Fake Empire(27)

Her taste hits my system like a drug. Something about Scarlett—her prickliness, her beauty, the fact she’s my wife—sharpens sensations. I can’t recall the last time I kissed someone else, expecting it to go no further. That’s the only way I’ve kissed Scarlett. I pay attention to things I normally wouldn’t, not distracted by flying clothes or finding the nearest hard surface.

She smells like lilac and tastes like champagne. Her warm curves crush against me as she deepens the kiss. I slide my hands down her back and settle them on her hips, tugging her closer even though there’s nowhere to go. We’re already pressed as tight together as two people can be.

If the hem wasn’t out of reach, I’d pull up her dress and slide a hand between her thighs. Instead, I journey back north, cupping her left breast and confirming she’s not wearing a bra. She moans my name and the sound ricochets around my insides.

This was supposed to be a tease—a preview of what she’s missing out on tonight by choosing to fly across the Atlantic. It’s turned into torture. She’s affected, but so am I. Rock hard and desperate.

Scarlett pulls back first. I let her move away, watching as she straightens her dress and smooths the fabric. I want her—badly. I’ve never been this affected by a woman before. If she wasn’t a former Ellsworth turned Kensington, wasn’t my wife, I’d tell her exactly how much. Describe exactly what I want to do to her.

Hell, I’m tempted to do it anyway. But then she smirks—triumphantly, knowingly. And I’m reminded of just how far out of my depth I am with her.

“You want nothing from me, Scarlett?” I pose it like a question, but it’s a taunt.

“Nothing,” she reiterates. Her voice is as resolute as it was on the dancefloor, but there’s no empty edge this time. There’s a teasing lilt that calls out my lack of indifference but also tells me there’s at least one thing she wants from me.

Before either of us can say anything else, Sienna appears and herds us toward the front of the hotel. She’s talking a mile a minute, relaying details I don’t care about. I gather the gist is the walk we’re about to make to a waiting limo.

A smaller hand slips into mine right before we reach the doors. I have no idea when the last time I held hands with someone was. This shouldn’t count. We’re the main event in an elaborate show, and this is just one piece of the choreography. But for a few seconds, the warm press of her palm is all I can focus on.

The doors open to a dazzling display of light and sound. A literal carpet—white, not red—has been rolled from the entrance of the hotel to our waiting car. Small potted trees strung with twinkling lights separate the pathway from guests tossing flower petals.

I force a wide smile onto my face. A glance at Scarlett shows she’s beaming just as bright and false.

Our families are waiting by the limo. Cameras flash as I shake my dad’s hand and hug Candace. I watch as Scarlett hugs her mom and gets a kiss on the cheek from her father. Like a dutiful husband, I help her into the back before climbing into the car myself.

“New dress just for the car ride?” I ask as the limo begins to move.

“You expected me to fly six hours with a five-foot train?”

“I didn’t give any thought to the clothes you’re wearing, actually.”

She raises one eyebrow.

I raise one back. “Do you have anything on underneath?”

There’s a glimpse of amusement before her expression shutters to blank. “Something you’d see—if we got married for real.”

I get what she means, that we’re not the traditional love story. We didn’t meet at Harvard, bonding over a harsh professor at a study group. We didn’t date for years. I didn’t propose on a rooftop covered with flowers and pop a bottle of prosecco. But… “We are married for real, Scarlett.”

She tilts her head to stare out the window instead of replying.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re pulling up to the private terminal of JFK.

“Bye.” That’s all she says before climbing out.

I watch from behind the tinted glass as she talks to the driver for a minute before an attendant comes over to retrieve her bags. She has three of them, which makes me realize I never asked how long she would be gone for.

The driver gets back into the car. Scarlett heads inside the airport. And the limo pulls back into the busy traffic.

When it stops for a second time, outside a building on Park Avenue, I’m confused. Then, I realize where I am. I step outside into the humid air and walk into Scarlett’s lobby. It’s expensive and minimalistic. The space is mostly black with gold accents. There’s one desk, which a man with gray hair is standing behind. He gives me a respectful nod as I pass.

I use the plastic card Scarlett gave me to call the elevator and then type in the code I memorized.

She was right. Her place is nicer than mine.

I step out of the elevator. The far wall is mostly glass, showing off the terrace that spans the full length of the building, overlooking Central Park and the Reservoir.

The floor plan is mostly open, the spectacular view uninterrupted. There’s a neat formation of white couches and a gleaming black Steinway sitting in the corner. I walk deeper, discovering the formal dining room, a living room, the library, a study, and then the kitchen.

Finished touring the downstairs, I walk upstairs, peeking into each room as I go. There are eight bedrooms, one of them Scarlett’s. My bags and boxes have all been stacked in the corner of the bedroom farthest from hers.