The Kiss Thief(32)

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.

“I’m sure they look lovely together, Papa. I’m also glad I’ll see Angelo around and hear all about his relationship with Emily directly from him.” I inspected my muddy nails casually as if my parents could see me. I paced around the garden, taking a break from potting and fertilizing my radishes. Ms. Sterling was pretending to read in the pavilion next to me, her nose stuck in a historical book as thick as her glasses, but I knew she was eavesdropping. In fact, I figured she’d been snooping every time anyone opened their mouths in the house—cleaners, gardeners, and UPS deliverymen included. I’d be shocked to discover she hadn’t heard our kiss, then our fight when Wolfe shooed me away.

My cheeks heated just thinking about last night. Senator Keaton had yet to leave his room this morning since returning from escorting his guests to his private jet while I was asleep. I’d be content not to see him the remainder of the weekend, month, and the span of my lifetime.

“How do you mean?” my father demanded.

“Why, Papa, I have the best news. My new groom has decided to send me off to college. Northwestern, no less. I’ve already taken a tour, and I’m filling out an application today. He was so supportive of that decision,” I uttered, noticing with satisfaction the thin smile tugging at Ms. Sterling’s lips as her eyes remained on the same page for long minutes. I was sure my father was well aware of the fact that Angelo, too, applied for a masters at Northwestern. He was good at connecting the dots.