Page 86 of Coldhearted King

She’s silent for a moment, her hands smoothing up and down my tense muscles. “I can’t say I enjoyed the experience. But...” I pull back to look at her and feel a strange throb behind my sternum as her green eyes meet mine. “I’m glad you wanted me here.”

My erection presses hard and heavy against her stomach, and my need to fuck her, to bury myself in her so deeply she’ll never get me out, is nearly overwhelming. If I didn’t think my mother and brothers might decide to come inside any minute now, I’d strip her naked right here and push my way into her.

Instead, I lead her back through the house. When we get to the foyer, my gaze goes straight to the library door, my fingers tightening around Delilah’s.

“What room is that?” She points with her free hand. “And why does it bother you?”

I shoot her a surprised look.

“Both times we’ve come through here, you kind of glared at it.”

Even with my current bad mood, I almost smile. For some reason I don’t fully understand, I take her over there and swing the door open.

The too-familiar scent of leather-bound books, polished wood, and a hint of old paper invades my senses.

“Wow,” Delilah murmurs. “This is amazing.” She walks into the room, heading straight to the nearest bookshelf and running her finger along an embossed spine. “How many of these are first editions?”

“Too many to count.” I step alongside her. “It used to be my favorite room in the house when I was younger. I was one of the few people who ever used it.”

I sense her turn to me, but I don’t look at her. “What stopped it being your favorite?”

When I move past her and make my way to the center of the room, she follows me. It looks exactly as it did back then. Book-filled shelves line three walls, while the large windows in the fourth wall offer a view of the manicured grounds outside. At one end of the room, a large wooden desk dominates the space, surrounded by leather armchairs and a sofa. “I used to love coming here on rainy days and finding a new book to read.”

“I can imagine,” she says softly.

“I came down to do some reading one rainy day when I was about nine years old. When I opened the door, I saw Dad was already in here.” The unpleasant memory flashes through my mind—my father, reclining in one of the armchairs, shirt open, pants at his ankles, and his head thrown back as a woman’s head bobbed up and down between his legs. “He was getting a blow job. From our nanny.”

“Oh, god,” Delilah says. She moves closer until she’s pressed against my side. I look down at the sympathy swimming in her beautiful eyes. “That’s awful.”

“I was old enough to have a pretty good idea what was going on. Old enough to realize what he was doing was wrong. That there was some kind of betrayal happening.” I don’t go into detail. I don’t tell her I’d stood there, jaw agape, staring as he grabbed her head and shoved her down on him while he groaned. I don’t mention how horrified I was or that my face got hot and I had a sudden, shocking urge to cry—something I’d already learned was not acceptable. “I tried to shut the door before he saw me, but I wasn’t quick enough.” I give a humorless laugh. “He wasn’t even embarrassed at being caught. He just grinned and winked at me.”

Delilah moves to stand in front of me and slides her arms around my chest. I instinctively wrap my arms around her too. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “That must have been so confusing for you.”

“I couldn’t slam the door quick enough. I worried myself sick about whether I should tell Mom, wondering what she would do if she found out. Eventually, I confessed what I’d seen to Roman, and he told me that Mom already knew and didn’t care. Or maybe she cared once, but not enough to disrupt her life. Particularly since she was having her own affairs.”

“That’s so screwed up,” Delilah whispers.

I shake my head to dismiss the memories, not only of what I’d seen Dad doing, but also Roman’s disclosure of the truth about our family. I’d known my parents weren’t affectionate people, but until Roman spelled it out for me, I hadn’t realized it wasn’t just because they weren’t demonstrative. It was because they didn’t love—or even particularly like—each other. Or us.

That was the day I found out the truth about Tate, too. The whole thing had opened my eyes to reality—love is an illusion. As I grew up, it became even clearer. Relationships are basically business deals, children are considered investments, and affection is mostly a façade. In my world, at least.

I clear my throat. “Anyway, the library kind of lost its appeal. I avoided it after that.”

“That’s understandable,” Delilah says, tightening her arms around me. “I’m just sorry your dad was so selfish. That he took something special from you like that.”

Driven by instinct and need, I grip her chin and angle her face so I can kiss her. The warmth of her lips and the taste of her mouth drive out any other thoughts.

Her hands roam over my back, and she presses herself against me, sending a wave of heat rolling through me.

I want her again.

Fuck. When don’t I want her?

Just having her body against mine eases something inside me that seems like it’s been drawn tight for as long as I can remember. I drag my lips along her jaw until I reach the delicate skin by her ear. “Come home with me again tonight.”

She doesn’t say anything, just nods. Her eyes are hazy, cheeks flushed, mouth swollen from how hard I kissed her. She looks perfect. And suddenly I’m imagining what it might be like to have her with me like this all the time.

My ribs tighten around my lungs. I promised myself I would never get taken in by the illusion. I can’t start believing the lie that this can grow and become more—that it can last. That doesn’t happen in my world.

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