“People expect a show, so we’ll give them one,” she went on as she pinned her hair into a neat bun. “But I’m sticking to the script. Nothing more. I won’t let this be a media circus.”
My own hair hung in a loose ponytail, also at Michelle’s request. She said I needed to look a little younger than my eighteen years, to emphasize that I was the senator’s daughter. We needed to look similar, but not too similar. His surviving family, grieving in quiet dignity.
She’d worn simple diamond studs in her ears and a platinum bracelet my father had given her. I wanted to wear my wedding rings, but Michelle had vetoed the engagement ring.
“The diamond is too big,” she’d said sympathetically. “Beautiful, but that means it’ll catch the eye. We don’t want people distracted by your wealth, or Stefan’s. Just wear the band.”
I agreed, and once we were in the private car taking us to the church, I asked Stefan to hang on to the ring for safekeeping.
“We won’t wail or carry on,” Michelle was saying. It was her mantra. “We can be sad, but not overly emotional. A few tears, at the most, and we’ll save them for the funeral itself.”
“We’ll do our best,” I told her gently. “And I’m sure it will be fine, either way.”
I knew to anyone else, my stepmom’s words might seem cold or unkind, but I was grateful for them. And while I doubted I’d actually break down crying in front of the press and all my father’s political connections—my tears were private, and I’d excuse myself if it really came down to it—I was glad Michelle was laying out some guidelines to follow. I also took comfort knowing that I could watch her at any point during the day and follow her lead.
The second we pulled up outside the church, her eyes began to well with tears again. I watched her take a deep breath, dab her eyes with a tissue, and then carefully touch up her face.
“Here goes nothing.” She snapped her compact shut and straightened her shoulders.
As soon as the driver opened our door, the flashbulbs started. Just like she’d said.
Standing next to Michelle inside the church doors to greet people and have them sign the guestbook, I realized how grateful I was for my stepmother. The past week she’d been a constant source of support, and I was so glad to have her at my side. I couldn’t imagine going through this without her.
Once we got home to the condo, I’d expected to climb into bed and pass right out, but now that I was lying in bed in just my slip, my mind and heart wouldn’t stop churning with emotions. I wasn’t ready to deal with any of them.
As drained as I was in every possible way, though, I was too sad and anxious to sleep. I needed something to distract me. To make me feel good. Or at least feel anything other than this overwhelming grief that stole up on me every single night when things got quiet.
Sitting in the church had been the hardest part. So many people had spoken, but their speeches all seemed to blend together. I was glad no one had requested that Michelle or I speak; it seemed a given that we would be too distraught to say anything. I hadn’t been able to stop staring at my father’s casket the entire time. It was black and gleaming under the lights of the church, at least the parts of it that weren’t covered in beautiful white flowers. But it was still a box. It seemed so…final. The thought of him in there…
I was crying when Stefan entered our bedroom with a tea tray for me. He’d brought me my favorite chamomile blend, I could tell by the smell wafting from the steaming cup.
“Tori,” he said gently, setting the tray down and taking me in his arms. “Let it out.”
But now that he was holding me, I found that I didn’t want to cry anymore.
We’d slept in my childhood bed every night for the last week in Springfield, but it had all been chaste—Stefan pulling me close and rocking me when I fell apart after long days dealing with the funeral home or my father’s staff—and my body was hungry for more.
I didn’t want to be held or stroked or touched tenderly. I wanted to be fucked. To be completely diverted from my feelings and to have my husband take me the way I wanted to be taken. Hard. Rough. Relentless.
When I slid my hand down inside his boxer briefs to wrap my hand around him, my pulse sped up. My husband was so gorgeous. It made my mouth water just feeling his cock in my grip.
“You’re exhausted,” he said, gently moving my hand.
“No,” I told him. “I want you.”
It was obvious that he wanted me too, judging by the fact that he was already hard, but still, he shook his head.
“I don’t expect this, kitty cat,” he said. “Let me tuck you in and I’ll hold you.”
I got up off the bed to slowly pull my slip over my head, then let it drop to the floor. As I slid my panties off I locked eyes with him. Soon I was wearing only my thigh high stockings.
“You’re beautiful,” Stefan breathed. “But—”
“Shh.” I came toward him, putting my finger over his lips. “I don’t want to be held,” I told him. “I want to be fucked. I want to be touched and tasted and dominated.”
Desire sparked in his gaze, and I crawled onto the bed and pressed my mouth to his. He instantly opened to me, and as we kissed I let my hands trail down his shoulders, raking his abs with my fingernails, stroking him through the fabric of his briefs.
I needed to feel connected, needed an outlet for the complex feelings roiling inside me.
