Page 62 of Emperor of Corruption
His thumb presses to my clit, and my teeth sink into my lower lips. “Now, either be quiet and let me read, or I’ll assume you want another round.”
“I’ll be quiet,” I blurt.
Killian chuckles. “That right there isexactlywhy you’re so intoxicating.”
We both know our arrangement has a very finite timeline. And that’s the only thing giving me the courage needed to pull through this, and do what must be done—even if I’m risking my life in the process.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Killian
Aweek passes. I see Lyra two more times. I’ve dropped the pretense of her spending time with me for the sake of interviews; she’s not with me to get answers, she’s with me to get fucked until I’m bored of her.
The only issue is that I’m not tiring of her. I eagerly anticipate each time I see her. When I find myself with rare moments of free time, I fight back the temptation of calling her. I’m not interested in a relationship with her—she’s not the right fit for me. When the time comes, I’ll accept a suitable trophy wife who’ll care more about social media and vanity than about digging up dirt on me. Lyra’s not just too low-income, she’s too high-maintenance for a long-term relationship. She’d require too much supervision.
That doesn’t stop me from wanting to fuck her every moment of every day. Marriage material or not, she’s a fantasy come to life.
I sit in my office late at night, gazing over the first 50k of her manuscript. She’s writing faster and faster, pouring her soul into a story about a reporter who tracks down a serial killer. A serial killer who happens to be handsome, famous, and obsessed with the reporter.
I don’t think she realizes just how autobiographical her book is. She’s never asked me how many people I’ve killed or ordered to be killed, and I’ve never offered that information.
Her book is good—verygood. I was right in assuming that our time together would serve as excellent inspiration for her skillset. The tension is high, the elements of mystery are perfectly executed, and the plot twists—the ones I’ve seen so far—are unexpected and delightfully thrilling.
I call up an editor at a publishing house who I’ve worked with before. It’s late, but few people would ignore a call from me at any hours of the day or night.
“Killian.” Her voice is surprised and concerned—a fair reaction at a cold-call from me.
“Aisha,” I reply. “I have a manuscript I’d like you to look over and edit.”
Aisha pauses. “You’ve taken up writing?”
I chuckle. “Certainly not. But I have a…” woman I’m blackmailing into two months of sex, “an acquaintance who happened to send me a partial. I think it’s excellent, but I’m slightly biased. I’d appreciate if you could squeeze it into your schedule.”
I hear the shuffling of papers in the background. Aisha is one of the most senior editors at one of the biggest publishing houses in the world—she works with the highest level of acquisitions, so she’d probably refuse my request if it came from anyone else. It’s astoundingly far below her paygrade.
Fortunately, being one of the wealthiest men in the world makes people eager to do me favors.
“I can fit it in this weekend. How long is it?”
“I have the first 50k words,” I say. “The rest is a workin progress.”
“You should send it to me once it’s complete. I don’t bother with partials—”
“I’ll be sending it to you now.” My tone hardens. “If you’d like to see more of it, I’ll send you the rest once it’s through. At the moment, all I’d like is a second pair of experienced eyes.”
Aisha sighs. “Very well. Email it to me, I’ll get it back to you this weekend.”
It’s Thursday. The next time I see Lyra will be on Saturday, and I expect to have another 15k words from her by then. I should probably just wait and have Aisha look over the entire manuscript, but I’m eager to get Lyra professional edits or feedback. I’m not sure why I’m so invested in this endeavor of hers—possibly because I want to be proved right—but I am.
“I appreciate it,” I say, and hang up.
My secretary pokes his head through the door. “Mr. King, I have Carter Black waiting for you.”
I wave my hand. “Send him in.”
Carter typically likes to hold meetings in one of the many clubs he owns around the city, but I despise being surrounded by blaring music and the cloying smells of perfume and cologne that fail to mask the stench of sweat.
My secretary exits, and Carter Black strolls inside. He wears a black Armani suit and his angular jaw is covered in stubble. His dark blue eyes are empty and soulless, and he makes no attempt to hide the gun holstered inside his suit jacket.
