can’t contain the groan that spills out. I feel her smile, even though her face is too close to see it.

I’m close to coming from this alone—her taste, her hands in my hair, the friction between our bodies. When her right hand slips out of my hair and slides down to my waistband, I curse my lack of planning. These shorts don’t have pockets. I grab her wrist before she journeys down far enough I won’t be able to think straight. Blood is already rushing south. There’s no way she’s oblivious to how hard I am.

“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.

She holds my gaze as she comes, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Her thighs tremble with aftershocks as I raise my head to meet her gaze. She blinks at me, sleepy and satisfied.

We stare at each other to the soundtrack of waves pounding sand, reconciling what just happened with who we were before. I’m expecting a dismissal. For her to adjust her pajamas and pick up her book and act like nothing just happened. Instead, she sits up and reaches for my shorts.

I snag her wrist and hold it. “I’m okay.” My dick wants to get acquainted with her mouth. Very, very badly. But if I let her blow me, this will feel transactional. Even scores. I want things between us to feel unfinished. I want her to wonder what I look like, fully naked. When I come.

Scarlett laughs, pulling out of my grasp to deliberately graze her hand across my crotch. “You’re kidding.”

“Doesn’t sound so great, does it?” I hold her gaze, not leaving any question about what I’m referring to.

Her lips tighten. “Real fucking mature, Sport.”

I lean forward to press one final, bruising kiss to her mouth. She kisses me back, then bites down on my bottom lip. I chuckle as I pull away, running my tongue across it to check for blood and tasting a sharp, metallic tinge. I reach out and tug her nightgown back into its proper place, covering her naked body from the moon and the stars. “Good night. Red.”

Then I stand and walk back inside, leaving her to stew.

When I wake up, sun is streaming in through the windows and Scarlett is beside me in bed. Fast asleep and curled on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek. Her dark hair is a tangled mess fanned across the pillow. Her lips are parted and one strap of her nightgown has fallen off her shoulder.

I picture her writhing beneath me last night.

I’m painfully tempted to pull that other strap down and pick things up right where we left off last night.

Scarlett likes a challenge. She may have wanted me last night, but I’m certain any intimacy would have lasted about as long as the sex did. I want her desperate for me. I want her to admit there’s more than attraction between us.

We’re not there yet. Before last night, I wasn’t sure if we ever would be.

I slip out of bed, trying to be as quiet as possible. I didn’t hear her come to bed last night, so it must have been late. After our encounter, I lay awake for a while, too worked up to fall asleep. Probably should have jerked off, but I wasn’t sure how long I’d have before she’d follow me up here.

Scarlett is still sleeping when I finish using the bathroom and getting dressed. I head downstairs alone. Her father is seated in the formal dining room. The table is spread with an assortment of every breakfast food imaginable.

Hanson Ellsworth closes The New York Times with a crinkle when he sees me.

“Morning, Crew.”

“Hanson.”

“Sleep well?”

I force all thoughts of the time I didn’t spend sleeping from my head. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” With that, I’m all but dismissed. Hanson turns back to his paper as I fill a plate with fresh fruit, pancakes, and bacon.

Josephine Ellsworth enters the dining room a few minutes later, balancing a teacup and a half of a grapefruit. She visibly brightens when she sees me. “Crew! Good morning.”

“Good morning, Josephine.”

Scarlett’s mother launches into a recap of the party yesterday as I eat breakfast, one that requires little input on my part. I nod and grunt between bites as she goes on about the catering and flowers.

Hanson completely ignores his wife as she talks. I realize this is the romantic relationship Scarlett grew up witnessing. A few more pieces of her prickliness start to make sense.

She appears as I’m stealing seconds, dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen in a pair of jean shorts and a tank top. Her hair is up in a ponytail that swings as she walks. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, dear.” Josephine is speaking to her daughter, but her eyes are on me. No doubt she’s taking this opportunity to observe how we interact with each other.

Hanson merely grunts a response, not bothering to look up from his paper.

This table could comfortably seat a couple of dozen people, but Scarlett takes the seat right next to me. Her hair brushes my arm as she leans over and pours herself a glass of orange juice.

“I’m glad you slept in, sweetheart. You’ve been working too hard,” Josephine says.

“Mm-hmm,” Scarlett mumbles, grabbing a croissant and some strawberries.

“I was thinking we could do some shopping in town today. And Marcy Whitman said her daughter is back in town. She wants to get lunch. What is her daughter’s name? I couldn’t remember last night.”

Scarlett rolls her eyes. “Lucy.” She pops a strawberry in her mouth.

“Right. Lucy. We’ll leave right after you get changed.”

There’s a quiet sigh beside me. “Fine.”

“I was thinking you and Crew could come down next weekend as well. The country club is having a—”

“I’ll be in Paris next weekend, Mom. I need to approve the final designs for rouge.”

It’s news to me—the trip to Paris and that Scarlett told her parents about her new business venture—but I say nothing.

For the first time since Scarlett came downstairs, Hanson speaks. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Scarlett?”

Her hand tightens around her fork. “Yes.”

“The magazine might be doing well for the time being, but that’s no reason to get ahead of yourself. Especially now that you’re married.”

“I fail to see what my marriage has to do with it.” Scarlett’s voice is icy.

“You’re too smart to play dumb, sweetie.” Hanson’s tone is condescending. “You know what the expectations are.”

Scarlett stabs another strawberry. “Thanks for the unsolicited advice, Dad.”

“If you won’t listen to me, I hope you’ll listen to your husband. This arrangement took years. Don’t destroy it to play dress-up.” Hanson glances at me. “Surely you agree this is ridiculous.”

“If I thought it was ridiculous, I wouldn’t be going to Paris next week to help out however I can.” Without thinking it through—at all—that’s the reply that flies out of my mouth.

Hanson is too practiced of a businessman to show any surprise. But it’s obvious he’s taken aback in the way he doesn’t say anything right away. Whatever he was planning to say clearly no longer applies.

“How exciting!” Josephine jumps into the conversation. “I hope you two will make time for some sight-seeing. You never went on a honeymoon.”

“I love sight-seeing.” I don’t; I can’t recall the last time I actually took in the sights on a trip. My international travel for Kensington Consolidated usually consists of quality time spent at a hotel and in a boardroom. It’s worth saying so to see the dubious expression on Scarlett’s face, though. I resist the urge to laugh.

Josephine goes on and on about her favorite spots in Paris while Scarlett and I eat. Hanson stays focused on his newspaper. Scarlett eventually excuses herself to go up and change. I give her a few minutes head start and then follow.

When I walk into the room, Scarlett has already dressed in a pink sundress. She glances up in the midst of slipping on a pair of wedges. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I repeat.

“I’m leaving the car here if you want to go out. Keys are on the dresser.”

I slip my hands in my pockets, watching as she straightens and smooths her dress. “Okay. I might go see Andrew for a bit.”

“Okay,” she echoes. There’s some curiosity on her face—I’m sure she wants to ask about what happened with Camden again—but all she does is grab her phone.

“You want to head home when you get back?”

Our original plan was to spend another night, but I’m happy to head back early.

Relief washes over her face. “Yeah.”

I nod. “Okay.”

She glances around the room, checking to make sure she has everything. Then she walks toward the doorway where I’m standing. Rather than pass, she pauses. Her mouth opens. Closes.

Scarlett shakes her head. “Fuck it.”

She kisses me. I’m too shocked to react at first. By the time I start to respond, she’s already pulling back.

One small smile, and she’s gone.