The Kiss Thief

Mama opened her purse and produced something, shoving it into my hand.

“I found this buried under a pile of dirty laundry in your room. Use it, Vita Mia. Start easing into your new life because it’s not going to be a bad one. And for the love of God, start eating!”

She dashed out, leaving me to open my hand and inspect the recovered item. It was my cell phone. My precious cell phone. Fully charged and stocked with messages and missed calls. I wanted to inspect them all—privately, and when time allowed for it. I knew that my assumption that Senator Keaton had taken my phone privileges without asking him was a little extreme. Then again, blackmailing my father into giving him my hand was not exactly subtle courting, so no one could blame me for jumping to conclusions.

I threw the used tissue in the trash can and stormed out to the dim alcove under the staircase, my five-inch Louboutins slapping against the marble floor. I made two steps outside before I was cornered against the mirror overlooking the back of the stairway by a tall, delicate-boned frame. I groaned, slowly opening my eyes as my spine recovered from the collision with the mirror.

Angelo was boxing me in with his arms on either side of my head, his body flush against mine. His chest brushed the exposed, tender flesh of my cleavage, and our hearts crashed against each other in unison, our breaths mingling together.

He sought me out. He came after me. He still wanted me.

“Goddess,” he whispered, cupping the side of my face and pressing his forehead to mine.

His voice was so drenched with emotion, my hands quivered their way to his face, holding his cheeks for the first time. He pressed his thumb to the center of my lips.

I held onto the lapels of his jacket, knowing what I was asking for, and asking for it anyway. The need to be held by him was stronger than the need to do the right thing by us. I longed for him to tell me that Emily meant nothing to him, even though it wasn’t fair to her. Or him. Not even to me.

“I’ve been worried sick.” He nuzzled his nose against mine brazenly. This was more physical contact than we’d had since we were born, and that—combined with my hunger strike—sent my head spinning in a dozen different directions.

I nodded but didn’t say anything.

“You haven’t been good at picking up the phone.” He clutched my hand that held my phone, squeezing it for emphasis.

“I’ve just recovered it for the first time since the masquerade,” I breathed.

“Why’d you do that?” Angelo asked, his body practically grinding over mine. Panic licked at my conscience. What if Angelo was touching me the way he’d never dared before because he had nothing to lose anymore? My father would never frown upon him for taking it too far—because he would never have to stand in front of Arthur Rossi and ask him for my hand.

I desperately wanted to explain everything about my sudden engagement. But I also knew that if my father couldn’t do anything about it, Angelo sure wouldn’t be able to help me, either. I didn’t want us to be star-crossed lovers, stealing moments and sneaking kisses. Drowning in forbidden love. I didn’t know much about my future husband, but I did know this—if I caused him a scandal, he’d retaliate and hurt those I loved. I didn’t mind taking his wrath, but Angelo didn’t deserve to be punished.

“Angelo.” I raked my hands over his chest. I’d never touched a man like this before. So openly. His pecs flexed under my fingertips, and he felt hot, even through the fabric of his suit.

“Tell me,” he probed.

I shook my head. “We fit.”

“We fit,” he countered. “He sucks.”

I laughed through the tears lodging in my throat.

“I want to kiss you so bad, goddess.” He grabbed the back of my neck—no longer nice and understanding and teasing—leaning down for the kill. He was trying to prove a point. A point I was already sold on.

“Then I suggest you do it right away because eighteen days from now, she will be a married woman, and I will have every right to break your fingers for touching her,” a dry, menacing voice grumbled behind Angelo.

Stunned, I slipped my hands from Angelo’s chest, my legs giving in from surprise. Angelo caught me by the waist, righting me. He snapped out of the dark lust blazing in his eyes, twisting to look at Wolfe. My future husband casually made his way to the men’s restroom, his swagger completely unperturbed by the affectionate display in front of him. He was much taller, broader, and darker than Angelo, not to mention nearly a decade older, dripping with the air and power of a force you shouldn’t cross. The authority he possessed was almost tangible. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from apologizing for the scene unfolding in front of him. I looked up instead of down, refusing to declare defeat.