Fake Empire(22)

“I didn’t think you were the superstitious type. Or particularly sentimental.” Crew says the words casually, before slipping his hands in his pockets. He looks relaxed. Completely at ease about what is about to happen between us, and it loosens the tight knot in my chest some.

“I don’t want our first kiss to be out there.” I blurt the statement, which is really more of a request.

Something about today—the dress and the dreaminess and the date itself—has led me to the very real realization today is my wedding. In all likelihood, I’ll never have another. I’ll be married to this man for the rest of my life. And I’ve never even kissed him.

Should it bother me? Probably not.

But it does.

Something akin to amusement settles in his face. “Is that so?”

It’s tempting to back down, but I don’t. “Yes.” I study him, trying to get a read on what he’s thinking. Feeling. I come up blank. He’s as effusive as an empty page. “You were basically begging to kiss me a few weeks ago,” I remind him of our moment in the library.

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face, as if that memory is a fond one rather than a frustrating one. “I remember.”

“So?” I’m growing impatient. Annoyed. Why can’t anything between us be straightforward?

“Do you?”

“Do I what?” I’m rapidly regretting this entire idea. He’s right; it’s not like me. Maybe this marriage won’t last, and it’ll never matter anyway.

“Remember.”

My spine straightens like it was just injected with lead as the implication hits. “You can’t be serious.”

Crew tilts his head to the left, showing off the sharp line of his jaw. It tightens as his expression turns daring. “Beg me, and I’ll kiss you, Scarlett.”

“You’re…” I search for the right insult and come up short. “I can’t believe you.”

“I warned you, baby.”

“You’re just pissed I hurt your pride.”

Crew doesn’t respond, but a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Begging is not happening. I’m not that desperate. See you on the altar, baby.” The nickname holds no sentimentality, only mocking.

He doesn’t move. There’s a long, heavy silence. Weighted down by second guessing and appraisals and regrets. “Ask me.”

“Ask you what?”

“Ask me to kiss you, Scarlett. Isn’t that what this conversation has been about?”

Honestly, I’ve lost track. It’s become a push and pull—a battle of wills. Each of us feeling out what we’re willing to give up. What we won’t agree to concede on. “I don’t ask for things, either. I take them.”

“So do I.”

We stare at each other, at a stalemate. I want to kiss him. Badly. I’ve never wanted to erase the distance between my lips and someone else’s more. He wants to kiss me. Just as badly, if his tense posture is any indication.

Pride keeps me in place. He doesn’t move either.

“I need to finish getting ready.” I say it softly. A fact, not a foot out the door. I’m not backing down. I’m not giving him an excuse.

Crew releases an exasperated sigh, like some major inconvenience is taking place. I’m expecting him to turn and leave. Instead, he approaches me with the conviction of a conquering king, diminishing the few feet separating us with a couple of long strides. He cups my face, his fingers brushing my cheeks, as he tilts my head back and forces my gaze to meet his. “Tell me,” he demands.

I question him with my eyes, tempted to sway into his touch. I’m losing ground, and I blame his close proximity for encroaching. It’s hard to think—to breathe—when he’s touching me.

“Tell me to kiss you, Scarlett.” His thumb traces my bottom lip.

Goosebumps rise on my skin. Shivers race down my spine.

He’s compromising. Ceding. It prompts a heady rush of power. I didn’t capitulate—he did. With anyone else, I’d perceive it as weakness. But this doesn’t make me think less of Crew—it makes me want him more.

“Kiss me.”

The e is still hovering in the air between us when he complies. His lips crash against mine, demanding and urgent and commanding. The hands gripping my face are gentle. His mouth is anything but. The wet heat of his tongue invades my mouth, forcing a moan out.

Crew Kensington tastes like whiskey and mint. Sin and seduction. Pleasure and power. And this is exactly why I told him no in the library—I knew we would be this combustible. I knew if I let him, he’d burn me. Consume me.

I can respect him.

I can explore my attraction to him.

I just can’t care about him.

Success isn’t built on good intentions and consideration of others.

His lips leave mine. Too soon. I want to kiss him until I’m out of oxygen. I want to relish the way he makes me forget this is fake.

When I open my eyes, he’s staring straight at me. I have no idea what to say, how to reconcile who we were before and who we are after that kiss. A distinction I didn’t think I’d have to make before saying I do. That’s when before and after were supposed to start. I’m realizing, as my lips tingle and my pulse pounds, it might have started a long time ago.