The Empire (Filthy Trilogy 3)
“They don’t get to be between us, Eric. That’s not how this works. No excuses. No secrets. You trust me. I trust you.”
His eyes sharpen. “Are you sure you can live with those terms, Harper?”
The implications of that question are clear. He believes I have another secret. Maybe I do, but it’s not like his. I duck under his arm and walk toward the desk, whirl around to face him, even as he faces me. “I want that kind of trust with you.”
His eyes narrow on me, those damn intelligent eyes that see everything. He knows I didn’t say yes. He knows I just avoided a direct answer. Damn it, I want to tell him what I found, what I saw, what I know about him, but now more than ever, I fear it will only make things worse. “I really do want that kind of trust with you, Eric.”
“Does that mean you’re staying?”
Staying. “What does staying mean?”
He closes the small space between us, stopping toe-to-toe in front of me, so close he could reach out and touch me but still, he doesn’t. “It means I want you to move in with me.”
“I have a place in Denver.”
“Make this your place, Harper. If you don’t like the apartment—”
“Are you kidding me?” I ask incredulously. “I love the apartment, but we’re moving fast.”
“Six years is not fast and you need away from that family. You need to be here with me.”
“Because I can’t go back, can I?” I ask, the realization hitting me. “That life I know is over.”
His eyes narrow, a glint in their depths that might be anger but there’s a stab of more. Pain? Did I hurt him? Surely I didn’t, but—
“Of course you can go back,” he says. “There many ways I can make that happen for you. If that’s what you want, we’ll sit down and find the best way to get you back to Denver. I’m going to pour a drink.” He tries to turn away and I grab his arm. He hesitates as if he doesn’t want to fully face me again but slowly he does.
“I need a drink, Harper.” His voice is hard, cold. I did hurt him.
“I just made a mess of this. I just sent you the wrong message. I don’t want to go back, but what happens when my life revolves around you and us and then you—”
He drags me to him, finally touching me, his hard body absorbing mine. “I what, Harper? Burn you? Use you? Lie to you? Turn out to be just another Kingston?”
Emotion wells in my chest. “Walk away again. Leave. I don’t have a family. They aren’t my family. If I come here and you—”
“I won’t. I won’t leave. I won’t push you away. That was one night six years ago.”
“That you were ready to repeat because of Isaac.”
“But I didn’t. This is now. This is about us, not them. I want you here. I have never wanted anyone in my life the way I do you.”
“It is about them. They’re all over our lives. How do we get rid of them? How do we make this end?”
His fingers tangle into my hair and suddenly I’m back in that alcove against the wall. “Together,” he says. “We do it together.” His mouth closes down on mine, his tongue licking against my tongue, the taste of him demanding, possessive. “Say it,” he whispers, his breath a warm fan on my lips. “Together. You’re staying with me.”
I obey willingly. “Together. I’m staying.” And then he’s kissing me again, and that demand of moments before is not less. It’s more. This is not a kiss. It’s a claiming.
CHAPTER THREE
Harper
In life, there are people who touch our lives and leave lasting marks. There are people who cut us and do so in a way that we feel as if we might never heal. If we’re lucky, we find that one person who can soothe the ache of our wounds, if not heal them. That one person who sees our flaws as perfection. That one person who can make us whole again.
Eric shoves me against the wall of that alcove, and with that window beside us, overlooking the city, his big body pressed to mine, his kiss not only devours me—it speaks to me. He’s my one person and I’m his. I feel that in his touch. I feel that in the way we connect. I taste it in his kiss. I don’t know where this leads us. I don’t know if it means we can overcome the Kingston family, but I know we can overcome his demons. He doesn’t, though. I taste that in his kiss as well. There is torment, a feeling like he’s bad for me. That he shouldn’t want me and the only comfort I find in this and where we’re headed is that he isn’t pushing me away—he’s pulling me closer. And I will hold him tighter.
I sink into the hard lines of his body, slide my hands under his shirt, hard muscle flexing beneath my palms, the thick ridge of his erection pressed to my belly. God, how I want him, how I ache for more, and the next lick of his tongue just about undoes me. I tug on his shirt. “Take it off,” I order, wanting to feel him closer.
He reaches over his head and tugs it free and then fixes me in one of those scorching blue-eyed stares, the way he had the first night we met, and I’m melting right here in this office for him. He tugs my shirt over my head and unhooks the front of my bra, his gaze raking over my naked breasts, my nipples puckering beneath his inspection, and my sex clenching, empty, so very empty without him. “Better?” he challenges, his attention settling on my face.