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.
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.”
That did it. I stalked over to her, too fast to make her second-guess her next move, buried a hand in her hair, my mouth coming down on hers to shut her up. I wrapped my tie around the back of her neck with my other hand, tugging her toward me and binding us together.
It was a long, violent kiss. Our teeth clashed, her tongue chasing mine first while I plastered her little body against my doors, grinning into her mouth at the fact that her back hit the round handles. Her lips moving against mine confirmed that she was a liar, and her groin bucking against my own cemented the fact she wanted to be fucked badly—she just didn’t like idea of yielding to me. I tightened my grip on the back of her skull, deepening our kiss. She was dazed, and I knew it by the way her hands slid up my chest, cupping my cheeks and drawing me closer to her. It was the same thing she did with Angelo at the wedding. That was how I caught them when I left the restroom. Her hands on his cheeks. In one move, she switched her touch from passionate to intimate. She pulled the tie between us, moaning helplessly into my mouth. I drew back instantly.
Ours is not a love story.
“Leave,” I barked.
“But…” She blinked.
“Leave!” I threw the door open, waiting for her to run away. “I made my point. You made yours. I won. Tuck your tail between your legs and get the hell out, Francesca.”
“Why?” Her eyes widened. She was more embarrassed than hurt, judging by the way she hugged her chest to cover her puckered nipples under her nightgown. She’d never been rejected. But it was her pride, not feelings, which had been wounded.
Because you love another man and are trying to pretend that I am him.
I flashed her a sardonic smile, smacked her butt, and gave her a little push out my door. “You said I taste like a villain, but you taste like the victim. Now, save whatever’s left of your self-worth and leave.”
I slammed the door in her face.
Turned around.
Grabbed the glass of water with the cigarette butt swimming in it.
And threw it out the window.
MY PARENTS WERE NOT GOING to fight for my freedom.
The realization should have struck me sooner, but I clung to that hope like the edge of a cliff. Helplessly, foolishly, humiliatingly.
I called my mother the morning after Wolfe threw me out of his room, telling her about the text messages I’d received from Angelo and about last night’s events. Blush hit my face and neck in uneven patches. Terrible shame gnawed at my gut for acting so carelessly last night. True, we were engaged to be married, but we weren’t a couple. Not really. Technically, it was just a kiss. But I was there, and there was much more to it. More touching. More grinding. More devouring. More feelings I couldn’t pinpoint—far away from love, yet shockingly close to affection.
When my mother heard about Angelo’s texts, she berated me for contemplating answering them. “You’re an engaged woman, Francesca. Please start acting like one.” When my face was so hot with shame I was about to explode, she connected my father to the other line. Together, they informed me, rather tactfully, that Angelo was to attend an upcoming wedding with Emily as his plus one, with my father adding that they’d made a beautiful couple at the Bishop’s wedding. It was in that moment of clarity when I realized that not only was my father not going to claim me, but that perhaps I didn’t want to be claimed by him. The only difference between the monster who currently housed me and the one I’d been born to was that the former made no empty promises or brought me to believe he cared.
They say the devil you know is better than the one that you don’t, but I didn’t feel as though I truly knew my father anymore. His affection apparently depended on the circumstances, and I was to meet each one of his expectations.
Last night’s humiliation, paired with the fact that my mother changed her tune overnight and my father was eager for me to please Wolfe, made me want to rebel.