The Emperor (Dark Verse Book 3)

by RuNyx

  Amara panted, blinking up at him. “What was that for?”

  “Because I can kiss you whenever, wherever, however I want now,” he stepped back. “And nobody can do shit about it.” He gave her a light slap on the ass. “Now go.”

  “Bossy bastard,” she muttered under her breath, a smile on her lips as she turned and started to walk quickly to his building in the distance. She saw a few patrolling guards stop and give her a look but she ignored them, barely containing the urge to run.

  Standing on his porch, Amara lifted her hand and knocked on the door twice, bouncing on her toes in contained excitement.

  The door opened and her mother, whom she hadn’t seen in years, stood there, staring up at her.

  “Mumu,” her eyes filled and Amara went into her arms, snuggling in the crook of her neck in a habit that she never got over, her nose filling with the same familiar scent of citrus and sugar and warmth that she knew in her bones.

  Her mother’s arms tightened around her, holding her close for long minutes as they both just cried, the reunion sweet after years of torment. Amara pulled back, noting the wrinkles on her face, the greys in her hair, the softness of her skin.

  They went in to Dante’s living room and for hours, talked – about the babies, about what had happened, about everything. Her mother was overjoyed that Dante knew about the pregnancy and that she’d be a grandmother; she was heartbroken that one of them had passed away. Amara asked her about everything she had missed on the compound and her mother told her everything – about Mr. Maroni’s funeral, about Dante’s brother not wanting to return, about the change in management. And looking at her talk, Amara felt herself fall deeper in love with the man who had not just saved her time and again but protected the one person who was important to her with respect.

  Dante Maroni was a remarkable man, and she was lucky he was hers.

  Her mother left the house after a few hours, telling her she had some moving stuff to oversee at the main house, and Amara stayed behind, needing a few moments alone before she went out. Walking around his house again, she saw the boxes and stuff lined up beside the stairs. Curious, she climbed up, peeking into his almost empty bedroom, before dodging a box and going up higher into his studio.

  As she ascended the last steps, the memories in this room hit her. That first kiss on her neck, right against the door, those stolen kisses after they got together, early morning moments of her listening to his audiobook and watching him sculpt. So many memories in this place and the fact that he was leaving it made her a little sad.

  She walked into the large room, taking in the big windows and the plethora of sculptures around it, the workbench lit by a beam of sunlight. She knew many of those sculptures, the ones he had made initially, but a lot of them were new. His art had refined over the years, chiseled itself, and his creations had become something else.

  She went to the one of a man’s hand reaching out over the space to something, the tendons and veins, and ridges in the limb beautifully defined, the longing in the way it stretched palpable. Amara lifted her hand, touching her fingers to his smooth ones, feeling the cold of the clay against her fingertips, awed by the art with her tactile senses.

  “I was drunk when I made that,” the voice from the door had her turning around to see the creator himself, leaning against the wall, exactly as he’d been that night so many years ago. Amara felt her heartbeat race at the memory.

  “It’s beautiful,” she told him softly, pulling her hand back, looking around the room. “What will you do with these?”

  “They’ll move to the mansion tomorrow,” he told her, striding in with languid steps. “There’s a room I’ve emptied for it.”

  “I’ll miss this one,” Amara confessed, stroking the hand again. “My adolescent self had a few fantasies in this place.”

  She felt him step beside her, his finger moving over the length of her exposed arms, his lips at her ear. “Do tell.”

  Amara felt wetness pool between her legs, her already-sensitive breasts tingling as her heart thundered. “Sometimes when… sometimes when I used to watch your hands on the clay…” she trailed off.

  His finger trailed up her arm slowly, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Yes?” he tugged her lobe between his teeth.

  Amara felt herself arch, her hands fisting her dress. “I used to imagine you laying me on the bench, and using your hands on me.”

  His finger reached the strap of her dress, going under it, tugging it down.

  “Dante-” It was the middle of the day. Anyone could walk in the door.

  “And?” he asked, pulling the strap down enough to expose one swollen breast, his fingers going around the areola in maddening circles, her chest heaving as she gripped his forearm.

  “That was it,” she moaned as the circle grew inward, so close to her straining nipple, but he didn’t touch it.

  “Are you wet for me, dirty girl?” he whispered into her ear, his voice smooth and heady and making her eyes roll back in her head.

  “Yes,” she panted.

  “How wet?” he asked, his teeth biting her lobe lightly, sending a shot of fire straight to her core. Amara moved one hand to relieve the ache between her legs, only to have him trap both her hands in one firm grip behind her, arching her exposed breast higher for his infuriating circles close to her nipple.

  “Why don’t you find out?” she goaded him, needing him to touch her.

  “I will,” he assured her. “But tell me first, are you leaking over your thighs?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, feeling the wetness pooling.

  “And if I ate you out, you’d drip over my chin?”

  Dear gods of foreplay, his filthy dirty mouth turned her on.

  She nodded.

  “Say it,” he commanded.

  “Yes, I’d drip over your chin,” she spoke, the words, the visual, his finger driving her crazy.

  She felt his scruff brush over the side of her face, the sensation new and thrilling, as he asked, “Does my dirty girl need a dirty fuck?”

  God, yes. Yes, she needed one so bad. It had been months.

  She nodded.

  His finger completed another revolution around her nipple. “You know the best part? I’m going to fuck you bare and come deep inside you. Do you want that?”

  “I do,” she breathed.

  He let her arms go and stepped back, leaving her slightly disoriented. Before she knew it, he pushed the other strap down, her dress falling to the floor, leaving her naked in broad daylight while he stayed fully dressed in his suit. He picked her up, put her on the table and taking a seat on the bench, pulled her right to the edge, pushing her thighs back and opening her up.

  The sunlight fell on her skin, warming her, highlighting every single scar on her body in stark relief. She saw his dark eyes rove over every single one of them, before stopping between her legs.

  Although they had done it a hundred times over, her heart still beat like a drum, her body ready and on edge for him. He bent his head, licking the length of her with the flat of his tongue, the sensation making her arch her back on the table.

  “Oh god,” she breathed out. “Don’t stop.”

  He slowly dipped in again, his tongue diving inside her, tasting her, eating her like she was the finest dish and he was a man starved. Shivers coursed up and down her spine, her skin warming with the sun on the outside and burning with the heat he ignited from the inside, the dual sensation sending her racing towards the edge of the cliff, secure in the knowledge that he would catch her.

  He started writing the alphabets on her nub with his tongue, pushing her closer and closer.

  She crashed on the D.

  Gripping his hair, her spine arching as she pushed her hips closer to him, she felt her orgasm roll over her – quick, hard, fast – quicker than it had ever been before.

  Languid from the pleasure, she saw with hooded eyes as he straightened, unzipping his pants, his mouth wet from her juices, and gripped her u
nder the knees, pushing her legs back until she was almost bent in half, her heart beating like crazy as he plunged into her.

  A moan left her, her voice straining as his length speared her, his thickness stretching her walls, her inner muscles fluttering as he pulled back, sinking in deeper.

  “Hold your legs open,” he instructed her, and she placed her hands under her knees, obeying the command. He bent over her, weight on his forearms at the side of her head, careful to not put any pressure on her stomach, his pelvis rubbing against her in the position, his dark eyes on her face.

  He pulled out and snapped again, sending her body slightly up on the table.

  “You should’ve known not to run from me, crazy girl,” he grit out, the rage in his eyes transferring to his movements. “I would chase you to the ends of this earth.”

  Amara felt her fingers tighten around her thighs, her muscles vibrating with the sexual and emotional hunger only this man satiated in her. His rage infused her blood as she let go of her thighs, hitting him in the chest. “You let me think you were dead, you dick! Dead! Do you know how that destroyed me?”

  Her hands kept hitting him over and over, her body shaking with anger. He took a hold of her wrists, pinning them over her head, his eyes heated, enraged. “You knew I was faking soon enough, Amara. And you still ran, taking my child. Wanna know how that made me feel?” He leaned forward, his face an inch from hers, his cock pushing deeper inside her. “Pissed. So. Fucking. Pissed.”

  She stared at him, angry, annoyed, aroused, and clenched her inner muscles around him, really tightly.

  He growled over her, his hips flexing, her anger, her annoyance, her arousal reflected back at her.

  “I’m going to fuck my anger out on your pussy,” he told her, his jaw clenching. “I’m going to use your body, and I’m going to be selfish as fuck.”

  She lifted her chin. “I’ll use you back.”

  “Fuck, yes, you will.”

  With that, he straightened, held her hands above her head, and slammed deep inside her. Amara stretched her legs open again, trying to give him more room but unable to move with the way he had pinned her down. One hand holding both of her wrists, the other came to grip her jaw, his eyes dark on hers as he picked up speed, thrusting hard and deep inside her, the friction and the inability to move doing things to her body she couldn’t understand.

  He fucked her, hard, fast, deep, so deep, and maybe it was the pregnancy but Amara had never been as aware of every inch of him, of the depth of every thrust that bottomed him out, of the clench of every muscle, as she was in that moment.

  His teeth came to her chin, biting her as he hit the spot inside her with his cock, and her eyes closed.

  “Marry me, Amara.”

  The words had her lids opening, the fierce look on his face making her wetter as her heart clenched.

  “Be my wife, be my dirty girl, be mine,” he mumbled against her lips.

  “You’re a romantic,” she huffed a laugh, a breath whooshing out of her.

  He kissed her scar, moving inside her, his voice matching his harsh breathing. “Give me your dreams and your nightmares, your pleasure and your pain, your fantasies and your fears. Give me everything. Be my queen outside, and my filthy girl inside,” he hammered his hips into hers, his words coming out rough, gritty, raw. “And make me fucking yours, so everyone who looks at my ring knows I have you finally. Say yes, Amara.”

  God, he was killing her.

  Amara felt her neck arch as a current of pleasure shot through her, her mind becoming mushy.

  “Marry me.”

  “Dante-” she whispered against his lips just as he smashed their mouths together, passion flaring hotter between them. For long minutes, there was the sound of their breathing, the creaking of the table, the slap of flesh hitting flesh. She came gushing within moments, he followed right after, pressing their foreheads together.

  “Say yes, baby.”

  Amara fluttered her eyes open, seeing the man her soul recognized as own, and said ‘yes’.

  “We’ll need to come up with a proposal story,” Amara told him as she walked up the hill to the mansion, her hand in his. “I don’t think that one will be appropriate for the baby.”

  He gave her a hot look, his lips turning up, but stayed silent.

  The sun was setting over the horizon, the light falling on the stone walls of the mansion and setting them on fire. It felt surreal, the moment – being back on the grounds she had grown up on, the grounds that had seen her birth and her ruin, the grounds that had waited for her to return home. More surreal was walking on that ground, hand in hand with the boy she’d been infatuated with and the man she had fallen in love with, without secrecy or fear or shame. While she was aware of the few eyes that turned their way as they climbed the mansion steps, while she knew the lingering staff would feed the gossip with everything, there was something liberating about this kind of open affection, one that she had been denied for so long. She craved it like the dry soil that had burned and cracked, thirsting for one drop of rain. She soaked it up like she would never get it again, her cracks not gone but healing, and only desired more.

  The sound of his phone ringing had them stopping in the entryway. A flash of fur had her looking down to see Lulu twining between Dante’s legs, her fur marking the bottom of his pants.

  “I should probably get some lint rollers, shouldn’t I?” he said wryly, looking down at her fur baby. Dante bent to scoop Lulu up in one arm, bringing her to his face. “Don’t shed on me where people can see. I have a reputation to protect.”

  Amara felt amusement crawl up her cheeks, seeing the huge man in the expensive suit and the tiny cat getting fur all over him, making her laugh. Dante turned to her, handing Lulu over. “Head on to the dining room, I’ll make some calls.”

  Amara nodded, watching as he strode away, the dark jacket of his suit stretched across his wide back, a flutter of feminine appreciation making her sigh. She could ogle him now, as openly as she wanted to.

  Feeling happy in a long time, Amara hugged her fur baby to her chest. “I’m glad you’re okay, Lulu.”

  The cat squirmed in her arms, before settling. Lulu was a weird cat. Sometimes she fell asleep right in Amara’s arms, and from experience, Amara knew she was settling in for a nap. She kissed the top of her head and walked towards the dining room.

  Amara had only been in that room on a few occasions, mostly when she’d been helping her mother. She had never had a meal there. It felt surreal too, standing on the door, watching as the staff laid the table for dinner. Her instinct was to join them, helping them place everything, but she refrained. She didn’t know how she was going to be the lady of the house when she had grown up serving them. It was an odd realization, and something she needed to think about. While she didn’t want to be detached from the working members of the compound, as Dante Maroni’s wife she would have to adhere to certain expectations.

  The twelve-foot table was the focal point of the hall-like room, with tall windows with a stunning view of the darkening hills, and a huge crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling that glimmered in the sunset with different colors of the fire.

  Amara watched from the sidelines as two of the girls who had been her juniors placed the cutlery on the long table, avoiding looking at her as she stood at the door with a napping Lulu.

  Fuck expectations. Just because no one before her had been friendly with the staff didn’t mean she couldn’t start. Forgetting one’s roots was one of the biggest mistakes she had seen people make. Roots were important for a tree to grow.

  Putting a wide smile on her face, she headed into the room and noticed the five staff members pause.

  “So, you’re all just going to ignore me?” she asked them in a teasing tone.

  One of the men smiled. “Welcome home, Amara. It’s been a long time.”

  She smiled back. “It has been a very long time, Fabio. How is your knee?”

  His smile widened. �
��Still twinges.”

  Amara turned to the woman who had been her mother’s apprentice. “And you Maria, is your son still playing football?”

  The older woman gave a stiff smile. “Yes, Miss Amara.”

  The stiffness of the smile made her own wobble a bit. Amara hugged Lulu closer and swallowed.

  “Give us the room, please,” a feminine voice from the door had Amara turning to look at Chiara Mancini, Leo Mancini’s wife. While Amara had never had any interaction with her, she didn’t like the woman one bit. Chiara was extraordinarily beautiful, perhaps one of the most beautiful women Amara had seen, but her soul was rotten. Rumor said she had been married by a much older Leo who had raped her in the marriage. Amara had been empathetic towards the woman until she had heard about her taste for younger boys. Tristan being her first extra-marital affair hadn’t endeared her any either.

  Amara didn’t know if she had ever come onto Dante, but she straightened her spine as the room emptied.

  Dressed in a stunning silver dress, Chiara strode in, a polite smile on her lips. “I don’t think we have been introduced. I’m Chiara.”

  For a second Amara felt vulnerable, as though she was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. But then she remembered the man who had walked through hell with her, the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with, and realized that dealing with people like Chiara would come with the package of them being open.

  “Dr. Amara,” she introduced herself politely, using the same confident tone she used with her clients.

  Chiara’s eyes flickered to the scar on her neck that she wasn’t hiding anymore before she looked up at Amara. It was one of the rare occasions Amara thanked her height over the shorter woman.

  “Well,” the other woman began, looking down at the sleeping cat in her arms, her nose wrinkling slightly. “Are you Dante’s girlfriend?”

  Amara gave the woman a cool gaze. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  “I’m Dante’s family,” Chiara chimed, her eyes all innocent. “He’s under such pressure. Being the leader is not easy, and he’s so young yet. I’m just looking out for him.”