The Kiss Thief

This was the first time in a decade I’d drank more than the customary two tumblers in one evening.

The moan behind me reminded me that I wasn’t alone. Karolina stretched along the bed on a yawn, allowing the sunrays drifting through the tall French windows to cast a natural light that complemented the soft curves of her face.

“Feeling better?” she murmured, hugging the pillow to her chest, her eyelids still heavy with sleep. I stood up and sauntered across the room toward my phone and wallet on the dresser, still fully dressed. As I checked their contents—and her bag, to make sure she didn’t put a recorder in there or took any pictures she shouldn’t have been taking—I pondered the question, why the hell couldn’t I bring myself to fuck Karolina last night?

The opportunity was there, and she was willing to jump into my bed. I could not, however, get myself to be with her, though not because of my feelings toward my wife, God forbid, but simply because I lacked the basic need to want to fuck Karolina.

As lovely and gorgeous as she was, and as happy as I was to spend the night in her hotel room and not drag myself back home, I had no interest in touching her.

The woman I wanted to be inside was my wife. My wife, who could not, for the life of her, get rid of her fixation with Angelo fucking Bandini.

I tucked my wallet and phone into my pocket and left the room without saying goodbye. It was better that way. Ms. Ivanova shouldn’t seek me out again. There wasn’t going to be a second time to this. I was not at all opposed to parading mistresses on my arm until my wife died of jealousy and fury—at this point, I cared very little about what it’d do to my name—but touching them, really touching them, was not in the cards for me, apparently.

No matter. Francesca would still warm up my nights. She couldn’t deny this attraction, not with the way she hoovered my cock into her mouth every morning and chased my shaft every time I slammed into her from behind. She wanted this as much as I did. She was going to get more of it, all right. Sans the part where I let my guard down.

I arrived at the house at around ten in the morning and immediately went to her room, but it was empty. I glanced at the garden outside her window. Empty, too. Going through every room in the house, I mentally checked all the boxes. Kitchen? No. Master bedroom? No. Piano room? No. I dialed Sterling’s number, barking at her to come back home. She needed to help me look for my missing bride, though there weren’t many places she could go.

I checked my phone again. Two messages from Smithy.

Smithy: Your wife asked to go back home.

Smithy: She’s technically my boss. I have to take her. I’m sorry.

After summoning my housekeeper, I went upstairs, back to Francesca’s room, tearing it apart. Now that she was gone, I needed to see for myself if she meant business or not. The closet was missing all her favorite items, and her toothbrush and photo albums and horse-riding gear were gone, too. The wooden box, which I’d destroyed yesterday, was nowhere to be found.

She wasn’t going to come back anytime soon.

All the things she valued were missing.

She left just as she said she would. I hadn’t given her enough credit. Figured she was going to brave the night and talk to me the next morning. It was, after all, understandable that I’d avenged her fierce kiss on Northwestern’s lawn—followed by hours of her being MIA and in a hotel with Angelo—with the same token of humiliation. Of course, my wife was anything but obedient. Instead of snapping, she grew more of a backbone.

And, of course, she’d actually kissed Angelo. I hadn’t even touched Karolina, save for ushering her into the ballroom on my arm.

I opened every drawer and emptied them onto the floor, looking for a hint to Francesca’s long-term infidelity. Kristen claimed that this had been going on for a while, but I chose not to believe it. Thinking clearer now, the evidence was stacked in my wife’s favor. She was a virgin when I’d met her. And as much as I adored her, she was—outside of the bedroom, at least—a bit of a prude. Not one to conduct illicit, long-term affairs. Francesca also pointed out that she’d broken things off with Angelo, and by the way her phone was Angelo-free for many, many weeks, I had no reason not to believe her.

This left me to consider that the kiss was a one-off. A moment of passion and weakness. If Francesca really was conducting an affair, she would not be cheating on me so openly. No. She would be more calculated than that.