The Kiss Thief

“That’s the first thing you ask after being chased off the roads by mobsters? How the help is doing?” He brushed his thumb across my cheek.

“He is not the help. He is a driver and our friend.”

“Oh, Nemesis.” He shook his head, his smile widening as he pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead. The gesture was so touching I was on the verge of bursting into a sob. Without asking if I’d like water, he brought the glass on my nightstand to my cracked lips, helping me take a few sips.

“Sterling is worried like crazy. She went to the diner down the road and got you enough waffles to build a Hansel and Gretel candy house.”

“I’m not hungry.” I shifted in bed. Somehow, everything hurt even more after a few hours. It wasn’t actually bruises, but the impact of the adrenaline on my body as it wore off.

“Shocking.” My husband rolled his eyes. Senator Wolfe Keaton rolling his eyes exasperatedly was a sight I never thought I’d see.

“But I would love a cigarette.” I licked my lips, tasting the salty flavor of my dry blood. He walked over to my desk and took out a thin Vogue cigarette from its pack, sitting by my side and sliding it between my lips. He lit it for me with my Zippo, like in an old black-and-white film. I smiled around my cigarette.

“Are you going to make it a habit?” he asked.

“Make what a habit?”

“Scaring me to death.”

“Depends on how much you piss me off. You forgot to tell me you almost got assassinated. By my father, no less.”

“He sent a shit aim,” he responded, some of the metal returning to his voice. “He was only half serious about killing me. I do, after all, hold his daughter hostage.”

To that, I said nothing.

He got up from my bed, his lithe body no longer tensed. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

He was going to leave, I realized. My eyes glanced at my wristwatch. It was three in the morning. He needed to be up early for his flight to Springfield. But I couldn’t bear the idea of him leaving me today after he showed me affection. I didn’t want to lose it. Didn’t want us to go back to what we were a few hours ago, before my life was on the line. Two strangers who enjoyed dry-humping each other and shared a dinner table every once in a while.

I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wanted to go back to the previous state. And that if he left—we would.

“No,” I croaked when he was at the door. He turned around slowly, scanning me. It was all in his expression. The dread of knowing what I was about to ask. To him, I was an asset. Now that he knew that I was okay, he could go about his day. Or rather, night.

“I don’t want to stay alone tonight. Could you…only for tonight?” I blinked, hating the desperation in my voice. He peeked at the door again, almost longingly.

“I have an early morning.”

“My captor has given me quite the comfy bed,” I patted it, blushing under my bruises. He shifted from foot to foot.

“I need to let Sterling know that you’re okay.”

“Of course.” I tried to make my voice sound chirp, blinking back the tears. “Yes. She’s probably super worried. Forget what I said. Besides, I’m tired. I think I’ll fall asleep before you close the door.”

He nodded, leaving the door ajar.

I was too tired to mourn my unfulfilled request. I fell asleep a minute after he left my room with the half-smoked cigarette swimming inside my water glass, a habit that made Wolfe cuss under his breath as he collected the glasses after me.

When I woke up the next day, the clock hit seven. I tried to stir myself awake, but felt massive weight pressing against my body. God. How badly was I hurt? I could barely move an inch. When I tried to wiggle my right arm, reaching to the alarm clock to slam the button and stop its chirp, I realized that it wasn’t soreness that stopped me from moving.

My husband was sleeping behind me, his stomach pressed against my back. Still in his suit, his breaths were deep and silent. I could feel his penis digging into my butt through our clothes. He had morning wood. I felt myself blushing, biting down a smile.

He returned to my room. He spent the night in my bed. I asked for something—something he had told me explicitly would never happen—and he gave it to me.

I put my hand over his arm, which circled my midriff, his nose and mouth pushed alongside my shoulder blade. I prayed for one thing that morning—that this wasn’t a sweet lie, but a forbidden truth.

Lies, I couldn’t deal with.