Page 4 of All That Glitters

A simple little kiss, an innocent peck, the kind you’d give to your elderly aunt at a party out of respect. Except Empire wore practically nothing to go to bed, and she’d looked sad, frightened, her hair tousled and her skin sweat slicked, her eyes large, fathomless pools of sadness.

And she’d stared at me like I had the answers.

Not to mention, I had a hot as fuck eighteen-year-old on my lap.

Do not think about the way she kissed me, or how hard my cock got when she did.

Never in my life have I let something as small as a kiss unravel me. I’m nothing but layers and layers of trauma and pain and crap, hardened over the years into something unlovable. Empire doesn’t understand, and she never will. The kiss happened, and there’s no taking it back, but my body’s immediate reaction to her makes one thing clear: nothing more will happen.

The spoonful of espresso slips from my finger and clatters on the countertop when my fingers twitch.

“Motherfucker,” I growl.

I slide my hand through my hair and stare at the scattered mess of grounds. I’ve lost fucking control of myself. Which is ridiculous after spending the majority of my life fighting for every ounce of the stuff. It’s not as hard won as people think, not in this town and not in my business.

If I can’t keep my shit together and figure a way out of this financial hole, not to mention keep my claws off a vulnerable young woman, then I’m going to lose it all.

Never a place I’ll let myself be at again.

I bend to clean up the mess and stop, attention landing on the pair of shapely legs leading all the way up to pajamas short enough to be considered illegal. They’re about an inch shy of camel toe.

Fuck me.

Who am I kidding? Anything an eighteen-year-old starlet wears in the prime of her life should be considered illegal, even if the only skin she shows is a bit of ankle.

There is more than her ankle showing this time, though. Empire hasn’t changed out of her pajamas, and between the high cut shorts, her stomach on display, and the low-cut tank top, my next curse is for a different reason.

“It’s too early to have you cursing over a little spilled coffee,” she says with her nose scrunched up. “Let the cleaning crew do it. They’re going to be here in a little bit.”

I groan as I straighten, a few kinks in my back tightening with the movement. She’s been living in her damn pajamas for too long, stuck in the house when she needs to be out, needs to at least get a little sun on her face. Otherwise, the tabloids will start to gut her.

There’s been too much talk about her as it is, only a small portion of it good.

Once the initial social media tide of condolences wore out, the trolls and haters came forth with a vengeance. How quickly the media attention on her turned negative, always asking intrusive questions about her family. No wonder she started to withdraw.

I purposely turn away and get the espresso poured out again, the machine working and chugging out tar black liquid. “We might need to give the cleaners the boot.”

I see her reflection in the shine of the cabinets, the lift of her dark brow. She’s got her hair pulled away from her face in a messy bun. “Why would we get rid of the cleaners? Marcus, you can’t seriously expect me to clean this entire house by myself.”

“Which is why you should have agreed to move into my place with me,” I growl.

It’s not an argument I’ll win with her, ever.

“It’s hard enough to lose my folks. You want me to move out of the only house I’ve ever known, too?”

I’d consider it an act if she’d actually done any acting. No, the shock and awe were all Empire Stone, the gullible socialite loved by the media for her lineage alone. I shake my head.

“Clearly not, since I packed up my shit and moved in with you.” Easier to move a bachelor than to pack up Empire and all that comes with her.

But I miss having my own space, even though the mansion is huge, a sprawling, Tuscan-inspired villa in the Hollywood hills with a great view of the city below. Here, I’ve practically got my own wing of the house, just me and Empire across the hall, sharing the space with ghosts.

“You need to get dressed,” I say. Sidestepping the grounds on the floor, I grab another spoonful of espresso and press it down with the tamper.

“Why?”

Insolent little—

“Because I fucking said so. You’re the one with a thousand PAs to keep track of your schedule, but even I know you have things to do today.”

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