The Kiss Thief(90)

Three hours after he’d left the house, my husband was seen with a gorgeous brunette on his arm. She was wearing my favorite Valentino dress and a proud smile.

Screw you, Wolfe.

Her eyes were bigger and bluer and deeper. They saw and knew things I could hardly even imagine. She was taller and considerably more beautiful. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder, smiling dreamingly as their photo was taken, staring directly to the camera. Flirting with it. Loving it back. And, as my husband looked down at her, his cold mercury eyes darkening with lust, I knew what I had to do even before I’d read the caption under their image.

Senator Wolfe Keaton (30) and prima ballerina Karolina Ivanova (28) were seen spending time together at a local gala. Keaton, who was married to Francesca Rossi (19) this summer, is currently in the midst of a scandal after his young wife was seen kissing a childhood friend on the grounds of Northwestern University earlier this afternoon.

Frantic, I checked for more pictures. More items. More tweets about my husband and his lady friend. The entire world saw them together now. We were officially over. Only it was never my intention to humiliate him. I understood how bad it looked, but it was just one kiss. A moment of weakness.

Not that it mattered.

It was no longer about me, and I knew it.

Wolfe was a loose cannon. Angry and vindictive and full of hate. And I had my baby to think about. I packed up a suitcase and called my mother, informing Smithy in a text message that he needed to take me back home to Little Italy.

I saw him texting Wolfe frantically in the car as I pushed my bags out the door, braving the drizzle and the chilly, autumn night.

By the way he banged his head against the headrest, his messages were left unanswered.





I SAT ON THE EDGE of the king-sized bed of the hotel room and took another sip of whiskey. I wasn’t hungover, simply because I never stopped drinking throughout the night. I was still blissfully drunk, though the dull heartache had been replaced with a persistent headache that pressed against my eyes and nose.

This was the first time in a decade I’d drank more than the customary two tumblers in one evening.

The moan behind me reminded me that I wasn’t alone. Karolina stretched along the bed on a yawn, allowing the sunrays drifting through the tall French windows to cast a natural light that complemented the soft curves of her face.

“Feeling better?” she murmured, hugging the pillow to her chest, her eyelids still heavy with sleep. I stood up and sauntered across the room toward my phone and wallet on the dresser, still fully dressed. As I checked their contents—and her bag, to make sure she didn’t put a recorder in there or took any pictures she shouldn’t have been taking—I pondered the question, why the hell couldn’t I bring myself to fuck Karolina last night?

The opportunity was there, and she was willing to jump into my bed. I could not, however, get myself to be with her, though not because of my feelings toward my wife, God forbid, but simply because I lacked the basic need to want to fuck Karolina.

As lovely and gorgeous as she was, and as happy as I was to spend the night in her hotel room and not drag myself back home, I had no interest in touching her.

The woman I wanted to be inside was my wife. My wife, who could not, for the life of her, get rid of her fixation with Angelo fucking Bandini.

I tucked my wallet and phone into my pocket and left the room without saying goodbye. It was better that way. Ms. Ivanova shouldn’t seek me out again. There wasn’t going to be a second time to this. I was not at all opposed to parading mistresses on my arm until my wife died of jealousy and fury—at this point, I cared very little about what it’d do to my name—but touching them, really touching them, was not in the cards for me, apparently.

No matter. Francesca would still warm up my nights. She couldn’t deny this attraction, not with the way she hoovered my cock into her mouth every morning and chased my shaft every time I slammed into her from behind. She wanted this as much as I did. She was going to get more of it, all right. Sans the part where I let my guard down.

I arrived at the house at around ten in the morning and immediately went to her room, but it was empty. I glanced at the garden outside her window. Empty, too. Going through every room in the house, I mentally checked all the boxes. Kitchen? No. Master bedroom? No. Piano room? No. I dialed Sterling’s number, barking at her to come back home. She needed to help me look for my missing bride, though there weren’t many places she could go.

I checked my phone again. Two messages from Smithy.

Smithy: Your wife asked to go back home.

Smithy: She’s technically my boss. I have to take her. I’m sorry.

After summoning my housekeeper, I went upstairs, back to Francesca’s room, tearing it apart. Now that she was gone, I needed to see for myself if she meant business or not. The closet was missing all her favorite items, and her toothbrush and photo albums and horse-riding gear were gone, too. The wooden box, which I’d destroyed yesterday, was nowhere to be found.

She wasn’t going to come back anytime soon.

All the things she valued were missing.

She left just as she said she would. I hadn’t given her enough credit. Figured she was going to brave the night and talk to me the next morning. It was, after all, understandable that I’d avenged her fierce kiss on Northwestern’s lawn—followed by hours of her being MIA and in a hotel with Angelo—with the same token of humiliation. Of course, my wife was anything but obedient. Instead of snapping, she grew more of a backbone.