Page 7 of Marry Lies
“Yes,” she whispers.
She tastes like heaven and hell, a nectar all my own, like it was made for me.
A soft whimper escapes her lips as her hands pull at my zipper.
I throw my head back in ecstasy, but she grabs me and pulls me to her lips for another kiss. My hands find the band of her sweatpants at the same time her hand reaches into my suit pants. Breathing heavily, I wait for her to pull my cock out, not caring that we’re in public.
Not caring about anything but being inside of her.
But instead of tugging my cock free, she pulls away from my lips as her eyes flick between mine, as if asking permission.
“Yes, fuck yes,” I tell her impatiently.
Giving me a sly smile, her hand comes to my chest, and I go still under her touch. I don’t realize her intentions until it’s too late—until her little fingers are unbuttoning the collar of my shirt.
No, no, no.
My hand flies up to grab her wrist, intending to wrench it away, but at that exact moment, the taxi lurches to a stop.
“Sortez! Sortez!” the taxi driver yells, and the lights come on inside the cab.
In slow motion, her bright eyes rove over my face, and then, to my horror, they land on the bit of scar tissue visible above my shirt collar, trailing the thick, jagged line to my jaw. It probably wasn’t visible by the fountain, but in the stark, artificial light, I’m sure it stands out.
Shock—or probably revulsion, more likely—is evident in her delicate features.
I reach over for the handle of the door, wrenching the door open and pushing her off me a little too roughly. She stumbles out of the cab before me. I throw forty euros at the driver, and he looks up at me in surprise just before I slam the door.
When I stand up and the taxi speeds off, my eyes find hers. In the darkness of the street, she looks so small and vulnerable. Gone is the playful, bright light behind them. Her arms are crossed, and she’s looking down at her feet.
Like she’sashamed.
“I’ll hail you another taxi,” I say gruffly, my eyes flicking up to the street.
“Okay, thanks.” She clears her throat and takes a step back, some kind of unreadable expression passing over her face. Bowing her head, she keeps her eyes on the ground as shame fills me, turning my skin hot and fiery with humiliation. “I’m sorry if I came on too strong,” she adds. “I’m not far from here. I don’t mind walking.”
When she looks up at me, her expression is…different. Closed off.Sad.With furrowed brows, she takes another step back, her eyes glancing once again at my scars. That tug gets stronger the further away she gets—like I’m being pulled by some invisible string—andfuck,it’s a shitty feeling knowing that she’s repulsed by me.
She wouldn’t be the first.
I’m just about to snap back with something cruel and rude—something about how stupid it would be to walk home alone this late—when she takes another step away and opens her mouth.
“If you do go to Berthillon, get the caramel-ginger.”
And with that, she turns around and walks away, leaving me feeling wholly unsatisfied and entirely dejected for the first time in my life.
CHAPTERONE
THE RUNAWAY
Stella
Present – One Year Later
I straighten my royal blue blazer over my baby blue dress, running my fingers through my curls before entering the restaurant. I feel sweaty and gross thanks to the humidity, and I’m regretting my choice of heeled footwear as I pull the gold door open. The restaurant’s name is Papillon, which means butterfly in French, and I can’t help but wrinkle my nose as I walk inside. Why had my father chosen this place? It’s full of arseholes with too much money. Still, I’ll be glad to see him. It’s been months since I’ve been back to Paris, and though he’s only a train ride away from London, I don’t see him nearly enough.
I glance around the crowded restaurant as I approach the hostess stand.
“Can I help you?” the employee asks politely, and I give her my best smile.
