The Kiss Thief

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.