Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
She clings to my neck and presses her lips against mine. I return with added pressure, passion boiling through me. My body responding. Hard. Fast.
I take a step back, smirking when she gives me a knowing smile. Light in her eyes, despite the emotion clinging to her. She takes my hand and leads me toward the staircase.
The doorman nods to us as we walk by him. Another failure point. What if he says something? Did he recognize me? I’m getting tired of this. But I’m not going to push her.
If it blows up, it blows up. We’ll deal with the aftershocks together.
Her apartment is as adorably nerdy as I expected it to be. She’s got two Stormtroopers standing guard on both sides of a display cabinet with figurines from our physical media line. I approach, looking at the Empire’s Fall pieces, the goblins, the elves, the spell weavers, the demons, and dozens of other fantasy creatures.
“It’s like looking at the past twenty years of my life,” I say in wonder.
“Your game has touched so many people,” she says warmly, laying her head against my arm as we study the pieces.
“What class did Noah play?” I ask.
“He was a fighter right until the end,” she says, sounding pleased I asked.
“So—a warrior?”
“Of course,” she says. She nods at the album under my arm. “Did you just happen to have that in the office?”
“It’s always there,” I reply. “It’s where I spend most of my time, so it makes sense.”
“Thirsty?”
“Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
We sit in her living room, which has two medieval-style tapestries hanging from its tall walls. I take a sip of OJ then place it on a Game of Thrones coaster, Tyrion looking smug and satisfied before I cover his face.
“Can I see?” she asks, gesturing at the album again.
I swallow. Almost don’t tell her… but I have to. “I’ve never shown these to anyone else. Not even Pete.”
“He’s your closest friend?”
“My only friend,” I reply honestly. “Somewhere along the way, I think I even pushed him away. When the bottom line replaced the passion, and money started corrupting everything.” I shake my head. “Listen to me—people would kill to have what I have.”
“Maybe if they didn’t know the full extent of it,” she murmurs.
I move closer to her, her legs brushing mine. I stare at her tempting thighs for too long, struggling to be a gentleman, to maintain control. I’m not here to jump her bones but to offer emotional support.
“I should’ve shaved, I know,” she mutters.
“How would I know if you’ve shaved or not?”
She tilts her head at me, then laughs. “Um, you were staring?”
“I was looking at your legs, beautiful, at how perfect they are. Thinking how difficult it is for me to sit here and not move my hands up, squeeze, massage, until I’m at your perfect pussy and I can feel how wet you are for me. Only for me.”
I’m shaking, getting dangerously close to unhinged.
She straightens her legs. “Look. Don’t you see these little black dots?”
I lean forward. “Yeah. Now that you mention it. I wouldn’t have otherwise, though. Don’t tell me you were getting self-conscious about that.”
“A little,” she admits.
I put my hand on her thigh, then slide down toward her knees, then past, bending at the hip so I can rub over her shins then back up to her knees and toward her crotch. “Nothing wrong from where I’m sitting.”
She looks at me with heat in her eyes. Wide, hungry. I know she wants it as badly as I do. She’s probably been thinking about it just as much as I have, that wild episode in the office.
“Be good,” she whimpers.
“Easier over text,” I tell her.
She reaches over and takes the photo album from my hand. “Can I?”
I nod, swallowing a lump of emotion.
I wrap my arm around her, holding her close as she flicks through the pages. She doesn’t comment on every photo, which I’m grateful for. The early ones are of my mother soon after giving birth to me, sweaty and glowing and happy. Then, a couple pages later, I’m a toddler, and she’s got that darkness in her eyes.
“What happened?” Dakota murmurs.
“If you look at a photo and she looks miserable, it’s because my father was home from work. If she looks halfway human, he was away.”
“I’m so sorry, Jack,” she says.
I kiss her on the cheek. “Beautiful, at least we got a break from our monster.”
“Still—it’s awful.”
I shrug. “People have had it worse.”
“Hey, you told me not to downplay my emotions. The same goes for you.”
I look into her eyes, frank, assessing, and understanding. I’ve never felt so seen, not that I’ve ever wanted to be. Empire’s Fall has been my identity for years, the slice of me I’m willing to show the world. With Dakota, it’s different.