Page 81 of Fool's Gold

Still wordless, I draw my skirt down and settle on shaky feet.

His cum drips down my inner thigh on my way to the bathroom, but Marcus doesn’t try to stop me. He’ll never stop me again.

TWENTY-SIX

In my forties, and I’ve never learned how to keep my hands to my fucking self.

A kindergartner learns those things, yet I took Empire against the wall, on the table, like an animal, savage in my desire to claim her.

It’s no use asking what’s wrong with me. I’m so irreparably damaged that I’m a lost cause. I just don’t want to hurt her anymore, but I keep doing it. Intentions mean nothing when it comes to someone else’s shattered emotions.

Not only am I content to break her heart and use her body, but I go a step further and grind the pieces into dust.

She’s as far away from me as she can get in the confines of the car and absolutely stunning in the dress. The pale color offsets the tones in her eyes, and her hair is loose and soft around her shoulders, practically begging my fingers to run through those strands again.

The sweat from fucking me only adds a glow to her skin.

Her moans fill my memories, and I hear them repeatedly like a ringing in my ears.

The strain in the air is thick enough to rip it into pieces with my bare hands, and Empire refuses to look at me. I give myself a glance in the window and hate the man staring back.

She’s got a single trail of black dripping from the corner of her eye where her liner smudged. It takes everything not to reach out and clear it away for her.

I’ve already stepped over the line too many times to fucking count.

If there’s even a shred of integrity left in me, I’ll leave her alone. I’ll follow through on my goddamn word to let her go and actually do it instead of just thinking about it.

She’s like a drug. I’ve never been an addict, but she’s made me into one, and I’ll happily open a vein for her. I’ll do anything I can for her—except let her go.

Christ. I shake my head and withdraw a bottle from the bar in the console of the town car. Time to drown it all away. Bottom’s fucking up. Weak. Coward.

I’ve got a lot of nerve drinking and asking her if she’s done the same.

Empire slowly shifts her gaze toward me and tracks the movement of the bottle to my lips. Her throat works. The liquor trails down into my empty gut, and when I’ve chugged a few sips, I replace it, forcing myself to stare at her. Professional mode is much easier. Safer, almost.

“Here.” I reach behind me for the envelope that’s been burning a hole in my pocket for the last hour. “I meant to give this to you earlier.” Before I got distracted.

Empire scrubs at the black line of makeup and leans forward on her elbow. “Where have you been hiding this?”

“I have my ways.”

She doesn’t want to take it. Eyes it like I’m offering her a dead fish instead of paperwork. She’s not going to like what’s in there regardless.

My brows furrow together, and I shake it, forcing her. “Go on.”

“Nothing good ever comes from these, you know.” She pinches the envelope between her thumb and index finger and dangles it in front of her. “The last time I got one, it was from Sherry with the paperwork to dissolve your guardianship.”

The mention of it churns my stomach uncomfortably. “I know,” I reply. What else is there to say?

I’ve run out of words. The excuses died a long time ago. As for amends? Those words are nothing more than a blip on a distant and unreachable horizon.

“This is everything Stanic Maxim and his people had on us, everything they could have used against us. I’m giving it to you.” I swallow, my throat burning and somehow swelling shut. It’s not from the alcohol. Stress, perhaps. Or a desperate desire to see her reaction. “These are the only copies. I’ve made sure of it.”

Her lower lip drops in shock, her eyes going wide and dark. “What do you mean everything they had on us?” she repeats. “What did they have, Marcus?”

I’d never told her. Would it have been better if I laid it all out on the table when Celeste first showed me her photos? Impossible to say at this point, and we’re too far gone to put the horse back in the stable. That’s the fucking phrase, right?

I grit my teeth, shifting my legs and crossing one over the other. “Blackmail. The old-fashioned kind. It was nothing for you to worry about because I had it handled.” The way I’ve handled every other thing.

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