The Kiss Thief

by LJ Shen

  “You should definitely not do that.” It was the first time Sterling spoke to me in that tone. Even when I was a child, she did not treat me like one. She did now.

  “I’m not going to wait for her to come out any longer.”

  “You shouldn’t have waited a minute,” she agreed, sipping my fine scotch. Things were dire between Francesca and me if Sterling resorted to drinking. She hadn’t drunk an alcoholic beverage in two decades.

  “Then why did you tell me to wait?” I flipped over the plate with the prime rib, sending it flying across the kitchen. It crashed against the wall.

  “I wanted you to suffer the way she did.” She shrugged, standing up and walking out of the kitchen, leaving me to stew in the fact that I did, in fact, suffer.

  I fixed myself a glass of bourbon, heavy on the rocks, and made my way to the east wing. Nem’s bedroom door was closed, and I pushed it halfway open without knocking, out of habit, before thinking the better of it.

  I brushed my knuckles over the oak wood of her door.

  “May I come in?” My voice felt stiff and rigid.

  I did not ask for permission to do anything.

  And I was not fond of the idea of making it a habit.

  No answer.

  I pressed my head to the hard surface and closed my eyes, breathing in traces of her scent. The mandarin shampoo she used. The sweet, vanilla lotion that made her skin glow. The thought she was so sore she might have needed to go to the doctor’s today flashed through my mind, accompanied by an even more unsettling idea—Francesca wouldn’t tell me if she was too sore. She would cling to the remainder of her pride. The same pride I stripped off her viciously in my quest to avenge something that did not really happen.

  I pushed the door open, finding my fiancée splayed on her four-poster bed, staring at nothing. I followed her line of vision. It was a blank spot on the wall that captured her attention. She did not so much as blink when I stepped in.

  I made my way to her, sat on the edge of her bed, and took a sip of my bourbon, handing it over to her. She ignored both me and the drink.

  “I’m sorry,” I rasped.

  “Go away,” she groaned.

  “I’m not sure that’s an option,” I admitted frankly. “The more you think about what happened, the more you’ll hate me.”

  “I should hate you.”

  I took another sip of my drink. I wasn’t going to argue my defense. It was inexcusable whether she told me she was a virgin or not. “That may be true, but we’d both suffer if you do. And although I deserve my fair share of suffering—” I said, and she cut through my words.

  “Yes, yes, you do.”

  “I do,” I agreed, my voice too soft for my ears to believe it was mine, “but you don’t. You’ve done nothing wrong. And while I’m not a good man, I am not a terrible one, either.”

  She looked down at her hands, inspecting them as she tried not to cry. The fact that I knew how Francesca’s almost-crying face looked like proved that I’d been less than an ideal fiancé to her.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?”

  She chuckled, shaking her head.

  “You’d already made up your mind about me before I even opened my mouth at the masquerade. And frankly, I didn’t much care what you thought of me. But yesterday, I told you…no, I repeatedly told you I didn’t sleep with Angelo. Three times. So I think the better question is—why didn’t you believe me?”

  I gave it some thought. “It made disliking you easier.”

  “What a coincidence. Your actions made me dislike you, fiercely.” She crossed her arms over her chest, looking away.

  “I do not dislike you any more, Nemesis.”

  I didn’t hate her. I respected her. Even more so since she didn’t let her pride get in the way yesterday. She got down on her knees to prove a point. That I was a bastard, and that she was speaking the truth. I took her purity and knew that in order to fix this, I would need to give her some of my own pride.

  A price beyond anything I’d ever agreed to pay. A security deposit to make sure I could keep my fiancée, not only physically but in the same mental state from prior to our engagement party. The same fiancée who rubbed her soft, little body all over mine in her vegetable garden every evening, gasping in awe every time I “accidentally” touched her clit through the fabric of her dress.

  “Put your hands above your head,” I said, turning around to face her.

  She arched an eyebrow, still staring at the wall.

  “If you continue staring at it, I’ll have to give you a good reason to.”

  “Such as?” I piqued her interest. That was my in.

  “I’m thinking about a life-size portrait of myself.”

  “My idea of a nightmare,” she mumbled.

  “With Sterling standing above my seated figure, holding one of her novels.”

  She bit her lower lip, stifling a smile. “You’re not funny, Senator.”

  “That may be, but I’ll have plenty of time to find your brand of humor. Hands above your head, Nem.”

  She turned her head to look at me, her eyes two pools of misery. Misery I created, adding drops of it every single day I kept her here. I didn’t look away. I faced the result of my sins.

  “I’m still sore.” She was first to break the eye contact, looking down.

  “I know,” I whispered. “I’m asking you to trust me.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “Because if you stop trusting, you’ll end up like me, and that’s a miserable existence.”

  Hesitantly, she curled her fingers around the edge of the headboard. My heart squeezed at the implication of her obedience. She wore the same simple, pastel lilac nightgown that she’d covered herself with yesterday. It rode up her smooth, milky white thighs. I dragged my hand from my knee to her inner thigh, massaging the sensitive area for a few minutes, loosening her bundled muscles. At first, she was as stiff as a stone, but when I moved to the other thigh and she realized I wasn’t going to go anywhere north without her permission, she began to relax under my hands.

  “I won’t hurt you,” I assured her, sliding her underwear gently down her thighs, “in the bedroom,” I finished.

  “You did yesterday,” she pointed out.

  “And I apologize for that. From here on out, I’ll make sure it will always be good for you.”

  “You said you don’t care about making it good for women.”

  I said those words before I nearly raped you.

  Not that I actually did in the eyes of the dry law. She asked for it. She begged for it. Got down on her knees for it. But it was to prove a point. We both knew she didn’t enjoy it. We both knew I took something from her I did not deserve.

  Her eyes met mine as I spread her thighs, sliding my thumbs toward her slit and rubbing circles in the sensitive area near her groin. I did not bow down to anyone, much less a Rossi. But I wasn’t bowing down to Nemesis, I was merely making my own point. That sex was great, if done right, and if both participants were on the same wavelength.

  “Don’t move your hands,” I ordered, my voice hardening with lust. I saw her chest rising and falling in a mix of anticipation and fear. I could work with that. Her legs quivered with adrenaline before I even laid my tongue on her. I slid her nightgown up and tossed it over her shoulder, exposing her pink, coin-like nipples.

  Wretchedly gorgeous.

  Wickedly innocent.

  Irrevocably mine.

  After she was completely exposed to me, I took off my shoes, socks, dress pants, blazer, and dress shirt until I remained with nothing but my black Armani briefs. Another thing I didn’t do often—get naked in front of a woman. Sex wasn’t indulgent. For me, it was an outlet. I rarely fucked my flings in a bed, opting for quickies, and even when I did, it usually didn’t last past my climax. Nemesis stared at my hard-on through my briefs, curiosity and dread swimming in her cerulean eyes.

  “Do you want to see it?”

  She
nodded, blushing. Something inside me burned hot.

  “Would you like to see all of me? You will not have to touch me. Tonight’s all about you.”

  She swallowed, biting the corner of her lower lip. Carefully, I took down my briefs, standing completely naked in front of her. I couldn’t remember the last time that happened and tried reason with myself that the concept of marrying someone forced you into lowering your walls, but that didn’t mean they were going to be broken. There was going to be a lot of bathroom and Jacuzzi and shower and mirror sex in the years to come. It made no difference if she saw me naked today, tomorrow, or in a month. I joined her in her bed and settled between her legs, cupping her cheeks. I lowered myself down to her and kissed her, gently at first, before squeezing her jaw open, wrestling my tongue against hers, licking the corners of her mouth and sucking her lower lip the way that drove her crazy.

  Her muscle memory kicked in instantly, and she remembered all the times before last night. She moaned, responding to my peace offering by removing her hands from the headboard and tracing my jaw with her fingers.

  I took her wrists and placed her hands back on the headboard.

  “Patience, Nem, is a virtue.”

  “Which I don’t have.” She momentarily forgot that she was mad at me, grinning like the sweet teenager she was.

  “Which you’ll have to learn, being the wife of a senator.” I chucked her under the chin—that was my MO—then kissed her again with more abandon, and passion, and fury. She gave in to me completely, and I trailed my kisses down her neck and between her breasts, before taking one of her nipples and sucking it into my mouth. It pebbled between my teeth, and I tugged at it softly enough not to scare her, but her body still jerked in fear. I moved to the other nipple, rubbing the one I’d just sucked with my thumb, and when she braced herself for the same treatment, I licked a pattern around it, blowing cold air on the sensitive, wet skin. She shuddered against me, another groan slipping past her lips.

  Francesca was a tentative woman, and I had no doubt, despite the poor introduction I’d given her to sex, she would be a fast learner.

  I slid my tongue down the center of her chest, dipping it inside her navel, then began to trace wet kisses on her inner thighs and just above her slit. I knew by the patches of faded dry blood marking her thighs that she’d yet to take a shower since yesterday. It seemed fitting that I would lick her better, tasting my own semen on her skin, knowing that it was awfully unhygienic, but that I couldn’t ask her to shower. Not for me. She groaned, thrusting her groin into my face, her knuckles whitening with the strain it put her under not to touch me.

  “Hold still.”

  “Sorry.” Something that sounded a lot like a giggle fell from her luscious lips.

  I loved that she let me do this to her despite the bastard I’d been to her so far. I didn’t find it docile. It showed that she had courage and the guts to face me in bed, after all. I also loved that she was so innocent. Neither waxed nor groomed for sex. I slid my hands to the back of her thighs and grabbed her ass cheeks, elevating her up as I started licking a shallow trace along her slit. It was red and engorged from yesterday, and I hated myself with a passion I usually reserved for her father.

  “You’re delicious,” I said hoarsely.

  “Oh,” she squeaked above me, panting, “this is…wow. Yeah.”

  I slid my tongue between her folds. I hadn’t gone down on a woman in over a decade, but if someone was worth tasting, it was my future wife. Her body coiled a little at first, then loosened as she spread her thighs wider and let me push my tongue all the way in, fighting against the tightness of her pussy. She was tense—not surprising, considering everything she went through yesterday—and still extremely small. The idea of thrusting my fat cock into her again, and soon, made my erection strain against her bloodied linen. I felt it throbbing, my pulse smashing against my balls.

  After a few minutes of licking her, I flicked my tongue in and out of her. She moaned, her body rocking with pleasure as she became looser and less self-conscious. She peeked at me, cracking open one eye. Her hip met my face time after time as she chased my tongue, her nipples so hard, I couldn’t help but play with them simultaneously. I put pressure on her clit, sucking and swirling my tongue around it for long minutes, prolonging her orgasm every time she was close by abandoning her clit and licking at a stain of blood on her inner thigh. After twenty minutes, I decided she could have her climax. I closed my lips on her little nub and sucked it so hard, she screamed. Francesca quaked around my face as her first orgasm shot through her, and her hands left the headboard, finding my hair and yanking at it brutally. I felt the burn in my scalp but didn’t relent. Instead, I reached for my bourbon and fished out an ice cube, sucking the alcohol out of it before sliding it between the sore lips of her pussy as I drew her clit with less ferocity now, sending her into another climax that crashed into her and made her moan so loud the windows nearly rattled.

  There were two more orgasms after that.

  “Can you teach me how to touch a man?” she asked when we were done, and she was propped against the headboard, me beside her, still naked and hard.

  “No,” I deadpanned. “I can teach you how to touch me. Touching other men in this lifetime is not looking good for you, Nem.”

  It was stupid to think about that kid, Angelo, at that moment. The need to make him go away hit me somewhere dark and primal. I spared her the part where he set her up and made me believe that he actually fucked her. She’d had enough of a shitty night yesterday, thanks to yours truly.

  She wrapped the sheets around her body, tapping her chin, as if contemplating whether she should say the next thing.

  “What you saw in the garden…” She hesitated. I wanted to tell her not to bother, but the truth was, I was interested to know what happened. Where they’d both disappeared to.

  “My father pushed me to talk to Angelo. After Bishop approached you, Angelo offered to take the conversation somewhere we didn’t have to shout over other people’s voices. I told him I didn’t hate it here. Which I guess was true until last night. He got upset and walked off. I went upstairs to my room, and on my way up, my cousin told me he slipped into a guestroom with the blonde reporter who was trying to coax Bishop into an interview.”

  Kristen.

  The little witch set me up, and Angelo played along. I wondered if they knew how far I’d go. They were going to pay for that little stunt. Too bad the two assholes were taken with Francesca and myself. They’d make a fitting couple.

  Francesca chewed on a lock of her hair. “My mom was in my room. I’d seen her from the garden, and we talked for a while.”

  Pause.

  “My dad is cheating on her.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I was. Not for her parents. Her mother let me take her daughter away. But for Francesca herself, who had to deal with the fall of her family over a period of a few short weeks.

  “Thank you.”

  There was no trace of hostility in Francesca’s voice. God, she was sweet, and she was all mine. Not just her body but also her words and her courage.

  I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that my future wife’s pussy was going to be on my daily menu from this day forward. I put my glass on her nightstand and turned around to her, pressing a kiss on her forehead.

  “Go eat your dinner, Nem.”

  “I’m not hungry.” She shifted and winced. She was still sore all over, and I made a mental note to have Sterling provide her with a new warm washcloth every night for the next week.

  “You can’t look famished at the wedding,” I retorted.

  She sighed, rolling her eyes. “What’s for dinner?”

  I was still sitting naked next to her, ignoring the vulnerability of my position. Intimacy was too awkward for my liking.

  “Prime rib and sautéed asparagus.”

  She scrunched her nose. “I think I’ll pass.”

  Such a teenager.

  “What do you feel
like eating?”

  “I don’t know, waffles? I don’t normally crave sweet things, but I’ve had the worst day.”

  My nostrils flared. I was such a piece of shit to her.

  “Diner down the road serves them. Thick and fluffy. Come on. We could use the fresh air.”

  “It’s eleven o’clock.” She shifted her gaze to her wristwatch, her teeth sinking to her lower lip with unease.

  “It’s open twenty-four hours.”

  “Uhm. Okay. Together?”

  I grazed her chin. Again. “Yes. Together.”

  “You don’t strike me as a waffle-eating man.”

  “True, but I might eat you for dessert when we come back. It’s been a while since I’ve done that, and quite frankly, pussy has never tasted as good as yours.”

  She reddened in an instant, looking away. “Your compliments are strange.”

  “I am strange.”

  “You are,” she said, munching on her lower lip. “And that’s the part of you I dislike the least.”

  I stood up, casually slipping into my clothes again. Much, much better. Less vulnerability. More barriers. Then something occurred to me.

  “Tomorrow is your first day of college.”

  Of course, Francesca opted to start college a week before her wedding. We were both relieved not to have to plan a sham honeymoon. Back when we had our verbal deal, we could barely pretend to stand each other.

  “Yeah. I’m excited.” She offered me a small smile, scurrying toward her walk-in closet and slipping into one of her dresses.

  “Who’s driving you?”

  She didn’t have a driver’s license, and I hated her parents for never bothering to teach her. She was almost like a tropical fish to them. Gorgeous in her fancy aquarium, but they put no effort into nurturing her.

  “Smithy, of course.”

  Of course. My blood was still making its way from my dick back to my brain.

  “Time?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay,” I repeated. I had absolutely no idea what came over me. Not about the waffles, and not about driving her there. Up until now, I offered her independence only when she asked for it, dangling a demand over her head. If she did this, then she could have that. As we made our way downstairs, I noticed Sterling sitting at the kitchen table, reading a book and smiling. I bet she was quite smug, knowing I’d gone upstairs to get back in my future wife’s good graces. I wiped my mouth, then licked my lips for traces of my fiancée.