The Kiss Thief
: Chapter 6

I TUGGED AT THE NEW yellow tie, tossing it on the floor.

Too calm.

I slid a green one from the rack, wrapping it over my neck before thinking better of it.

Too chirpy.

I plucked out a silky black velvet one and pressed it against my white shirt.

Perfect.

My sexual frustration was getting the best of me. I could barely walk straight without thinking of dipping my cock into the nearest open mouth in my vicinity. It’d been days since the last time I sank my dick in a wet pussy, and the last encounter with the fairer sex was lackluster, to say the least.

Emily, of course, was a magnificent bore to fuck. Just a tad more responsive than a corpse and possessing around the same amount of charm. Although, in her defense, I was more invested in fucking the rage out of my system than making it bearable for either of us. She was pathetic enough to fake an orgasm, and I was screwed-up enough to pretend I didn’t notice.

It took me one second from the moment I laid eyes on Francesca and the blue-eyed Bandini at the wedding to realize that they were already halfway into their foreplay, whether they knew it or not. Her eyes, even in the darkened niche, zinged with such intensity, the thought of dragging her across the ballroom and fucking her on the royal couple’s table as punishment crossed my mind. But acting jealous and possessive was 1.) Not in my nature and, 2.) Unconstructive to my final goal. Besides, since when was I into teenagers? It was therefore counterproductive to let them have one last rodeo. If I tainted it, I couldn’t get attached to it.

So, I let Bandini stain it for me.

Thoroughly.

Now Nemesis surprised me by wanting exclusivity. I supposed she would figure out, after weeks of being fucked rough and ruthlessly, that the arrangement was not in her interest and send me on my way to the nearest available mistress. Kristen, of course, was no longer an option, since she tried to run the piece about my engagement to Rossi. Consequently, Kristen got demoted from senior reporter to researcher. I called her editor and informed him that the lovely blonde he’d hired fresh out of Yale a decade ago was getting in bed with the wrong type of people.

The people whose lives she was covering.

Mine.

It was Friday night, and time for the big charade. Secretary of Energy Bryan Hatch was coming over with his wife to discuss his support in my future campaign. I had nearly six full years to serve as a senator, but the objective was clear: Presidency. It was, admittedly, part of the reason Miss Rossi was now the proud owner of one of the most expensive engagement rings in the state. Adjusting my image from someone who shoved his cock into enough mouths to silence the better half of the nation to the savior of a mob princess would earn me some much-needed points. Her noble upbringing was a nice touch as a first lady, too. Not to mention, I’d mercilessly kill her father’s business in the process, despite my so-called affection toward my wife.

They’d call me a martyr, and she’d never be able to call me on my bullshit.

I tied my newly bought black tie and scowled at the mirror in front of me. The walk-in closet had been thoroughly cleaned and the ruined items replaced. I patted the depth of my drawer for the framed picture I’d been looking at every time I needed to remember where I came from, and where I wanted to go.

It wasn’t there.

Slowly, I pulled the drawer all the way out until it was fully opened. The photo still wasn’t there. Francesca either destroyed it or took it with her. My money was on the former since she was positively certified after finding out I’d fucked her boyfriend’s latest toy. Was she expecting me to watch her publicly grind over another man’s cock and hand her a condom? Either way, she’d taken it too far. Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I stormed out of my room, stalking my way to the east wing. Sterling jumped in my way down the hall just as she exited her own room. She flung her arms in the air, cackling like a happy hen.

“Your fiancée is looking ravishing, Senator Keaton! I cannot wait for you to see how beaut…” She did not complete the sentence. I bulldozed past her wordlessly, straight to Francesca’s room. Sterling stumbled after me before I barked, “Don’t you even dream about it, you old hag.”

I threw the door to Nemesis’s room open without knocking. This time, she really did it. The clothes and ties were just money, and meaningless in the grand scheme of things. The picture, however, was priceless.

I found my bride sitting in front of her vanity mirror, wearing a tight black velvet dress—it looked like we coordinated something other than trying to stab each other—a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of her luscious lips. She was shoving mud into a pot, gardening in the middle of her bedroom, in a Chanel evening dress.

She was crazy.

And she was my crazy.

What in the fresh hell did I get myself into?

I waltzed to her briskly, plucking the cigarette from her mouth and snapping it in half in one hand. She looked up, batting her eyelashes. She was a smoker. Another thing I loathed about her, and people, in general. At this rate, I was seriously contemplating getting to know this girl just so I could destroy her more thoroughly. Even though I decided upon requesting her hand that I didn’t want to be privy to anything about her—other than, maybe, how her warm, sleek cunt felt as I pummeled into it.

“Do not smoke inside my house,” I growled. My voice leaked fury, and that pissed me off even more. I was never angry, never affected, and above all—never one to give one single fuck about anything other than myself.

She rose to her feet, slanting her head slightly with an amused smile.

“You mean our house.”

“Don’t play games with me, Nemesis.”

“Then don’t act like a toy, Narcissus.”

She was in rare form today. That was what I got for sitting at the negotiation table. Served me right. I pushed her against the wall with one, swift movement, snarling in her face.

“Where is the picture?”

Her expression switched from glee to dread, the smirk falling from her puffy lips. I looked down at her curly black eyelashes. Her eyes were marbles. Too brutally blue to look real, and I wanted her skin to match them in color as I choked her for being so stubborn. If only I’d known how much of a headache she’d be, I’d have probably resisted the temptation to take her away from her old man. But she was my problem now, and I wasn’t one to admit defeat, let alone be dominated by a teenybopper.

I thought she was going to play dumb—any other weak woman would—but Francesca was in a mood to reinforce the fact she was not a pushover. Since our deal, I’d almost been lured to believe she was contained. She went horseback riding every day and toured Northwestern, accompanied by Smithy, my driver, her pain-in-the-ass housekeeper, Clara, and her cousin, Andrea. They all arrived at my mansion as though they were about to take a tour of the White House. Cousin Andrea looked like a lost member of the Kardashians with her hair extensions, fake tan, and tight clothes. She was in the habit of snapping her gum as a method of completing a sentence. I swore, she used it as a period.

“Nice vase.” Pop.

“Are you guys legit in a relationship? Because he’s a little old.” Pop.

“Do you think you should have a bachelorette party in Cabo? I’ve never been.” Pop.

Sterling told me Francesca practiced the piano in the mornings, ate three meals a day, and gardened in her spare time.

I thought she was coming around.

I thought wrong.

“I broke it,” she said, raising her chin defiantly. She was full of surprises, this one, and today, I was particularly in the mood for an eventless evening. “By accident,” she added. “I’m not one for mindless vandalism.”

“But I am?” I took the bait, grinning. I was more concerned about the fact that the cleaners had probably tossed away the picture in the broken frame than anything else. It was the last picture I’d had of us together. It was my entire world encased in cheap glass. My bride was lucky I wasn’t above the law just yet. I could mar her beautiful neck in that moment.

She offered me a polite, cold smile. “But, of course, you are.”

“Tell me, Nemesis, what did I break of yours?” I challenged her through gritted teeth, getting farther in her face and crushing her small body with my large one.

“Why, my dear fiancé, you broke my heart and then my spirit.”

I was about to say something when Sterling knocked on the wooden doorframe softly, shoving her cotton-haired head between the crack. It was only then that I realized I had my knee between Francesca’s thighs, and that both women were looking at my knee with eyes wide in shock. One from the doorway, the other with parted lips, her eyelids heavy. I took a step back.

Sterling swallowed. “Sir, Mr. Secretary and his wife are here to see you. Should I…should I tell them you’re busy?”

Snorting, I shook my head, scanning Francesca with disdain one last time.

“Never been more bored in my life.”

I supposed dinner went well, considering Francesca and I used our utensils strictly on our poached pears and herbed lamb as opposed to on each other.

Bryan and I sat across from one another, discussing my future plans before we even got to the main course, while my striking, entrancing fiancée—Bryan’s words, not mine—asked his bland wife all about her mind-numbing charity foundations, including her Adopt-a-Clown aid for hospitalized children, and Bros for Hose—hose being literal fire hose—organization. Bryan was never going to live down the last title his wife chose. Francesca, however, nodded and smiled even though I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was bored to tears. All she needed was a customary wave to rival Kate Middleton in the etiquette department. I was strangely—and annoyingly—pleased with her. Especially considering the fact she just managed to ruin the only thing I truly cared about in this whole, expensive, and pointless mansion. The picture.

I was dismembering my main course now, a lobster, imagining it was my future wife’s limbs, when Galia Hatch perked up from her dish and shot another enthusiastic, borderline-deranged glance at Francesca. Her hair was bleached and sprayed to a point it clattered in dry chunks atop her head, and her face so plastic, she could pass as a Tupperware container. Not to mention, there was a medieval witch somewhere who wanted her dreadful dress back.

“Oh, my, now I know why you are so familiar! You were leading a charity, too, weren’t you, darling? Back in Europe. France, if I’m not mistaken?” She clicked her fork against her champagne glass, making a grand, idiotic announcement of some sort.

I was about to snort out a dismissal. Nemesis only cared about her horses, garden, and Angelo Bandini. Not necessarily in that order. My plus one’s ears pinked immediately, and she set her utensils on her half-full plate.

“Switzerland.” She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin for nonexistent crumbs of food.

I stopped listening to Bryan gushing about the secretary of state and turned my attention to the ladies’ conversation. Francesca looked down, and a hint of her cleavage caught my eye. Her milky tits were pressed together in a tight bra. Looking away was not in my near future. Dying of blue balls—might be.

“Fascinating charity, it was. I remember there was some gardening involved? You gave us a tour a few years back. I couldn’t stop blabbing for months afterward about the sweet American girl who showed us the gardens,” Galia hooted loudly. My eyes dragged from my wife’s chest to her face. Her blush deepened; her face so fresh and youthful even under the minimal makeup she applied. She didn’t want me to know. I could see no reason she’d withhold the information from me, other than fearing that I’d actually take a liking to her if I knew that she was philanthropic.

No trouble there, darling.

“Did you know your wife is also a patron?” Bryan raised his thick gray eyebrows at me when he realized I wasn’t paying attention to his words. I did now. And although she possessed admirable first lady qualities, including her beauty, wits, and ability to entertain women as thick as Galia, who could drive a monkey into alcoholism, I found myself thoroughly aggravated. Francesca had officially proven to have too much personality than necessary. It was time to clip her black-inked Nemesis wings.

“Naturally.” I threw my napkin on the table, signaling the four servants standing against each of the walls of my dining room to clear out our plates ahead of dessert. Francesca avoided my gaze, somehow sensing how irritated I was. She could read me fairly well by now. Another thing to add to the never-ending list of things I disliked about her. When her foot found mine under the table and the sharp pointy heel kicked my loafers in warning, I realized that I wanted a refund on my deal with Arthur Rossi.

His daughter wasn’t a toy or a weapon.

She was a liability.

“We grew self-sustaining vegetable gardens in poor parts of the country, mainly those areas that employed refugees and immigrants who lived in severe circumstances,” Nem provided, sitting back and running her long, thin fingers over her neck, avoiding my gaze. Her heel traveled up to my knee, and then toward my inner thigh. I dragged my chair back before she had the chance to smash my balls with her stilettos.

Two can play this game.

“Is everything okay?” Galia asked Francesca with a concerned smile as my fiancée’s hand flew to her lips. At the same time, I raised my leg under the table, pressing my heel between her thighs. It was a knee-jerk reaction on her part, as if she forgot something on those lips, and I had a knee-jerk reaction of my own when my cock stood at attention at the gesture as if saying, Yes, Nemesis, I’m the thing that’s missing from your mouth.

That kiss on the museum’s stairs felt like a first kiss. But after she’d bragged about sleeping with Angelo plenty of times, and probably rode half The Outfit, I concluded that my future wife was simply a very convincing kisser. If I could see the same disgust on her face again after putting my lips on hers, I’d remember the cold bitch who reminded me so much of her asshole father.

“I could use a cigarette.” Francesca smiled apologetically, pushing her chair back and relieving her groin from my hard-pressed foot, which no doubt put pressure on her clit.

“Such a pretty girl, such a filthy habit.” Galia scrunched her nose, not missing a chance to patronize her younger, prettier companion.

I happen to like my fiancée filthy, I wanted to bite out, but of course, I kept the unwarranted reaction to myself. Smoking was a vice, and vices were weaknesses. I didn’t allow for any of them in my life. I drank very casually with strict control over the amount, quality, and frequency of my drinks. Other than that, I did not consume junk food, did not bet, smoke, do drugs, or even play Best Fiends and Candy Crush.

Zero addictions. Other than Arthur Rossi’s misery, of course.

I couldn’t get enough of that shit.

“May I be excused?” Francesca cleared her throat.

I waved her off impatiently. “Make it fast.”

After dessert, which Bryan and I didn’t touch yet Galia consumed it in its entirety and even asked for a second serving, I noticed that Francesca took two bites of her own before declaring it was sinfully good, but she was too full (that boarding school was worth every penny). Afterward, we retired with our drinks to the salon to listen to my bride-to-be play the piano. Since Nem was nineteen, practically a baby in the world I operated in, it was of essence to show that she was well-bred, soft-spoken, and destined to become American royalty. The three of us sat on the upholstered sofas overlooking the piano as Francesca took a seat. The entire round room had shelves stacked with books for walls. It was my final touch when entertaining colleagues and peers, but having a wife who could play the instrument was even more impressive.

Francesca arranged her dress on her seat with admirable precision, her back straight as an arrow, her neck long and delicate, begging to be bruised. Her fingers floated over the keys—flirting, barely touching them. She took her time admiring the piece I’d inherited from my parents. The late Keatons were big on classical music. They’d been begging for me to learn up until the day they died.

Bryan and Galia held their breaths, staring at what I had no choice but to look at myself. My fiancée—so painfully beautiful in her black velvet dress, her hair secured in a French twist, as she gazed adoringly at an antique piano, caressing it with her fingers while wearing an enchanted smile on her face. She was, to my utter displeasure, much more than an ivory pawn, expensive and striking, but useless and still. She was a living thing with a pulse you could feel from across the room, and for the first time since I took her from her father, I truly wished I hadn’t. Not only because of the picture, but because she was not going to be easy to tame. And difficult, I’d decided from a very young age, was a flavor I found distasteful.

She began to play Chopin. Her fingers moved with grace, but it was the look on her face that betrayed her. The intense pleasure music brought to her both mesmerized and enraged me. She looked like she was coming, her head thrown back, her eyes closed, her lips humming silently to the music. She was chasing the notes with her lips.

I shifted on the couch, looking to my left at the Hatch’s as the room grew smaller and hotter with the dramatic music bouncing on the walls. Galia was smiling and nodding, unaware of the fact that her husband was sporting a hard-on the size of her arm. Up until now, I had no issue with Bryan Hatch. In fact, I quite liked him, despite his incompetence to take care of a goldfish, let alone occupy a seat in the Cabinet. This, however, changed my view of him.

My things were mine.

Not to be admired.

Not to be desired.

Not to be touched.

Suddenly, the need to ruin the moment for my young bride-to-be was overwhelming, almost violent. My provocative fiancée, who had the guts to fuck another man on the night I’d presented her to my colleagues and peers after having put an engagement ring on her finger that cost more than some people’s houses, would most definitely pay.

Dispassionately, and oh-so-smugly, I raised my tumbler of whiskey to my lips, standing up and sauntering to Francesca. Since I was positioned behind her back, she wouldn’t see me even if she opened her eyes. But she didn’t, caught in a trance of art and desire. She was dripping lust on the floor for our guests to see, and they gulped every drop of it—so much so that I had to make a point, both to them and to her.

With every step I took, the tune under her fingers became louder and more dramatic. The piece reached its peak just as I planted the first, soft kiss on her shoulder blade from behind, causing her eyes to snap open and her body to jerk with surprise. She kept her fingers on the piano, still playing, but the rest of her body shuddered as my lips dragged along her soft, warm neck, sinking to the spot behind her ear for another seductive kiss.

“Play away, Nemesis. You’re giving us quite a show, coming all over my antique piano. Are you ready to try to measure up to Emily?”

I could feel her skin blossoming with heat, quivering with passion as my lips moved again, over her shoulder, biting into her inviting flesh, dipping my teeth to her soft skin in front of our guests and exhibiting terrible lack of self-control that made me want to punch myself in the face.

Francesca messed up her notes, her fingers fumbling on the keys without direction. I took pleasure in the fact I threw her off balance. I started to pull away and straighten. Withdrawing from the sweet mist of her body, I assumed she’d stop playing, but she repositioned her fingers on the piano, took a deep, calming breath, and started playing “Take Me to Church” by Hozier. I knew instantly that this was an invite for more kissing.

I looked down. She looked up. Our eyes met. If this was how she responded to chaste kisses on the neck, what kind of reaction did she have in bed?

Stop thinking about her in bed, you tool.

I sank right back, brushing my thumb along her neck as I nuzzled my nose into the crook of it.

“They can see how wet you are for me. It turns them on.”

“Jesus,” she hissed between closed lips. She was beginning to screw up the notes again. I liked the song better under her fingertips. Less perfect. More of what I craved—her failure.

“It turns me on, too.”

“Don’t do this,” she breathed, her labored panting making her chest move up and down quickly. Yet she didn’t do one, simple thing—she didn’t tell me to stop.

“They can watch if they want. You’re not the only exhibitionist in this household, Nem,” I taunted.

“Wolfe,” she warned. It was the first time she said my name. To me, anyway. Another wall fell between us. I wanted to raise it back up, but not as much as I wanted to hurt her for exceeding my expectations.

“Please don’t come on my piano. It would leave a terrible impression in front of our guests. Not to mention, you’d have to lick the seat clean with your tongue.”

She slammed her fingers over the keys just as our guests darted up behind us on cue. I made it uncomfortable enough for everyone in the room, and the message hit home. They were to retire to their room and stop drooling over my fiancée. Secretary Hatch, with his wood, and Mrs. Hatch, with her unfortunate choices of charity names and unnaturally stiff hair, bid us adieu for the evening.

“This was quite an evening,” Galia sniffed behind me, arranging her plump figure inside her multi-layered dress. I spared her husband the humiliation of turning around and catching his erection through his pants. Francesca wasn’t worth tarnishing my work relationship with him.

“A lovely evening.” He cleared his throat, the lust still thick in his voice.

“Darling, say good night to our guests,” I said, still staring down at my future wife with my back to them.

“Good night,” Francesca murmured, not turning around either as my face was still buried in her shoulder. As soon as the door shut behind them, she jumped up from her seat. I made my way to the door at the same time, disinterested in another third-grade bickering session with a mouthy teenager.

“West wing,” I clipped, my back to her.

“I hate you so much.” She raised her voice behind me, but it remained steady and defiant. She didn’t kick anything or try to push me like Kristen did. She cut all my clothes without crying about it like a little pussy.

I closed the door on her and walked away. She wasn’t worth a response.

Ten minutes later, I was in my room, undoing my tie. I’d already had my daily quota of alcohol, so I resorted to sipping water, watching the main street out of my window. I heard my fiancée’s heels sauntering across the hallway behind my closed doors. Shortly after, the scent of cigarette smoke crawled into my nostrils. She was trying to tell me she was not going to abide the house rules, but by lighting up a cigarette, she was playing with a much bigger fire. Did she think we were equals? She was about to be served with a huge piece of humble pie. And unlike her dessert—I’d force-feed her every bite of that dish until the message was clear.

I was about to enter my walk-in closet and change when my door flung open.

“How could you!” she hissed, her eyes so narrow you could barely make out their unique color. There was a lit cigarette between her fingers. She galloped toward me, but every step was measured and catwalk-worthy. “You had no right to touch me. No right to say those things about my body.”

I rolled my eyes. Testing boundaries was very Terrible Twos of her. But I didn’t do liars, and she made it sound like she was a virginal saint who didn’t try to touch my cock with her heels and almost came when I kissed her shoulder not so long ago.

“Unless you’re here to suck my cock, please see yourself out of my room. I’d hate to call security and have you removed to a temporary hotel, but I will.”

“Wolfe!” She pushed my chest, losing her footing. I was already riled up about the picture, and the loss of the only materialistic thing that I cared about. I didn’t respond. She pushed me again, harder.

Teenager, I thought bitterly. Out of all the women in Chicago, you are marrying a teenager.

I fished my phone from my pocket and punched the extension of my bodyguard. Her eyes widened, and she tried to snatch the phone from my hand. I clamped my hand over her wrist and pushed her away.

“What the hell!” she yelled.

“I said I’d throw you out. I meant it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re confused, and horny, and getting on my nerves. The only reason you’re in my bedroom is because you’d like to have sex. Only you’d hate to have it with me. And since I’m not in the business of forcing myself upon women, I am not interested in watching you having a meltdown for half an hour before you figure it out.”

She growled but said nothing. More blushing. More sucking on her cigarette. Her lips were made to torture grown men. I was sure of it.

“Out,” I said.

“Whose picture was it?” she asked out of nowhere.

“None of your business. Did you see who cleaned my room?” I’d hired a professional company three times a week. They weren’t in the habit of throwing things away, but the photo was probably buried between mountains of clothes. Another thing she ruined. Of course, Francesca never bothered to clean her shit up. She had the upbringing of a monarch. Cleaning her own mess wasn’t a concept she was familiar with.

“No,” she said, biting on the corner of her thumbnail and looking down. She put out the cigarette in my glass of water (I was going to kill her) and looked straight at me. “And I do know why I’m here.”

“You do?” I arched an eyebrow, feigning interest.

“I came here to tell you to never touch me again.”

“Coincidentally, you came here breaking the news while wearing a nightgown that barely covers your tits and shows off every inch of your legs.” I looked outside my window again, finding the sight of her unbearable all of a sudden.

I caught her in my periphery looking down, surprised by the fact that she was already in her pale blue nightgown. She was such a fucking mess. I’d met a variety of women in my life, but I’d yet to meet a woman who was so hell-bent on seducing me, only to freak out whenever I showed faint signs of interest.

“Fine.” I ran my thumb over my lips, watching the manicured neighborhood with indifference.

“Fine?”

“Yes. You seem like a particularly boring lay as it is.”

“I’d take being boring over being a psycho any day of the week.”

“Humiliation looks good on you, Nemesis. Now, go,” I ordered drily, sliding my tie from my neck.

I watched her reflection in my window as she started to walk toward the doors, stopping with her hand on one of the handles and turning around to face me again. I turned around to meet her eyes.

“You know how I knew you weren’t Angelo when we kissed? Not because of your height or your scent. It was because you tasted like ash. Like betrayal. You, Senator Keaton, taste bitter and cold, like poison. You taste like a villain.”

That did it. I stalked over to her, too fast to make her second-guess her next move, buried a hand in her hair, my mouth coming down on hers to shut her up. I wrapped my tie around the back of her neck with my other hand, tugging her toward me and binding us together.

It was a long, violent kiss. Our teeth clashed, her tongue chasing mine first while I plastered her little body against my doors, grinning into her mouth at the fact that her back hit the round handles. Her lips moving against mine confirmed that she was a liar, and her groin bucking against my own cemented the fact she wanted to be fucked badly—she just didn’t like idea of yielding to me. I tightened my grip on the back of her skull, deepening our kiss. She was dazed, and I knew it by the way her hands slid up my chest, cupping my cheeks and drawing me closer to her. It was the same thing she did with Angelo at the wedding. That was how I caught them when I left the restroom. Her hands on his cheeks. In one move, she switched her touch from passionate to intimate. She pulled the tie between us, moaning helplessly into my mouth. I drew back instantly.

Ours is not a love story.

“Leave,” I barked.

“But…” She blinked.

“Leave!” I threw the door open, waiting for her to run away. “I made my point. You made yours. I won. Tuck your tail between your legs and get the hell out, Francesca.”

“Why?” Her eyes widened. She was more embarrassed than hurt, judging by the way she hugged her chest to cover her puckered nipples under her nightgown. She’d never been rejected. But it was her pride, not feelings, which had been wounded.

Because you love another man and are trying to pretend that I am him.

I flashed her a sardonic smile, smacked her butt, and gave her a little push out my door. “You said I taste like a villain, but you taste like the victim. Now, save whatever’s left of your self-worth and leave.”

I slammed the door in her face.

Turned around.

Grabbed the glass of water with the cigarette butt swimming in it.

And threw it out the window.

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