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If this was how she responded to chaste kisses on the neck, what kind of reaction did she have in bed?
Stop thinking about her in bed, you tool.
I sank right back, brushing my thumb along her neck as I nuzzled my nose into the crook of it.
“They can see how wet you are for me. It turns them on.”
“Jesus,” she hissed between closed lips.
She was beginning to screw up the notes again. I liked the song better under her fingertips. Less perfect.
More of what I craved—her failure.
“It turns me on, too.”
“Don’t do this,” she breathed, her labored panting making her chest move up and down quickly.
Yet she didn’t do one, simple thing—she didn’t tell me to stop.
“They can watch if they want. You’re not the only exhibitionist in this household, Nem,” I taunted.
“Wolfe,” she warned.
It was the first time she said my name. To me, anyway.
Another wall fell between us.
I wanted to raise it back up, but not as much as I wanted to hurt her for exceeding my expectations.
“Please don’t come on my piano. It would leave a terrible impression in front of our guests. Not to mention, you’d have to lick the seat clean with your tongue.”
She slammed her fingers over the keys just as our guests darted up behind us on cue.
I made it uncomfortable enough for everyone in the room, and the message hit home. They were to retire to their room and stop drooling over my fiancée.
Secretary Hatch, with his wood, and Mrs. Hatch, with her unfortunate choices of charity names and unnaturally stiff hair, bid us adieu for the evening.
“This was quite an evening,” Galia sniffed behind me, arranging her plump figure inside her multi-layered dress.
I spared her husband the humiliation of turning around and catching his erection through his pants. Francesca wasn’t worth tarnishing my work relationship with him.
“A lovely evening.” He cleared his throat, the lust still thick in his voice.
“Darling, say good night to our guests,” I said, still staring down at my future wife with my back to them.
“Good night,” Francesca murmured, not turning around either as my face was still buried in her shoulder.
As soon as the door shut behind them, she jumped up from her seat. I made my way to the door at the same time, disinterested in another third-grade bickering session with a mouthy teenager.
“West wing,” I clipped, my back to her.
“I hate you so much.” She raised her voice behind me, but it remained steady and defiant.
She didn’t kick anything or try to push me like Kristen did. She cut all my clothes without crying about it like a little pussy.
I closed the door on her and walked away. She wasn’t worth a response.
Ten minutes later, I was in my room, undoing my tie. I’d already had my daily quota of alcohol, so I resorted to sipping water, watching the main street out of my window.
