Empire

by Lili St. Germain

  He pulled his mouth away and picked me up effortlessly, his hands cupping my ass cheeks. ‘Wrap your legs around me,’ he murmured. I did, breathless with anticipation as he walked me backward to the sink. He dropped me onto the edge, and luckily the thing was built solid enough, because he hitched my skirt up and slammed into me so hard, my head went back into the mirror and left a little crack in the glass. Not enough to draw blood. Not even enough to see stars. But enough that I hoped I’d be driving past this Denny’s with Dornan one time, and have to stop off, and come in here to relive this moment, one crack in the mirror and John’s hand over my mouth as he made me come so hard, I drew blood along his arm with my fingernails. Especially when he pulled back and with every insistent thrust inside me, he told me he loved me.

  I love you. Fuck. I love you. Fuck! At one point, I thought his love was going to send me through the wall and into the next room. With my free hand I gripped the edge of the basin, as hot, wet kisses trailed up my neck, one thumb on my clit, making me come so hard I bit down on his shoulder without thinking, and John shuddered forcefully as he came inside me.

  I felt bruised inside. I’d be sore for days after that. Some very sick part of me wondered if I’d still feel like this, raw and tender, the next time Dornan put his fingers or his mouth or his cock near me.

  I hoped so.

  I know, it’s not right. I never said I was a good person, did I? Part of me was already looking forward to the bruised places Dornan would touch inside me, the map John had made when he’d fucked the shit out of me, to put it plainly, and that Dornan would never know I was feeling John’s touch when he was inside me.

  It made me want to fuck again just to feel that rush of illicit love.

  ***

  The drive home took time. John took the scenic route, which meant he drove all around LA. Trying to avoid having to drop me off. I got inspired halfway home and opened the container that held my leftover waffles, dipping my finger into some of the syrup and smearing it all over his cock. I licked it all off as he tried not to crash. I think he liked that. Sure sounded like it, and by the way he was pressing his hips up, his cock bottoming out at the back of my throat, I think I was doing just fine.

  ‘I meant what I said,’ I murmured, just as we were rounding the corner to my apartment block, John’s maple-syrup-covered dick securely back in his pants and my own panties back on under my skirt. The clock on the dashboard said 3:48 a.m. I was into my first full day of being twenty-nine. So far, it wasn’t so bad.

  I’d already kissed John goodbye in the parking lot of the diner. This close to home, it’d be foolish to do something so obvious. Emilio haunted these streets. Dornan lived here half the time. And while Guillermo might in theory be accepting of some relationship between me and John, I still didn’t want to give him, or anyone else, a reason to tear us apart before we’d even had our chance to get away from them all.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MARIANA

  I was in the shower when I had my near-death experience. I mean, I almost had a goddamn heart attack. Washing shampoo from my hair, I closed my eyes for the briefest of moments, letting the suds wash down my face until the water ran clear.

  When I closed my eyes, I swear he wasn’t there. But when I opened them again, I jerked back in shock, my ass and palms hitting the cold wall tiles behind me as Dornan stood in my bathroom, watching me like a fucking creeper.

  He seemed slightly amused by my Psycho victim rendition. All that was missing was the shower curtain to wrap around myself while Norman Bates went to town. My bathroom was all tile and glass, but besides that, I hoped Dornan wasn’t in here to murder me.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, a faint smile playing on his lips.

  Jesus, John hadn’t been wrong. Dornan looked like someone had run him over, thrown the car in reverse, and driven over him again, paying particular attention to his head.

  I shut the water off, taking the towel Dornan offered me.

  ‘What the hell happened to you?’ I asked, feeling genuine worry for Dornan in the sea of bitterness that was getting higher and more treacherous to navigate with every passing day.

  ‘John happened to me.’ He paused for a beat. ‘Did you speak to him?’

  Well, damn. It wasn’t worth lying. I’d only be found out, wouldn’t I? And lying about John was going to arouse a whole lot of suspicion. I wondered, briefly, if Dornan could see the cogs turning in my mind the way I sometimes saw them in his.

  ‘He came around asking for a first aid kit,’ I replied. ‘His head wouldn’t stop bleeding.’ I drew a line down the middle of my forehead with my index finger. Fucking fuck fuck, it was harder to lie when you hadn’t come up with the lie in the first place. Could he tell? Dornan was as sharp as they come, but as I studied his bloodshot eyes, it was pretty clear that there was enough of something bubbling away in his veins to dull his ability to read me.

  Dornan watched as I wrapped the towel around my torso, tucking it in tightly. Normally this was the part where he’d rip the towel from me and fuck me up against the wall, but tonight he made no such move. I knew my suspicions had been right. He was getting it somewhere else. So was I, so I didn’t exactly judge him, but it was one more nail in our coffin.

  My hair hung around my face, soaking wet and straight. I stepped out of the shower, taking the hand that Dornan offered me. It was an odd gesture, almost gentlemanly. And my Dornan was anything but a gentleman.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And . . . he said you guys got into an argument,’ I continued. Jesus, the circles under my eyes were getting darker. Too much stress. Not enough sleep. The bottle of vodka probably hadn’t helped, either. ‘He didn’t really seem in the mood to talk.’

  ‘And?’ Dornan pressed.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  ‘I asked him to take me to pick up waffles,’ I said. ‘I don’t feel safe by myself at night, and Guillermo said he was busy. And I wanted birthday waffles.’ And I’m so fucking sick of having to explain my every move to you. What had once been concern and an overprotective instinct had morphed into an absolute need to control and micro-manage every facet of my life under the guise of making sure nothing bad happened to me. When the plain truth was, Dornan and his father WERE the bad that happened to me.

  Dornan went to open his mouth again and without thinking, I pressed a finger to his lips. ‘Please,’ I said quietly, ‘do not say and again. It’s been a long day. Days. It’s a new day now, right? And I’m going to finish my birthday waffles.’ The birthday guilt trip was effective, at least. I walked past him, looking back as he stood mute. ‘You coming?’

  He nodded, his dark eyes hooded, drawn. ‘Give me a minute.’

  He closed the bathroom door until just a sliver of light could be seen at the sides, and I heard water running. I used the alone time to lose the towel and throw on the first nightgown I could find – something long, beige, and definitely not sexy. It was like a potato sack, only softer. I scooped up my wet hair, piling it into a messy bun on top of my head and using hairpins to keep it there. I padded into the kitchen, barefoot, and what I saw took my breath away, replacing it with something between a hiccup and a sob.

  There were candles everywhere. Dozens of them. They smelled like vanilla, the entire kitchen and dining area smothered in candlelight. I felt my chest crack open as I saw the way he’d arranged them. There were flowers in the middle of the table, white lilies. Something turned uneasily inside my stomach – they were death lilies. They were for funerals, not birthdays.

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here,’ Dornan said at my back, his voice like gravel, even more hoarse than normal. I glanced at his throat, seeing red marks, wondering if they were from John’s hands. Funny how hands were so versatile. They could take you to the brink of death, or the brink of orgasm, just with the way you used them. He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around me, and a hard rock rose in my throat, refusing to budge. I looked up, tears burning my eyes and blurring the room into a garish caricatu
re of candles and stucco ceiling.

  He kissed the top of my head, one palm smoothing down the hair at the crown of my skull. Just like my mother used to do when I was a girl, but I wasn’t a girl anymore, and my mother was dead. The hard lump in my throat turned into a moan; the threat of tears spilling over became twin tidal waves pouring down my face. It had been less than twenty-four hours since the suitcase baby had been delivered. It played on a loop in my mind, no matter how hard I tried to switch it off. I couldn’t even replace the image of the little boy with one of Murphy’s face after I’d shot him. It wouldn’t go away.

  ‘Hey,’ Dornan murmured, one hand coming around to my chin and tilting it so I was looking at him over my shoulder. ‘Talk to me. You never talk to me anymore.’

  I turned in his arms, resting my face against his chest for a second. His heart thrummed along slowly, evenly. In my mind, I’d already said goodbye to him a long time ago, checked out of the relationship the moment I woke up in the hospital, my pregnancy over, my baby scraped away. I’d gotten used to the idea that Dornan Ross was no longer the great love of my life, but the heart is a fickle thing. My heart still remembered his concerned eyes, his insistent touch, the way he’d always kept me safe. My heart was a goddamn traitor.

  What about John? It’s possible to love two men at once, you know. I wouldn’t be the first woman torn between obligation and desire.

  I wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him. I’d managed to push everything away for months now, to forget the man he used to be, but suddenly I was overcome by the memory of the first time I ever saw him. Sadness engulfed me and my eyes started to fill with fresh tears. I wouldn’t blink, didn’t want to let them fall down my cheeks and give them to him. They fell, anyway. Gravity is strange like that.

  ‘What happened to us?’ I whispered against his neck, just loud enough for him to hear. ‘We used to be different.’

  A different question. What have we done to each other? What have I done to you?

  He tucked a stray strand of hair up on top of my head, winding it around a hairpin so it stayed put. ‘It’s not too late,’ he murmured, his hands on my neck, firm, but gentle. ‘We can start over. I’ll get us a new place. A real house. We can have a baby.’

  I turned my head away, covering my mouth with my palm so I didn’t cry out. ‘We had a baby,’ I whispered, my teeth gritted as grief was replaced by rage, my tears falling of their own volition. ‘You never hurt me in ten years,’ I seethed. ‘Why’d you have to hurt me like that when I was carrying our baby?’ I stepped back and shoved him as hard as I could, barely moving the solid mountain of muscle.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, digging his fingers into my hips as he knelt in front of me. He lifted my nightgown, and I tried to push him away, until I realised he wasn’t trying anything sexual. He rested his stubbled cheek against the bare flesh beneath my belly button, moving his head back and forth ever so slightly, rubbing against my skin. His fingers dug into the backs of my thighs as he pulled me as close as possible, and I had to steady myself on his shoulders so that I didn’t fall.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ I whispered. ‘Why now?’

  And no, I wasn’t perfect, and no, I hadn’t even been sure about keeping the baby Dornan and I had conceived unknowingly. But in the end, by his act of violence, he’d taken that choice away. He’d ended a life that was yet to begin. And although he’d said the words, he had yet to show me that he was ever truly sorry. Mostly, I think, he just wanted to forget about it and move on. A dark few days in the evolution of him, of us. In the space of three days, he murdered his son’s mother, raped me while her blood was still all over him, and then punched me so hard for questioning him about said murder that our baby died.

  Before then, I would have said there was hope for him. For us. We’d walked a dark road, Dornan and I, months and years of violence and suffering and compromise, thanks to our fathers and the choices they’d made.

  ‘Why am I doing what?’ he asked me slowly. And truth be told, I didn’t even know what I was trying to quantify. What was he doing? Begging for my forgiveness, on his knees, the both of us surrounded with enough flickering candles to wipe out half the apartment building.

  He straightened, my thighs aching from where his fingers had been as he towered over me once more. He bent his head down to mine and kissed me, taking me by surprise. He tasted like whiskey and cigarettes. His kiss was soft, almost hesitant. He kissed me like a boy would kiss a girl on prom night, one hand at my waist and the other cupping my chin. It was the sweetest gesture he’d ever made, and something in my chest expanded painfully, a supernova that stretched insistently, ready to shatter me.

  How could I feel anything for him?

  He broke the kiss, another anomaly, and pulled his head back so we were eye to eye. ‘I wish I could take it all back,’ he said, his eyes glassy.

  Damn him to fucking hell. I had to hate him. I couldn’t love him.

  My heart was a fickle bitch.

  He picked me up like I was weightless, gripping me so tight it was almost painful. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my head burrowed into the space between his shoulder and ear, almost like a child, my breath and his neck creating a warm pocket of air that I stared into vacantly.

  He laid me down on my bed, and softness enveloped me. It felt blissful, to sink into downy blankets as hands stroked my face. I was shivering despite the heat, burning up with a fever that no medicine could fix. Heartsick and confused, as the man who professed to love me the most, for once, touched me with loving hands.

  ‘You remind me of her,’ he whispered, his thumb tracing my bottom lip. ‘Stephanie. She had a fire inside her, like you. You would have liked her.’

  I stared at the ceiling, remembering Stephanie, who I’d met only in death. The memory was anything but pleasant.

  ‘You can’t say that,’ I choked. ‘You murdered her. You can’t say that.’

  Dornan’s palm wiped the tears away from my cheeks, but more streaked down to take their place. ‘Shhhh,’ he said. ‘It’s okay. It’s okay.’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s not okay.’

  He kissed me. His mouth silenced me, drowned me out. He ground his hardness against my thigh and I remember wondering if I’d go to hell for fucking two men in the space of a few hours. A whore. That’s what I’d been labelled as. Might as well enjoy the benefits.

  I felt guilt, thick and swirling in my belly, as I pictured John’s face. If he saw this, he would kill Dornan. But he was the other man, and he knew it. He had no say, and for that matter, neither did I.

  Dornan hitched my nightgown up over my knees, bunching the material around my hips. The air on my stomach and thighs was cold, despite the night heat. I think it was being exposed like this, a gentle caress, a loving touch. Two hands, one on each of my knees, and then I was open, my hips protesting at how wide he’d parted them, his cock heavy as it rested against my pussy. My nipples were hard pearls beneath my thin nightgown, the material deliciously rough as it rubbed against them. I throbbed with desire – I still possessed desire for this man, somehow – and shame blanketed me like fog.

  It was so much easier to detach when you were thrown onto a bed and fucked without any tenderness. When you weren’t given a chance to say yes or no. When it was mechanical, going through the motions.

  Love made things . . . complicated.

  What would he do if I said I didn’t want this?

  ‘Stop,’ I said, pushing his hands away. He gave me an odd look, his cock in his palm, the blunt tip glistening with pre-come. We regarded each other silently, my hips arching of their own accord as he slid his free hand up the inside of my thigh and slipped a finger inside me.

  ‘That doesn’t feel like stop to me,’ he murmured hoarsely, lowering himself, my eyes glued to the bruises blossoming on his neck. John’s hands had made fine work of Dornan’s flesh, before they’d made fine work of mine.

  ‘Fuck,’ Dornan groaned, pushing inside me so
tenderly, it was as if he were another person. He’d never been gentle with me, not once in ten years, and I hadn’t asked him to be. But something had possessed him. He rocked his hips against mine, slow and soft, his cock stretching the bruised parts of me that John had been anything but gentle with when he fucked me against a bathroom sink in a diner not three hours earlier. I cried out when he touched the spaces inside me that John had already punished. It hurt. I liked that it hurt. Above me, moving faster, it was clear that Dornan liked my pain, too.

  We’d been together ten years, Dornan and I, and I can safely say that this was the first – and last – time we’d ever made love.

  It was tragic. He was trying to start anew, a fresh beginning, and I was opening, yielding my flesh to him one last time to say goodbye to the man who saved me all those years ago.

  And neither of us was brave enough to admit what we were doing.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  DORNAN

  The ring had been burning a hole in his pocket since he’d gone home to get it that afternoon. At the same time, one singular thought had burned in his head.

  Had the woman he loved turned her loyalties against him?

  It had gone something like this: His father had given his macabre version of a blessing to a Dornan-Mariana marriage, as well as a warning about where her allegiances might lie; Dornan had walked out of the meeting, and straight out onto Venice Boulevard. He didn’t pass go. He didn’t collect two hundred dollars. All he did was get on his motorcycle, speed home and find the ring his grandmother had left to him when she died.

  He’d considered asking her properly if she’d marry him, but what if she said no?

  She hated him for what he’d done. For everything. And he couldn’t even blame her, because she was right to hate him. To fear him.

  None of that mattered, though. She was his. She would always be his. Since the moment he’d laid eyes on her in that motel room in San Diego, he’d known.