The Kiss Thief

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.”