I loved that she let me do this to her despite the bastard I’d been to her so far. I didn’t find it docile. It showed that she had courage and the guts to face me in bed, after all. I also loved that she was so innocent. Neither waxed nor groomed for sex. I slid my hands to the back of her thighs and grabbed her ass cheeks, elevating her up as I started licking a shallow trace along her slit. It was red and engorged from yesterday, and I hated myself with a passion I usually reserved for her father.

“You’re delicious,” I said hoarsely.

“Oh,” she squeaked above me, panting, “this is…wow. Yeah.”

I slid my tongue between her folds. I hadn’t gone down on a woman in over a decade, but if someone was worth tasting, it was my future wife. Her body coiled a little at first, then loosened as she spread her thighs wider and let me push my tongue all the way in, fighting against the tightness of her pussy. She was tense—not surprising, considering everything she went through yesterday—and still extremely small. The idea of thrusting my fat cock into her again, and soon, made my erection strain against her bloodied linen. I felt it throbbing, my pulse smashing against my balls.

After a few minutes of licking her, I flicked my tongue in and out of her. She moaned, her body rocking with pleasure as she became looser and less self-conscious. She peeked at me, cracking open one eye. Her hip met my face time after time as she chased my tongue, her nipples so hard, I couldn’t help but play with them simultaneously. I put pressure on her clit, sucking and swirling my tongue around it for long minutes, prolonging her orgasm every time she was close by abandoning her clit and licking at a stain of blood on her inner thigh. After twenty minutes, I decided she could have her climax. I closed my lips on her little nub and sucked it so hard, she screamed. Francesca quaked around my face as her first orgasm shot through her, and her hands left the headboard, finding my hair and yanking at it brutally. I felt the burn in my scalp but didn’t relent. Instead, I reached for my bourbon and fished out an ice cube, sucking the alcohol out of it before sliding it between the sore lips of her pussy as I drew her clit with less ferocity now, sending her into another climax that crashed into her and made her moan so loud the windows nearly rattled.

There were two more orgasms after that.

“Can you teach me how to touch a man?” she asked when we were done, and she was propped against the headboard, me beside her, still naked and hard.

“No,” I deadpanned. “I can teach you how to touch me. Touching other men in this lifetime is not looking good for you, Nem.”

It was stupid to think about that kid, Angelo, at that moment. The need to make him go away hit me somewhere dark and primal. I spared her the part where he set her up and made me believe that he actually fucked her. She’d had enough of a shitty night yesterday, thanks to yours truly.

She wrapped the sheets around her body, tapping her chin, as if contemplating whether she should say the next thing.

“What you saw in the garden…” She hesitated. I wanted to tell her not to bother, but the truth was, I was interested to know what happened. Where they’d both disappeared to.

“My father pushed me to talk to Angelo. After Bishop approached you, Angelo offered to take the conversation somewhere we didn’t have to shout over other people’s voices. I told him I didn’t hate it here. Which I guess was true until last night. He got upset and walked off. I went upstairs to my room, and on my way up, my cousin told me he slipped into a guestroom with the blonde reporter who was trying to coax Bishop into an interview.”

Kristen.

The little witch set me up, and Angelo played along. I wondered if they knew how far I’d go. They were going to pay for that little stunt. Too bad the two assholes were taken with Francesca and myself. They’d make a fitting couple.

Francesca chewed on a lock of her hair. “My mom was in my room. I’d seen her from the garden, and we talked for a while.”

Pause.

“My dad is cheating on her.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I was. Not for her parents. Her mother let me take her daughter away. But for Francesca herself, who had to deal with the fall of her family over a period of a few short weeks.

“Thank you.”

There was no trace of hostility in Francesca’s voice. God, she was sweet, and she was all mine. Not just her body but also her words and her courage.

I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that my future wife’s pussy was going to be on my daily menu from this day forward. I put my glass on her nightstand and turned around to her, pressing a kiss on her forehead.

“Go eat your dinner, Nem.”

“I’m not hungry.” She shifted and winced. She was still sore all over, and I made a mental note to have Sterling provide her with a new warm washcloth every night for the next week.

“You can’t look famished at the wedding,” I retorted.

She sighed, rolling her eyes. “What’s for dinner?”

I was still sitting naked next to her, ignoring the vulnerability of my position. Intimacy was too awkward for my liking.

“Prime rib and sautéed asparagus.”

She scrunched her nose. “I think I’ll pass.”

Such a teenager.

“What do you feel like eating?”

“I don’t know, waffles? I don’t normally crave sweet things, but I’ve had the worst day.”

My nostrils flared. I was such a piece of shit to her.

“Diner down the road serves them. Thick and fluffy. Come on. We could use the fresh air.”

“It’s eleven o’clock.” She shifted her gaze to her wristwatch, her teeth sinking to her lower lip with unease.

“It’s open twenty-four hours.”

“Uhm. Okay. Together?”

I grazed her chin. Again. “Yes. Together.”

“You don’t strike me as a waffle-eating man.”

“True, but I might eat you for dessert when we come back. It’s been a while since I’ve done that, and quite frankly, pussy has never tasted as good as yours.”

She reddened in an instant, looking away. “Your compliments are strange.”

“I am strange.”

“You are,” she said, munching on her lower lip. “And that’s the part of you I dislike the least.”

I stood up, casually slipping into my clothes again. Much, much better. Less vulnerability. More barriers. Then something occurred to me.

“Tomorrow is your first day of college.”

Of course, Francesca opted to start college a week before her wedding. We were both relieved not to have to plan a sham honeymoon. Back when we had our verbal deal, we could barely pretend to stand each other.

“Yeah. I’m excited.” She offered me a small smile, scurrying toward her walk-in closet and slipping into one of her dresses.

“Who’s driving you?”

She didn’t have a driver’s license, and I hated her parents for never bothering to teach her. She was almost like a tropical fish to them. Gorgeous in her fancy aquarium, but they put no effort into nurturing her.

“Smithy, of course.”

Of course. My blood was still making its way from my dick back to my brain.

“Time?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” I repeated. I had absolutely no idea what came over me. Not about the waffles, and not about driving her there. Up until now, I offered her independence only when she asked for it, dangling a demand over her head. If she did this, then she could have that. As we made our way downstairs, I noticed Sterling sitting at the kitchen table, reading a book and smiling. I bet she was quite smug, knowing I’d gone upstairs to get back in my future wife’s good graces. I wiped my mouth, then licked my lips for traces of my fiancée.

“Not a word,” I warned Sterling as Francesca went to get her jacket.

She zipped her lips with her fingers.

Francesca appeared at the kitchen door. I turned around, lacing her arm in mine. We poured into the starless Chicago night.

“Villain?”

“Yes, Nemesis?”

“Do you think Smithy might be able to teach me how to drive?”

She wanted her wings back.

She had every right to them. I knew since I wanted her protected from everyone around her. Including me.

“Fuck Smithy, Nem. I’ll teach you.”

THE REMAINING WEEK BEFORE OUR wedding, Wolfe came to my bedroom every single night.

We did not have sex, but he did lick me down there until I came. Every time I reached a climax, he’d suck my lips—the ones between my legs—and laugh like the devil. Sometimes he would rub himself against my stomach through our clothes, then retire to my bathroom. When he came back to the bedroom to kiss me good night before he left, his cheeks were always tinted pink.

One of the times, he asked if he could come on me. I said yes, mainly because I wasn’t entirely sure if it meant what I think it meant. He rubbed against me, and when he was ready, he took himself out and climaxed between my breasts, all over my nightgown.

A part of me wanted to sleep with him to show him that I forgave him because as much as I hated to admit it—and despite myself—I did forgive him. But another part of me was terrified of having sex again. I was still sore from the incident, and every time he rubbed against me, I remembered the awful night he drove into me in one go. But then I’d push the memory aside and force myself to think happy thoughts.

As much as our relationship had improved after our engagement party night, we still weren’t a real couple. We slept in separate wings of the house, something he’d warn would happen for the rest of our days. He limited his attention toward me to only the nighttime. We would have dinner together, then retire back to our designated rooms. Then, a short hour after I showered and slipped into a sexy nightgown, he would knock on my door, and I’d be ready for him, with my thighs open and the thing between them aching for his touch and tongue and mouth.