by Stella Gray
It suited me perfectly.
Marco was waiting on a stool at the bar, the report I had requested poking out of his bag.
“Is this everything?” I asked, grabbing the thick file.
“Everything from the last month,” he said, taking a sip of the whiskey in his hand.
I gestured to the bartender for a glass of the same as I flipped through the pages, not exactly sure what I was looking for.
I’d been searching for months now. Years.
“She’s not in Vienna,” I stated.
Marco shook his head. “Nor in Bratislava, Graz, or Budapest. She’s not in Brno, or Prague, or Krakow, or Katowice. And she’s definitely not in Dresden. I wish it was better news.”
The sheets of paper in my hand confirmed all he was saying, but in more detail.
“Fuck.” I tossed the file onto the bar, frustration building inside of me.
Marco took another sip of his drink. Mine arrived and I ran a hand through my hair before downing nearly the entire thing. I stared at the file on the bar, debating what to do next. Marco said nothing but I knew he was waiting for my orders. For the next step.
That’s when I realized my motives had changed. I had promised myself I’d never stop looking for her, but now I was more curious than anything. What had I said to Tori that very afternoon? About curiosity killing the cat?
Maybe it was time to take a break, focus on work. My father would never retire unless he thought my full attention would be on KZ Modeling, and right now it obviously wasn’t. Besides, work was something I could control. As much as I hated to admit it, I couldn’t control this investigation.
“Shall we keep looking?” Marco asked.
I finished my whiskey and shook my head.
“Put the project on hold for now.”
Marco’s eyebrows rose but he said nothing. He knew better than to question my orders. That’s why I put him in charge of things like this. Projects of a more personal disposition.
I gathered up the file. “I’ll tell you when it’s time to pick it back up again,” I said.
It was a dismissal. Marco gave a short nod and got up from the bar, leaving me alone. I gestured for another whiskey, my fingers tapping the bar.
But it wasn’t the report I was thinking about. It wasn’t work, either.
Sitting in a hotel room all by herself was my innocent, nubile bride. Probably fuming about her distant, asshole husband.
The things I wanted to do to her…
I savored my drink, not caring that I was getting buzzed. Usually I didn’t drink to excess, but tonight, well, tonight I was on my fucking honeymoon. Spending it alone in a bar, chasing ghosts and fantasizing about my hot, virgin wife. The wife I couldn’t touch.
I leaned back and allowed myself a moment to imagine what I might do to Tori if she wasn’t an innocent. If she wasn’t so pure. So sweet. So inexperienced. I thought about her face during the opera, how captivated she had been—how her hand had reached for mine. I shouldn’t have taken it. Shouldn’t have encouraged her naïve romantic fantasies.
She wanted what I could never give her: Connection. Intimacy. Trust. That much was clear from the questions she’d been asking me, all her attempts to get to know me better.
If she knew who I really was—and what she’d married into—she’d stop asking. She’d stop trying to find romance in this arrangement. Because that’s what it was. An arrangement. It wasn’t a real marriage and it definitely wasn’t a fucking romance. It was a contract.
Still, I couldn’t help the fantasies whirling through my mind.
I imagined stalking back into the hotel room, finding her still wearing that lace lingerie. Waiting for me to give her a lesson on what it means to please a man.
Her body was perfect—supple and athletic, with just the right amount of curves. I’d start by ripping the lingerie off, leaving her naked and vulnerable while I stood there fully dressed, fully in command. I’d force her onto her knees, and when she looked up at me with those big blue eyes I’d whip my cock out, shoving it so deep down her throat that she’d choke on it. My wife would learn how to suck cock, and she’d love every second of it.
After I had my fill I’d push her up against the wall, my hand finding the smooth, soft skin between her legs. Her pussy would be wet for me. So fucking wet.
There’d be no resistance when I stroked her, her clit aching for my touch. I’d pump my fingers into her until she arched against my hand, begging for release, but I wouldn’t let her come. Instead I’d spin her around, shove her against the wall before unzipping and slamming into her. It would be rough and fast and fucking hot as hell. She’d be moaning and clenching that tight cunt around me with each thrust.
Fuck.
If I knew what was good for me, I’d put those fantasies away. Permanently. I wouldn’t keep torturing myself with thoughts of her on her knees, her pouting little mouth wrapped around my cock. Or her riding me, her virgin pussy squeezing me hard as she came, losing her mind over the first orgasm she’d ever had with a man inside her. Or taking her from behind, her hands fisting the blankets as I gripped her hips and jackhammered her into moaning submission.
I knew that I needed to stop thinking about her—and if I knew what was good for me, I’d ignore her completely.
But if there was one thing I’d learned by now, it was that I didn’t give a damn what was good for me.
Tori
Chapter 9
I was the kind of girl who’d always dreamed of escape.
My Christmas lists all throughout elementary school had been filled with what I’d thought of as ‘adventure supplies.’ Flashlights, sleeping bags, hand warmers and canteens with built-in water filters—pretty weird for a nine-year-old. But even though the furthest I’d been allowed to wander with my compass and backpack had been the five acres of our backyard, that tiny taste of what I’d craved was enough to fuel years of suppressed wanderlust.
But here I was, waking up bright and early so I could carpe diem on my honeymoon—arguably the biggest adventure of my life—and my husband was nowhere to be found. His side of the bed wasn’t even disturbed. Had he even come back last night? I had no idea.
I’d never felt so alone.
I remembered trying to wait up for him– though I’d changed out of the cursed lingerie the moment he left—but the day had worn me out so much that I’d fallen asleep pretty fast.
Wrapping myself in the plush hotel robe, I went searching for him in the rooms of our suite. Maybe he was making coffee or working in the office already, a willing slave to his laptop and smartphone.
On the plush sofa in the sitting room, I found a pillow on top of a neatly folded blanket. Well. At least he’d made it back last night. He’d just chosen to sleep on the couch.
I sank down onto the cushions, my head in my hands. I’d thought we had turned a corner. His hand had felt so good on mine during the opera, the sparks palpable. And then he wouldn’t even share a bed with me. The sexual rejection had hurt, but this? It somehow felt worse.
“I’m heading out.”
My head snapped up. Stefan was in a perfectly pressed Armani suit, looking like sex on a stick, and apparently gearing up to start his day. I glanced down guiltily at my robe.
“I must still be jetlagged,” I said, smiling apologetically. “I can be ready in ten minutes.”
“You’re not going,” he said, not even glancing up as he fastened his watch.
“Okay, I can meet you there—”
“You’ll stay here.”
I bristled at the command. But I wasn’t so easily dismissed.
“Just tell me where you’re going then,” I demanded. “I want to know.”
“You’re on a need to know basis,” he said. “And it’s frankly nothing to do with you.”
I bit my lip and recalled all the years of obedience training I’d undergone at the hands of Michelle and my father. Like I was no more than a dog, learning to sit and stay on command. Rage was
boiling up inside me, but I reminded myself that I’d agreed to this marriage and all of its conditions. That this was temporary. That once we returned to Chicago, I’d be so busy with school that I wouldn’t have time to worry about the status of my sham of a marriage.
But why had Stefan even bothered with a honeymoon or a visit to the opera? Why stare at me so hungrily while I was naked in the shower? I was getting so many mixed messages that my head was spinning.
Still, I couldn’t go on like this. We couldn’t go on like this.
“Where were you last night?” I asked, the question tumbling out before I could stop it.
He was fastening his cufflink and didn’t even bother looking up.
“I was out,” he said.
I stood up, fire in my chest. “Out where? I waited up for you. You ignored all my texts.”
“It’s not your concern,” he said casually. “And in the future, don’t bother waiting.”
“In the future?”
He finally glanced over. “I’m a very busy man,” he said. “You should understand that.”
“I’d just like to know where you are, and when you plan on returning,” I said, my hands on my hips. “As your wife, I think I’m entitled to that knowledge.”
He looked at me, his expression impassive. “Remember what I said about the cat?” he asked. “And curiosity?”
“I’m not a cat.” I held my ground.
“Oh, but I think you’re acting like one,” he said, his voice low. It shouldn’t have been hot, but it was. “Careful with your curiosity, little cat,” he said.
“This is supposed to be our honeymoon,” I said, irritation getting the best of me. “But you’re spending all your time glued to your work and keeping secrets from me—”
“Go to the spa,” he said, glancing down at his phone as it vibrated with an incoming message. “Charge whatever you want to the room.”
“You can’t just leave me here alone, like some toy on a shelf that you get to play with whenever you feel like it!”
I was breathing hard, but before I could say anything else he was grabbing his wallet and his room key.
“I’m not going to the spa,” I said, following him toward the door.
“Then go shopping at the boutique. Or take a swim. There’s plenty to do in the hotel.”
“But I want to be with you. I thought that was the point of this whole trip—to spend our time exploring together.”
He turned to face me. “Then you’re in for a disappointment.”
My eyes were stinging with tears. “But when will I see you?”
“At seven. We have a dinner reservation at the hotel restaurant.”
I was stunned at his coldness. He didn’t even seem to notice that his words had hurt my feelings. Or maybe he noticed and just didn’t care.
“This is ridiculous,” I told him.
His hand was on the doorknob.
“Isn’t this the exchange we agreed on, Tori? I get a wife, and a chance to take over my father’s company. You get your college experience and a chance to get away from your father. You get an easy life of luxury and wealth, and you get to spend my money on whatever your little heart desires. What else could a woman like you want?”
A woman like me.
“Are you calling me a whore?” I said, my voice low with hurt and anger.
“Watch your mouth.” He was finally meeting my hard gaze, his green eyes ablaze. “And don’t talk about things you’re too sheltered to understand.”
He swung the door open and stepped into the hallway.
“Seven o’clock,” he said. “Sharp.” And then he walked away.
As the door closed behind him, I sank into the nearest chair, his words echoing in my mind. I couldn’t believe this was the price of getting my degree.
Maybe things would be different when I started college, when I could have friends, and a life of my own outside of my marriage. But right now, it was just the two of us—and, obviously, Stefan’s clients and business associates—in a foreign country.
I couldn’t wait to get back home. I’d bury myself in school and studying and a full calendar of social events and more volunteer work—anything I could think of to keep away from Stefan. Away from the man I had been coerced into marrying.
Because if this honeymoon was any indication of what to expect out of our marriage, I was in for a hell of a rough ride.
Tori
Chapter 10
So he thought of me as a whore? Fine. I’d spend his money as if I’d earned it like one.
“Room service,” a crisp, Austrian-accented voice answered.
“Good morning,” I said sweetly. “Can you tell me what you have for breakfast, please? And is there champagne this early?”
I ordered recklessly, not even asking the prices. If I was going on this adventure by myself, I was determined to treat myself right.
Along with the champagne, I asked for an Italian espresso, a carafe of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a pot of tea. I took the suggestions given to me and selected two different egg dishes and an artisanal bread basket, adding the roasted local asparagus and a platter of bacon and sliced ham.
“We…also have apple strudel and plum jam turnovers?” the voice said. “They’re from a prominent local bakery. Though perhaps you won’t have room for—”
“Why not? Give me two of each.” And just to be extra decadent, I ordered the Strawberries Romanoff—which came with three different flavors of cream.
Room service had to send up three carts to deliver my order. I tipped extravagantly.
There was no way I could finish it all, but I made sure to sample everything.
Full to bursting after my indulgent breakfast, I got dressed and headed downstairs to the luxury spa on the first floor of the hotel. I tried to be annoyed that I had essentially been banished here, but it was hard to keep up the sour attitude once I was presented with a pamphlet of spa options. I figured Stefan owed me the best massage that money could buy, to make up for all the hurt and anger and frustration he’d caused, but I couldn’t even figure out where to start.
And then my eyes zeroed in on something with the right amount of dollar signs attached to it.
“What exactly is the ‘Gold Package’?” I asked the young woman behind the granite counter. She was wearing a lab coat and a turtleneck, like a doctor, except she was all in black.
“It’s a series of treatments using pure twenty-four karat gold, with a three-step full body massage, a gold leaf facial, and a gold dust mani-pedi. It also includes a gold flake martini and a selection of gold-dipped truffles.” She smiled at my stunned look. “I realize it sounds a bit extreme.”
I laughed. “It sounds perfect, actually. I’ll take it.”
Her eyes widened. “Of course, but…the appointment lasts approximately five hours.”
I slid the suite’s keycard toward her, and her gaze darted to my huge diamond ring.
“Charge it to my room,” I told her breezily. “And I’d like to leave a generous tip as well. Including for yourself.”
“We’ll get you started right away.” She was beaming ear to ear.
“Oh, and is there a cosmetologist on staff? Maybe a hair stylist? I have an event tonight. It would be amazing if I could get my hair and makeup done.”
“We have a full salon,” she answered. “And if you don’t mind me saying so…your partner is going to be struck dumb when you show up to that event later.”
“I’m counting on it,” I said, flashing a wicked smile. “Believe me.”
They started me off by leading me to a gorgeous, private changing room done up in wall-to-wall Italian marble, where I was given a robe so soft that it had to be cashmere, and then I was escorted into the spa to begin my experience.
But first, I was given my golden martini—delicious—and left alone to relax in a private steam room, lying there completely naked so my pores could open up. Soothing ocean sounds were piped in, and I felt my tense muscles
start to loosen as the balmy temperature and the music coaxed me into a zen-like state. I was determined to enjoy this. I would not think about Stefan.
Before I knew it, I was back in my robe and being taken to another room, where a woman with a severe bun and a no-nonsense demeanor began scrubbing my body down with an exfoliating clay that shimmered with pure gold powder.
“That smells so good,” I sighed. “Like lemon and licorice.”
“It is anise and verbena,” the woman told me. “Now turn onto your back.”
Every time I felt a flash of hurt or anger toward Stefan, I reminded myself that I was here to indulge, to focus completely on myself. It mostly worked.
The aesthetician had come in to work on me, and I interrupted my gold leaf and collagen facial only long enough to ask, “Does the gold leaf actually do anything?”
“Of course. These treatments were used in Ancient China, and by Cleopatra. The gold lifts out toxins and stimulates cell reproduction. It’s good for wrinkles too, not that you need it.”
I smiled at the compliment and tried to imagine myself as Cleopatra, draped in pearls and oozing sex appeal. Stefan Zoric, eat your heart out.
After I was rinsed off, I was laid out on a table and a different woman came in and sprayed my body with gold infused massage oil. Then the masseuse went to work on my muscles. I felt like butter beneath her strong hands, all of my tension and stress melting away with each stroke of pressure.
After a while, I began to imagine it was Stefan touching me. Stroking me.
I closed my eyes, letting my mind wander as my body was taken care of. I imagined him leaning over me, his hands kneading into my neck and shoulders before moving lower, caressing my lower back. Then lower, massaging my gluteal muscles, his thumbs moving in deep, slow circles until the muscles relaxed under his hands.
He’d ease my thighs apart, fingers slipping between my legs, where I ached to be touched. I imagined him starting to stroke me, gliding back and forth with his thumb before thrusting a thick finger inside, his pacing timed to match my shallow, quickening breaths. His mouth would dip close to my ear, whispering naughty things to me as he touched me. Teased me.
