Stolen Soulmate

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  Now I couldn’t, not when he looked at me with such open, honest eyes.

  Grayson grimaced. “What did she say to you?”

  Oh, darling, you don’t get a choice.

  I looked away. “Nothing. She said something about sleeping in her house…” I quickly looked for something to change the subject. “Which I take to mean you didn’t tell her. You didn’t tell any of them. I’m still your mistress.”

  He gripped my shoulders. “I’m going to tell her.”

  “I’m not going to be the girl you cheat with. I’m not going to be that girl, Grayson. What we did…it can’t happen again. Not until you break it off.”

  “I’m not going to be that guy,” he growled. “I’ll tell her.”

  That didn’t fill me with any happiness, any sort of reassurance. I’d heard a revolving door of men tell my mother that for years.

  I’ll tell her tomorrow.

  It’s not that simple.

  By the weekend we’ll be together.

  I’m leaving her.

  I’d even fallen for it once, with Westley, when he promised to love me.

  He grasped my face. “Why don’t you look happy?”

  “You’re going to tell everyone, just like that?” I asked. “It didn’t work so well for Ms. Abigail.”

  Storm clouds were forming outside the windows, darkening the sunny day into monochrome. Gray sand, iron waves, and chilly air. He grasped my waist, pulling me close. I knew I should push him away, but I missed him. I ached for him.

  “I don’t want to fuck you in secret,” he said. “I want to fuck you in my bed. I want to wake up next to you, Story. Smell you in my sheets.”

  He trailed his nose along my neck.

  “You’ve corrupted my soul completely.” He pulled back, forcing me to feel the earnestness in his soul. “I don’t feel without you.” He ran his nose up and down my neck, voice warbled, raw. “Let me say sorry to you. Let me say sorry to you over and over again until you say I’ve fixed it.” He stoked fire with his fingers, up and down my arm, along the inside of my waist, short and quick and debilitating.

  When he lifted his head, his blue eyes pulsed. “I won’t let you go, Story Hale.”

  But that was what I’m afraid of…and the consequences hung ready to pop like the rain about to fall.

  He stepped back, giving me his hand. “You hungry?”

  Forty-Four

  GRAYSON

  * * *

  “When I said yes, I thought you meant like…down the street,” Story said, eyes wide. “Not out of the country!”

  I shrugged. “You’re hungry, you like Italian.”

  “Yeah, but Italy?”

  She needed a break. We both needed a break, and after visiting Woodsy and taking him back to Crowne Hall, the doctor assured me nothing would happen over the weekend.

  Still, I had someone watching him.

  Snitch hadn’t stopped staring out the window, nose pressed to the glass, and I hadn’t stopped watching her. Her wonder was mesmerizing. When we’d taken my family trip, not once had she been like this. Because then she’d been restrained.

  Uncertain.

  Hiding parts of herself.

  I never wanted to go back to before.

  Honesty, always, between us.

  I captured her chin, bringing her face back to mine. I stroked her chin softly, thumb to jaw. “It’s nothing, Story. I’m Gray Crowne. I can make the world stop turning.”

  “If the world stops turning, it ends,” she whispered, a darkness clouding her gaze. Something was off, and I had a feeling it had to do with whatever my mother said.

  “So fucking what? I’ll move the earth for you, Story. I’ll make the sky fall.”

  She touched my chest, my beating heart. “And you would be the one cut by the jagged blue pieces.”

  What kind of fucking torture is it to wait years to fuck, to wait until you’ve found someone who won’t rip you to shreds, to finally find that girl, and then not be able to have her?

  “I don’t fucking care.” I gripped her closer.

  She twisted her lips into an adorable pout. Anytime she had that fucking pout on her lips it just made me want to bite them, which was pretty fucking distracting, considering I’d just promised to obey the boundaries we’d set.

  “Tell me where you want to go first,” I said, voice rough.

  She took a deep breath, then exhaled a blinding smile. “Can we get spaghetti?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, Snitch, we can get all the spaghetti.”

  Five different restaurants and I don’t know how many bowls of spaghetti later, we were back at the Crowne Hotel penthouse.

  “I’m full,” Story said, clutching her stomach as she flopped onto a plush rug on the ground. The penthouse had a three-sixty view of downtown Rome, and St. Peter’s Basilica was aglow atop the twinkling lights.

  I arched a brow. “I didn’t think it was possible.”

  She stretched her arms above her head. The white blouse she was wearing came loose from her dark skirt, exposing a thin stretch of skin. She was so unaware of her effect on me. Of how sexy she looked, just lying on the rug.

  I got to my knees, crawling beside her.

  She rolled on her stomach, smiling. “It’s possible. It just takes a few bowls of spaghetti.”

  I slid a hand under the thick cotton material of her skirt. For a moment I felt I was back in fucking boarding school, sliding my hands beneath those pleated skirts—but even the skirts at Rosey were shorter than this.

  She gasped. “Y-You said we wouldn’t do it again.”

  I loved her stutter almost as much as I love the raspy voice it came from.

  I slid my hands farther up her thigh, just beneath the swell of her ass. “We’re in a different country.”

  She laughed, burrowing her face into the rug. “Is this an episode of Friends? The rules still count.”

  “Do they?”

  I rounded the swell of her ass with my palm, bruising the tender flesh before gripping and spreading her. She sighed and I kissed her shoulder, kissed the fabric there.

  “Once we get back, I’ll call it off.”

  “Well…then…” She arched as I slid a finger between her cheeks. “When that happens…we can…”

  “Fuck, Story.” I groaned. “I’m going to mark you everywhere. Would you like that?”

  She nodded, letting me use a finger to probe the hole.

  “You want me inside your tight ass?”

  She groaned into the furry fibers of the rug.

  “Let me fuck you in the ass. Even the Catholic church says it doesn’t count.”

  She giggled.

  That fucking giggle.

  “I don’t think that’s true,” she said, voice so fucking husky.

  I pressed gently, just enough for her to feel the pressure, and her sharp inhale had me rigid, rock hard.

  “Shouldn’t you take it slow, Mr. Grayson?” she asked. “You did just lose your virginity. I don’t want you to pull a muscle.”

  She twisted, head on her shoulder, so I could see her bright grin. I loved her smile. Seeing it has only made me realize how bereft I’ve been without it. I’d do anything to keep it on her lips.

  In one motion I was on top of her, caging her. “Oh, you got more jokes now?”

  Still she smiled, eyes bright on me.

  “What about a kiss? It doesn’t count if it’s not on the lips, right?” I kissed her neck, her jaw.

  “Or what about here? Does it count if it’s over the shirt?” I palmed her tit, and her lips found my jaw, soft and wet and hot.

  “What if it’s under the shirt?” she asked, unbuttoning the first few buttons, leaving her breast exposed.

  I groaned, palming, bruising, gripping her breast.

  “Dirty nun.” I bit her jaw, her ear. “So fucking dirty.”

  “Grayson…”

  “Fuck, say it again. Love my name on your lips.”

  But then my eyes found hers, swir
ling with fear. I stopped, lifted myself up enough to give her space.

  I traced my knuckles down her jaw. “What, little nun?”

  “I don’t want us to be something that only exists in the dark, in the cracks, in the places people don’t want to look or talk about.”

  Her tit was out and all I wanted to do was suck it, take it into my mouth, fuck her until her voice was hoarse from screaming my name.

  I stood up, running my hand through my hair, getting my fucking cock under control.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t fucking apologize,” I said, spinning. “Don’t ever apologize for saying no.” I closed the distance, getting down on my knees.

  “I didn’t say no.”

  “You may as well have.”

  A small smile speared her lips, then dropped. “Aren’t you mad? You looked upset.”

  “I’m not mad.” I grinned and pushed the hair out of her face. “It’s just torture to stay in a room alone with you.”

  “So what do we do?” she asked.

  “We have Italy to explore.”

  STORY

  * * *

  “Closed till February of next year?”

  I turned around, lips pushed in a pout. His eyes dropped to them, dark. Dark like earlier when we’d almost broken rules that hadn’t even had a chance to dry.

  I shifted. “What?”

  “Nothing.” His voice was hoarse. “So, you wanna see the Sistine Chapel?”

  “It’s closed.” I threw a thumb over my shoulder at the sign.

  He arched a brow, then rolled his eyes, grabbing my hand and dragging me from what I learned was a public entrance cough peasant’s entrance cough. Because all it took for Grayson to get us in was an expertly placed wad of cash in the hands of someone with the right key. I didn’t even try to count how many bills, but the denominations were high.

  “What if we get caught?” I whispered, looking over my shoulder, where the Rome night silhouetted the man counting his new cash.

  “That’s what the rest of the cash is for.”

  My eyes bugged, and he laughed. “Come on, little nun. Let’s go.” He tugged me harder, forcing my eyes forward.

  I stopped short, tilting my head back, frozen in awe. So many colors, so many scenes, it would take months, maybe years, to decipher them all. The murals were bathed in a warm glow. Somehow, it felt even more secret, more special.

  “Wow,” I finally managed.

  Grayson wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest. I pulled his hand, tracing his ring finger, staring at the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

  “Do you know why engagement rings are worn on the ring finger?” I felt him shake his head. “Ancient Greeks thought that finger contained the vena amoris, or the ‘vein of love’ that ran straight to the heart.”

  His voice grated when he spoke. “I always thought engagement rings were a bit too ephemeral.”

  “So you’d want, like, a tattoo?”

  “Something like that…Did you know Michelangelo hated painting this so much he wrote a poem?”

  I gasped. “What? No!”

  His smile warmed my cheek. “I think the first line went something like…I’ve already grown a goiter from this torture.”

  I laughed, then focused again on the masterpiece above me. Torture. It had been torture for him, but wow, people traveled from all over the world to see it.

  It was in history books.

  “Hmm…I guess some good things come from torture.”

  He pulled me tighter, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Anything else you want? Would you like to sneak into the Colosseum? Whatever you want, I’ll get it for you.”

  My stomach did a pancake at his words.

  “What if I wanted the moon?”

  He sighed. “I’d at least like a challenge, Story.”

  I laughed and he groaned into my neck.

  “Are you…” I trailed off. I could feel him hard against my back. “I only laughed!”

  He buried his face into my neck. “I want to kiss you. I want to taste you until my taste buds groan.” His lips moved against my neck with his words, so close to a kiss, but not quite right. Goose bumps rose along my skin.

  “I want to eat you until your voice is broken from screaming.” His breath heated my skin, a whisper, a promise, lips not kissing but the promise sending tingles.

  “I want to fuck you until you can’t walk.”

  He slid his hand under my jacket, on the bare skin, just beneath my breast.

  Skirting a dangerous line that I wanted to cross.

  He spun me around, so I stared into his earnest eyes. “Let me hold you tonight. Just hold you, nothing more. I promise.”

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  He gave me a wicked, curling grin. I couldn’t stop staring. It was so beautiful. So bright. Like the sun had come out after a year of unrelenting storms. This was Grayson Crowne, the rose without the thorns, the boy without the heavy armor, Atlas freed.

  He arched a brow. “You’re staring.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile. Not really.”

  He closed his lips, but the smile stayed, and the warmth in his eyes. The softness. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted this moment to be different, for us to not be strangled by circumstance.

  “This has been the most amazing, magical dream of my life,” I said. “I don’t want to wake up.”

  He pushed the hair behind my ear, hand staying. “You don’t have to.”

  I woke to a pair of pants in the face.

  “We have to go,” Grayson said.

  He tossed more clothes at me, some of them not mine. I looked outside. It was still dark. Only a few hours, if even that, had passed. Grayson scrambled around the penthouse, dimly lit by one desk light and the glittering sea outside.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “The Crowne papers came out,” he said absently.

  “They have that in Italy?” I wondered.

  Gray made a face. “I get them delivered everywhere I go. If you don’t own them, know them…” He said the last part absently, almost like they weren’t his own words.

  He dropped the papers on the foot of the bed, reaching for phones I didn’t even know he’d brought. He must’ve had five cell phones, and they were all going off. Grayson looked like he’d been hit with a bomb. I wondered what could have been so terrible. A terrorist attack? Something with Crowne Industries?

  While Gray frantically buttoned up his shirt, a cell phone on either shoulder, I reached for the paper.

  ABIGAIL CROWNE ELOPES WITH MYSTERY BODYGUARD.

  “You let her fucking leave?” Gray said into one phone, then snapped into the other phone, “Don’t. They aren’t related.”

  When the calls ended, Gray sat down on the edge of the bed, his tie undone. “What the fuck is she thinking?”

  “She loved him.”

  He lifted his head at my voice, staring out at the inky Roman morning. “I always thought he was a dog who wanted to use her. Who wanted her money.”

  “People would probably think the same about me,” I said lightly.

  He tensed.

  “You were protecting her.”

  He made a noise like yeah right. It was so hard for Grayson to admit he cared. So hard. Grayson Crowne, who said he hated his sisters, who pretended he couldn’t give a shit what happened to either one, so painfully obviously grieved the loss of her.

  “Now?” I hedged. “What do you think about him now?”

  He dragged two hands through his hair. “I don’t know. She’s gonna lose everything.”

  “Can you help?”

  “Are you trying to make me a good guy, Story Hale?”

  “You already are a good guy.”

  Another scoff, disbelief evident in the way he refused to look at me and simply stared out the window.

  “I’ve decided you care about your family,” I said.

  “Oh, you�
�ve decided.”

  “Yep.”

  He laughed, dark, unamused.

  “You’re just doing that Gray thing where you care so much about something that instead of admit you care, you do the opposite. You’re cruel. Because if you lose it, it might not hurt as much.”

  “That ‘Gray thing.’” He shook his head on another scoff, and for a minute I was certain he was going to push me away again, but then he looked over his shoulder, locking eyes. Voice too thick, eyes too raw, bleeding, cutting. “How do you know?”

  Because maybe that’s what he does with me…

  I chewed my lip, looking away.

  “Just a guess,” I whispered.

  For the rest of the trip home Gray didn’t look at me, nor I him.

  Forty-Five

  STORY

  * * *

  We weren’t even off the plane before Grayson was pulled in all directions. He was dragged from the steps by an army of people in suits as his mother orbited.

  I slowly finished the descent alone. Grayson kept whipping his head from one person to the next. I wondered if his neck would ache.

  Abigail Crowne had left Crowne Hall, left her fiancé, left her family. She’d chosen her love, but now she was excommunicated. It was like the universe knew I was starting to hope and dream, and they threw a meteor-sized reminder back at me.

  Grayson Crowne was Atlas, and if he left, the world around him would shatter. The company would fall apart, people would lose their jobs, his family would crumble.

  But for these few days it was nice to pretend.

  Grayson lifted his head, rose gold hair silky and shimmering against the thundering sky, searching for something.

  His eyes landed on me.

  He pushed aside his mother and grandfather. Pushed through the small army of people. Until he was before me.

  “What are you doing?”

  He grabbed me by the waist, ripping me to him, planting a furious breath-and-mind stealing kiss.

  “I’m telling her,” he said, breaking our kiss. I blinked, dazed. I’d fisted my hands in his shirt. “This doesn’t change shit, Snitch. Go visit Woodsy or something. But don’t go anywhere. Wait for me.”