by A. N. Latro
“Please,” she whispers, voice refusing to function further. It has been too long, and she cannot withstand such heights of oblivion. She has lost what stamina she once had for his insatiable drive.
“Please what?” he murmurs into her ear with such a devious tone that she is suddenly unsure of what it is she wants. His thumb works the circle diligently, unfaltering in its relentless rhythm. If ever he felt torn away from his home, if ever he felt foreign, he feels like he's home now. If ever he felt dead, he can only feel life pulsing between them more brilliantly than any star has ever shone.
She can only gasp in answer. Once. Twice. Until she cries, “Please fuck me, Seth!”
Her voice is like magma rolling and searing along the corridors of his hollowed soul. The words are so base, so crude and heavy with desperation. He recognizes that need in himself. Arms like thin bands of pliable steel rip her from her feet. Another shuddering flush reminds her how devastatingly quick he is. If her jeans were not giving way so easily, he would have torn them off by now, but even the few remaining articles of clothing will not show him resistance.
He lays her back onto the private stage, the only truly acceptable place for the pleasure of the royals. One hand skims along her arm and above her head, to twine into hers, fingers interlocking tightly. His other hand grips her hip with controlled restraint, and he looks intently into her eyes as he pushes into her. He fills her so wholly that she must release the rising moan just so it does not tear her apart. He is perfection, her karmic key, the only one who feels just right inside of her.
At first, he cannot move for fear of losing control over himself. She is his cosmic glove, who wraps around him like destiny, the only relief he has ever known. But then, her muscles tense and shiver in a hungry wave, and he finds his hips bucking in answer.
Her breaths shorten and quicken, come hot against his lips as he bends to kiss her, to drink in the whimpers and moans that leak from her throat. He tastes her lips and her tongue, swallowing every tiny sound she makes, ravenous for the scraps of life that burn in each vibration that bridges between their skin. Both her hands cling to his sharp hips as she pushes against the dais to meet his momentum. Her eyes force themselves closed as though she has not the physical capacity for her sense of sight. Him moving against her, inside to ecstatic depths, is all that could ever matter again. Tears gather at the corners of her clenched eyes, threatening to break free.
He braces his weight against his forearm, fingers gripping her side so tightly he is sure it will bruise her. How long has he known the precise amount of pressure that it takes to leave reminders on her skin tomorrow? Muscle memory cannot remind him as deliciously as the way her flesh yields beneath his stern hold.
He pulls her against him again and again, loving the sound of their skin meeting, loving the glance of his muscled reflection, lithe against her stunning natural beauty. He loves her dark hair splayed around her flushed face, loves the way her breasts heave and bounce with the force of each thrust.
He growls, stretching back to get a full view of her ecstasy, tilting his hips back. She claws at him in answer, back arching dramatically, pelvis grinding into him. She will destroy him this way, but it is the most amazing ascent to climax he has possibly ever felt. She is the nymph of his pleasure, so he grunts through it until it is almost too late to save himself, then he pins her to the floor and pulls out, struggling for oxygen and clarity.
He can all but feel the frustration stir in her. She pushes her hips against his restraint defiantly. Her eyes snap open, and he can see her thoughts there, dark and palpable. How dare you deprive me now? He smirks in answer, eyes firing mischievously as he pulls her up by the hands, again implementing his frightening precision and speed to manipulate her onto all fours, facing the mirror.
“A very pretty sight,” he rumbles into her ear, giving her no time to answer before fitting himself inside her again. Her eyes widen at the sudden bliss and pressure and the pure naughtiness of their new position.
He watches the brown of her irises melt to pure desire as they study the scene in trifold. He snakes a hand around her to get a firm grip on her right breast. His other hand guides her firm hips to meet his. He catches her eye in the glass as gives her the most audacious wink he can muster.
She comes on him when he moves into her again. He watches her expression stitch, watches the tension gather, then he can see the release stutter across her eyelashes, her lips. He can hear it in the heavy sigh that rushes from her lungs. And he can feel it around him. Then he watches the tears gather again in her eyes as she grins at him and rolls her hips.
He groans again, taken off guard by her retaliation. She almost draws the climax out of him, almost lures the beast to the burning surface, but he maintains the tiniest thread of control. It will be the last he can manage.
“I asked you to fuck me,” she taunts, doing it again.
All he can do is laugh softly as he re-establishes a rhythm. Words at this moment would shatter his resolve, and with it, his hold over his body. He focuses instead on her body, toned and smooth and moving like a sex goddess only for him.
She watches him, stretching and flexing like some golden child of sun-baked shores and rum on the rocks. She hardens every muscle in her abdomen. She clamps onto him, and in the heat of ascension, she can feel his breath hitch, knows he is close.
Her lips part as if she will speak, but she merely exhales in silent awe of the beauty and tragedy that dance brilliantly across his expression. His features crunch in wild panic and something like pain for just a moment before release comes like an ebbing, starlit tide of the deepest black.
He holds her so tightly she can hardly breathe as he loses the last of his energy. He rests his forehead against the back of her neck and she watches a single tear run its course down her cheek.
Seth is home, within her care and her arms. He has been through so much, but he has not lost his heart—she keeps that safe. As the days darken before them, she knows it will be so very important for his cause that his emotions remain intact. And in the meantime, she will begin to revive them within him.
Morgan Wyndsong, New York City. April 2nd.
She doesn’t have to go. Not because she won’t have her own position within the family when she comes of age—hell, Uncle Mikie has already put her to work, running numbers in the privacy of her home. Nothing serious or heavy—nothing that will affect Morgan Estates, but enough that she is getting her feet wet, for the first time.
No, Emma doesn’t have to go because she is not to be concerned with the expansions. The family empire is growing, and the uneasy alliance that Seth brought home with him is holding. It is shaky, but Emma doesn’t have the doubts that her Mother has expressed so often at dinner or when Mikie came to visit.
Maybe it’s young and fanciful, but she has to trust him. With Seth, she has learned, shaky rarely means it will collapse. And that is why she will go. Not because Emma will be able to hand Uncle Mikie the report of this quarter’s earnings—although, she will—not to see the family gathered, assorted, bitter and deadly.
It is pure need, simple hormones. She wants to see Seth.
They arrive early. For everything else, Bethania comes late—varies it just slightly, but when it is for family, for Uncle Mikie, she is ridiculously punctual. She claims she does not fear him, but Emma knows better. And it’s not something to be ashamed of—fearing Uncle Mikie is like respectfully fearing a tiger. It’s not just necessary, but common sense.
As they enter the suite, her eyes scan the familiar faces. She smiles slightly, the shy demure daughter. The same façade she’s played since early childhood. Then, it was true. Emma wonders, coolly, what they would do if they realized the truth.
He’s not here. Emma feels a stab of disappointment that the room seems to echo—an anticipatory held breath as they realize who has arrived, before they relax, turning discontentedly back to their conversations. The people, anxiously awaiting their royals.
&nb
sp; Some girls claim to be princesses, silly young spoiled things that roam the halls of Emma’s school. They laugh and chatter and sprinkle the word throughout their lives, on license plates and jackets and purses and nicknames..
But Emma has never used it—being royalty in this deadly empire is the last thing she ever wanted. The family had Caleb, and his dark shadow, Seth. The fierce king. They even have a foreign, exotic princess. She was content—more than content—to never be the heir. But she was born to her position, and the favor of her cousins means she will never truly be free of the ties that come with her name.
Emma is so lost in her thoughts that she barely recognizes the soft buzz of noise that moves through the room before silence descends. She glances toward the door, and her breath catches, a flush coloring her cheeks. How ridiculous that he can still make me feel like a little girl, she thinks mockingly. Uncle Mikie stands in the door, his bulk impressive, his expression one of pleased triumph.
Emma’s gaze is where everyone else’s is. Seth stands, hands tucked in the pockets of his expensive pants, looking decadent and deadly behind the king, the errant prince. It is the first time she has seen him in a formal setting since he came home. His eyes scan the room slowly, acknowledging the many faces. They linger on her, for a bare moment, and a hint of warmth slips into them before he continues his perusal.
Nicolette stands at his side, sleek and elegant in a white suit. She is dark, exotic, beautiful in a way that the Morgans are not. And yet, standing next to Seth, she looks like she belongs. She does not appear the foreign daughter of another king, but rather like she is part of the syndicate.
There has been grumbling within the ranks about Nicolette—there still is. Bethania has been particularly vehement. She hates the Olivers, something Emma has never understood. Yes, Remi is terrifying and his wife makes the Arctic Circle look warm, but Nicolette? She is good for Seth. They—we, Emma reminds herself—are the generation perched on a delicate ledge, waiting for the balance to shift.
The city will be ruled by Seth and his chosen queen.
Emma looks away, troubled. If anything about Nicolette bothers her, it is simple jealousy. She has what Emma has desired for years. And logically, she knows that Seth can never be more than close family at best, and her king at worse. But knowing that and explaining it to her rather infatuated heart and hormones is vastly different.
Mikie is talking and her mother ignores her. They all ignore her as she rises and ambles to the bathroom. She's only Emma, after all, the quiet daughter. The good daughter. None of them see her. They hadn’t seen her when her brother died, and it hasn’t changed. Except that one pair of eyes follows her—she can feel the weight as surely as she can feel the absence of the others. Seth. He would notice.
Maybe it isn't all hormones. Seth sees her, always has. At Isaac's funeral, years ago, he took the time to talk to her, comfort her, when the family gathered around Bethania in her deep grief. The way he gave his time to her had touched her.
And at Caleb’s funeral, with all that he was going through, the many rumors that swirled around him, he had the time to notice her; to see Emma in ways that her mother and others in the family never did. The afternoon at Irving, when he sought her out with no family around. All of it matters—the heir gifting his time and attention always matters.
His eyes follow her now as she escapes to the bathroom. Emma is only a little surprised when Nicolette taps on the door, steps in behind her. Detached eyes scan the younger princess. It’s been two months now since Seth returned, and Emma knows power is shifting. A formal alliance is coming with the Oliver kingdom, with the wedding the kings will surely begin to advocate. The Cubans and the ties that Seth made in Miami are waiting, fruit ripening for them to pluck and exploit. And it all swirls around these two.
“He trusts you,” Nicolette says, her gaze going to the mirror and her oh-so-perfect reflection. For just a moment, she looks sad, then her eyes find Emma’s reflection studying her.
So this is what it is about. Trust. Loyalty. Emma wonders if it is time to give that loyalty to Seth, give him the power that he will need when Mikie is gone.
“He should,” she says softly.
Nicolette tilts her head, and for a moment Emma feels like an insect being studied. “He will give you a place, if you want it.”
“Yes,” she answers immediately. One sculpted brow rises, and Emma flushes at the look.
A laugh, low and incredulous. “You are in love with him.”
Embarrassment and shame burn through Emma before she does something she never has. She gathers her dignity as best she can and gives Nicolette the stare Emma has seen her mother give so often, reminds both of them that Nicolette is not the only royal.
“What I feel for my cousin is my business. My loyalty is above question and that is all that matters.”
Nic seems almost amused but Emma sees respect in her eyes.
“We need to be certain, Emma. You understand?”
She nods. Of course she understands. One doesn't grow up in a syndicate like the Morgans and not understand loyalty and what value is put on it.
Nicolette reaches to open the door, pauses holding the handle. “If you truly trust him, then you must trust me as well.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Emma mutters, suddenly irritated and needing a high.
She reaches into her jeans, pulls out a small baggie. Tosses it to Nicolette, forcing her to release the doorknob. Emma nods at the makeup mirror. Sudden irritation with Nicolette and her cryptic hints leave Emma craving a bump, for the courage to keep her reactions under control, if for no other reason.
Laughter glints in the foreign princess’ eyes as she shakes her head and hands the coke back.
“No, not tonight. Business and recreation do not mix.” A smile twitches the corner of her lips, “And I would not let Seth see you with this.”
Emma makes a disparaging noise. “Seth has no room to talk.”
She does laugh then, a rich, throaty chuckle. Emma gives her one more winning smile. “Come on. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt us.”
Nicolette pauses then, studying her again. Nods, and says simply, “Very true.” Emma knows Nicolette is talking about something other than the blow she still refuses to do with her. “Remember that trust, Emma.”
They walk back together. Mikie is talking about syndicate alliances. Seth looks alone, sitting separated from the other family, bereft of his lady. And alone, he still manages to look gorgeous and dangerous.
She moves toward her seat at Bethania’s side, but Nicolette catches Emma’s eye and draws her attention to the empty seat—seats—next to Seth as she walks to him, sits, elegant and confident, at his side. The other chair seems to mock Emma, and she is aware that no one has noticed, not even Uncle Mikie, who notices everything.
Seth’s eyes find her, and they are strangely blank. Empty. He has extended this to Emma, this offer to present herself to the family in a new light, under the protection of her prince, but he will not act for her. She feels his empty gaze burning into her, waiting to see what she will choose—if she is ready.
All these thoughts slide through Emma with startling speed, and then she is moving quietly to the seat at Seth’s side. Nic does not turn, does not waver her attention from Mikie as the king speaks to his family.
There is a murmur through the room, and Mikie pauses, glances at Emma. Seth leans forward, and the king’s attention slides to the heir.
“You were saying? Oliver is…?” Seth prompts, as if nothing unusual has happened. Mikie stares at Seth for a long moment and then nods, continuing as if he never paused.
But the room has felt the shift. Influential family members, key players, watch Emma as if they have never seen her. Bethania looks outraged. Seth leans over, murmurs softly to Nicolette, and she gives him a tiny nod.
They planned this. He knew what she would choose, if given the chance. Emma glances at his strong profile, and her heart seems to swell. For the first ti
me in years, she doesn’t feel a surge of puppy love. This is different, warm respect and gratitude.
She looks out, and, thanks to her prince, they see her. See Emma as a family member of weight and importance, with a look of hard defiance for anyone who would question this, and not just shy and quiet and mousy. In one moment of challenge—and bringing her to his side had challenged Mikie—Seth has given Emma something. Identity. Independence. And all he wants from her is something she would have given freely.
The streets, New York City. April 2nd.
Seth ignores the worried glances from the driver. He finds he is staring out the window much like he used to watch his father do. Does that make him old? He wonders. How much of his life has rolled by outside the windows of a Bentley limo?
Nicolette is quiet beside him. Long ago, she learned the rules of the etiquette of the lady. This situation is not hers to control. She crosses her ankles and watches the opposite window.
Emma sits in the center of the opposing seat. She wrings her hands in her lap, expression trying so hard to widen. She wants to fidget. She wants to scream for someone to start explaining something, like why Nicolette grabbed her arm so roughly and pulled her out the door when the attention was elsewhere. Why did Seth follow them minutes later in his suave, unhurried grace, and why did they take Uncle Mikie's car without Uncle Mikie? She doesn't even know where they are going. But that's no way to act toward a king in waiting who is choosing his future court. She pushes her chin into the air haughtily. She hopes she doesn't drown.
“I want you in my division,” Seth says finally, huge eyes so dark against his fading tan.
