Page 51 of Fool's Gold

“I’ll see you tonight.”

That’s for me. Along with the slight swat on my ass no one can see.

A shiver runs through me and heat immediately builds. “I look forward to it,” I whisper.

Damn, I want to kiss him. I want to wrap my legs around him the way I did last night. It’s like he’s created a monster; I’m constantly hungry and horny for him alone.

The more time we spend together, the worse it’s going to get, I’m sure of it.

The following day doesn’t roll as smoothly as the last, but I’m to blame for it. My head isn’t in the game. Or rather, it’s about ten feet across the room, centered on the cock of the man in the black shirt and black pants, wearing a permanent scowl. Marcus watches my every move, and his attention is a presence all its own. I feel him with me even when he’s not there.

“How does our schedule look for the next week?” I ask him over dinner.

He glides a steak knife through the filet mignon, the two of us perched at one end of the massive dining room table, eating the meal he had delivered for us. If he wanted to use the distance to keep me off him, he should have grabbed the opposite chair. As it stands, our knees touch, and he swallows over a smile every time mine bobs.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m always going to want to know.”

“It’s not your concern, Empire. Focus on learning your lines, and let me deal with the bullshit.” He glides his next bite of steak through the rich gravy, and my mouth goes dry when he lifts it to his lips.

Those lips—

“It would help me if you actually let me in,” I reply. “I can help you.”

He furrows his brows together in a solid line. “You have enough to worry about without me adding to it. Focus on what we have to get through, and trust me, will you.”

For some fucked-up reason, I do trust him. He’s always managed to reel me back in, even when I’m mad at him. There’s a lot bubbling under the surface between us, and call it the post-sex haze, but I’m not too worried right now.

I draw my hand to his thigh, and Marcus tenses, staring down like he can see through the table.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice a grumble of sound.

“Distracting you. Is it working?”

His growl tells me what I need to know.

“I guess it depends on how hungry you are,” I say with a smile.

He’s starving for me the same way I’m starving for him. With a flash of teeth, Marcus shoves away from the table, stabbing the end of the knife into the heart of his steak, and stands. I jump to my feet too just as he grabs me by the ass and hauls me closer.

Getting bent over the table and fucked from behind for dessert is my new favorite thing. The soreness in my pussy doesn’t matter. All that matters is Marcus finally using his cock the way I need him to.

Every punishing thrust has silverware and plates clinking together. The vase of flowers at the center knocks on its side, cracking the glass. His name is a prayer on my lips even when his cock fills me and his hips send mine slamming into the wood.

He fucks me roughly, and bruises form on my legs, my hips, and my ass from where he grabbed me. Those are the best kinds of bruises. Ones I don’t mind wearing on my skin like accessories.

The next day on set, my core throbs and aches. Every small move I make has me feeling him like he’s branded on my insides. It’s much too easy to fall into a routine over the next few weeks.

We spend our nights fucking, me riding him or him plowing me into the mattress of his bed, although we never sleep in the same room. Bright and early, he drives us to set, then steps back to allow Belinda and the other directors to run the show while he oversees the proceedings.

The routine works. Every day it feels more comfortable.

Until one day it doesn’t.

Until trying to get him to speak to me while we’re on set becomes a task, a chore, instead of something natural. I try to snag his attention, only for him to hold up a finger, to stare sideways and tell me he’ll speak to me later. Only later never comes.

Marcus always seems to be just out of reach.

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