A Million Kisses in Your Lifetime: Chapter 1

— Raquel Franco

IT’S BEEN THREE YEARS, four months, two days and a handful of hours since the first moment I set eyes on her.

The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.

The absolute bane of my existence.

She arrived at Lancaster Prep boarding school the first day of our freshman year, and no one knew who she was. Fresh and untested, open and accepting with that damn smile that seems permanently etched across her face. Every girl in our class immediately fell under her spell. Followed her everywhere she went. Desperately wanted to be her friend, even fought for the coveted spot of best friend. They copied her effortless style, and she set the school abuzz every time she wore her hair a different way or put on a new pair of earrings, for Christ’s sake.

Even the older girls, the upperclassmen, were drawn to her. Completely captivated by a seemingly innocent green-eyed girl who has barely spoken ten words to me in the entirety of her time here.

I’ve heard from more than one person that I scare her. Intimidate her. I am everything she fears, as well she should.

I’d eat her up. Swallow her whole—enjoy every second of it, too.

And she knows it.

We are opposites in every single way you can think of, yet we’re also unspoken equals. It’s the weirdest fucking thing.

She is a leader they all follow, and she quietly rules the school, just like me. Her crown is light though. Made of spun glass and airy effervescence and with zero expectations. While mine is heavy and cumbersome, reminding me of my duty to the family. To the name.

To the Lancasters.

We’re one of the richest families in the country, if not the world. Our legacy goes back generations. I own this school—literally—and everyone in it. With the exception of one person.

She won’t even look at me.

“Why you staring?”

I don’t bother looking in my best friend, Ezra Cahill’s direction when he asks me that stupid question. We’re at the front entrance of the school Monday after Thanksgiving break, the crisp early morning air cold enough to penetrate through my thick wool jacket. I should’ve worn a heavier coat. And I sure as hell am not going inside. Not yet.

I do this almost every single morning: wait for the queen’s arrival, for the day she actually acknowledges me.

Currently, I’m running at a zero percent rate of acknowledgement.

“I’m not staring,” I finally tell Ez, my voice flat. Uncaring.

Outwardly, I act like I don’t give a shit about anything or anyone. It’s easier that way. Trust me, I’m perfectly aware I’m a complete cliché, but it works for me. To care is to admit vulnerability, and I’m the least vulnerable motherfucker at this entire school. Shit slides off my back. Expectations are never placed upon me. My older brothers think I’m the luckiest out of all of us, but I don’t think so.

At least they’re acknowledged on a consistent basis. Sometimes I think my father flat out forgets I exist.

“You’re looking for her again.”

My head snaps in Ezra’s direction, my glare hard and cold, though he ignores me, his only admission he’s aware being that smirk curving his lips. “When do I not?” The question is sharp. Like a slap to the face, not that he cares.

The fucker actually laughs at me. “Fuck all this waiting around. How long has it been? You should talk to her.”

I shift my position against the cold pillar I’m leaning against, my entire body lax. Casual. Though deep inside, I’m coiled tight, my gaze going to her once more. Yet again.

Always.

Wren Beaumont.

She ambles up the walkway toward the school’s entrance. Toward me. With a serene smile on her face, she radiates light, casting her unique beam on everyone she walks past, lulling them into a trance. She greets everyone—but me—in that high-pitched voice, offering them a pleasant good morning like she’s Snow fucking White. Friendly and sweet, and so goddamned beautiful, it almost hurts to look at her for too long.

My gaze drops to her left hand, where the thin gold band fits snug around her ring finger, a single, tiny diamond resting atop it. A promise ring she received at one of those fucked-up ceremonies where a slew of prepubescent future debutantes are put on parade in a sea of pastel gowns cut in demure lines. Not an inch of scandalous skin visible.

Their dates are their daddies, important men among society, who like to own things, including women. Such as their daughters. Sometime during the evening, they are put through a painful ceremony where they turn to face their fathers and repeat a vow of chastity to them while the ring is slipped onto their fingers. Like it’s a wedding.

Strange as hell, if you ask me. Glad my father didn’t put my older sister Charlotte through that bullshit. Sounds like something he’d enjoy.

Our little Wren is a virgin and proud of it. Everyone on campus knows about the speeches she gives the other girls, about saving themselves for their future husbands.

It’s fucking pitiful.

When we were younger, the girls in our class listened to Wren and agreed. They should save themselves. Value their bodies and not give them away to us disgusting, useless creatures. But then we all got a little older and fell into relationships or hookups. One by one, her friends lost their virginity.

Until she was the last virgin standing in the senior class.

“You waste your time with that one, Lancaster,” says my other closest friend, Malcolm. The fucker is richer than God and from London, so all the girls on campus throw their panties at him, thanks to his British accent. He doesn’t even have to ask. “She’s a right prude and you know it.”

“That’s half the reason he wants her,” Ezra cracks, knowing my truth. “He’s dying to corrupt her. Steal all her firsts from that mythical future husband she’ll have one day. The one who won’t give a shit if she’s a virgin or not.”

My friend isn’t wrong. That’s exactly what I want to do. Just to say I can. Why save yourself for some fake man who will do nothing but disappoint you on your wedding night?

So damn foolish.

Malcolm contemplates Wren as she stops and talks to a cluster of girls, all of them younger than her. Each of them fluttering around her as if she’s their mama bird and they’re all her dependent babies, eager for a scrap of attention from her.

“Wouldn’t mind having a go at her either,” Malcolm murmurs, his gaze narrowing as he continues staring at her.

I send him a murderous look. “Touch her and you’re fucking dead.”

He throws back his head and laughs. “Please. I’m not interested in virgins. I prefer my women to have a little experience.”

“Definitely don’t like it when they’re scared of a penis,” Ezra adds, clutching his junk for emphasis.

Ignoring their laughter, I refocus on Wren, my gaze wandering the length of her. Navy jacket with the Lancaster crest on it, white button-up shirt beneath, her full tits straining against the fabric. Pleated plaid skirt that hits her just above the knee. Always modest, our Wren. The white socks with the little ruffle, the Doc Marten Mary Janes on her feet.

Her one sign of rebellion—albeit a minor one. Those shoes sent the girls of Lancaster Prep into an absolute tailspin when she showed up to school wearing them, the day we came back from winter break our freshman year. It threw the girls off. Everyone at Lancaster wore loafers. It was an unspoken rule.

Until Wren.

By the beginning of our sophomore year, almost every fucking girl in attendance at Lancaster had Mary Janes on their feet, Doc Marten and other brands too. Funny how not a one of them wearing those shoes affect me the way Wren does.

The seemingly innocent shoes and little girl socks. The plaid skirt and flushed cheeks and the way she’s always walking around campus at lunch or after school with a fucking lollipop in her mouth, her lips juicy red from the candy. I see her with a Blow Pop between her lips and all I can imagine is Wren on her knees in front of me. Her hand wrapped around my cock as she guides it into her welcoming mouth, that bullshit ring, her precious daddy gave her, twinkling in the light.

That’s what I want. Wren on her knees, begging for my dick. Crying for it when I reject her. Because I will reject her eventually. I don’t do relationships. They’re a vulnerability I don’t need. I see the way my father has treated my older brothers when they’ve brought women home to meet the family. Grant and his girlfriend, who actually works for him—Father made a pass at her, of course. My other brother Finn doesn’t even bother bringing a woman around the family.

Not that I can blame him.

And then there’s my sister, Charlotte. Our father sold her to the highest bidder and now she’s married to a man she doesn’t even know. He’s a decent guy, but shit.

No way am I going to let my father meddle in my relationships. Best way to avoid that?

Don’t have one.

I think of my cousin, Whit. How he was embroiled in a minor scandal during his senior year at Lancaster Prep with a girl who he’s now about to marry. They even have a child—out of wedlock, the ultimate scandal for a Lancaster. My own mother calls Whit’s future wife absolute trash, but that’s what happens to a family like us. Our reputation precedes us, and sometimes it ends up getting tarnished.

A lot of the time it does.

And Whit’s fiancé isn’t trash. She’s in love with him, and no one tolerates his shit like Summer.

Wren draws closer and I stand up straighter, trying to meet her gaze, but as usual, she refuses to look at me. I almost laugh when she says good morning to Malcolm. To Ezra.

She doesn’t say a damn word to me as she walks past, entering the building without a backward glance, followed by the younger girls who all shoot me a look, big doe eyes, every single one of them.

The moment the door slams shut, Ezra starts laughing once more, slapping his knee for emphasis.

“You’ve been trying to catch that girl’s attention for how long, and she still ignores your ass? Give it up.”

The challenge is what drives me on, don’t they see? Don’t they get it?

“She’s having a party, you know,” Malcolm says once Ezra’s laughter has died.

“For what?” I ask irritably.

“Her birthday. Jesus.” Malcolm shakes his head. “For someone who’s supposedly obsessed with Wren Beaumont, you don’t know much about her at all, do you?”

“I’m not obsessed.” I push away from the pillar and go and stand closer to my friends, needing every detail. “When is this party?”

We’re three weeks from winter break, in the throes of working on projects and preparing for finals for our last fall semester as seniors, and we’re already exhausted. I’m over busting my ass for grades that don’t matter since I have zero plans on going to college once I graduate. I’ve come into the first of three trust funds when I turned eighteen in September. Plus, my brothers want me to work for them at their real estate firm. Why go to college when I can just work toward my real estate license and then conquer the world selling luxury homes or giant corporations? My brothers have both residential and commercial divisions.

What I’d really prefer is to travel the world for a year or two after I graduate. Never work at all. Soak up the culture and the food. The scenery and the history. Eventually I can return to New York City, start working toward my real estate license, and eventually join my brothers’ business.

I have options, despite what the old man might think.

“Her birthday is actually on Christmas, but she mentioned she’s having the party the day after. Boxing Day,” Malcolm says. “Most underrated holiday, I might add.”

“Made-up holiday for the Brits to get more time off if you ask me,” I mutter.

“The British equivalent to Black Friday,” Ez adds with a grin.

Malcolm flips us both the bird. “Well, if she has it, I’m definitely going.”

“So am I,” Ez chimes in.

I frown. “You assholes were invited?”

Malcolm scoffs. “Of course. I assume you weren’t?”

I slowly shake my head, rubbing my chin. “She doesn’t speak to me. She definitely won’t invite me to her birthday party.”

“Eighteen and never been kissed.” Ezra pitches his voice higher, trying to sound like a girl yet failing miserably. “You should sneak into the party and lay one on her, Lancaster.”

“If only she could be so lucky,” I drawl, enjoying his idea.

Far too much.

“The Beaumonts are rich as fuck,” Malcolm reminds us. “The security for that party will be top notch, with all that priceless art hanging on their walls. Besides, her daddy watches over her like a fucking hawk. Hence the promise ring on her finger.”

Ezra mock shudders. “Creepy if you ask me. Promising yourself to Daddy? Makes me wonder what’s going on with that family.”

I hate where my thoughts lead me after Ezra’s comments. I hope like hell there’s nothing strange, or dare I think it—incestuous going on within the Beaumont household. I highly doubt it, but I don’t know her or her family. I only know what I witness, and I don’t see nearly as much as I’d like.

“There were a lot of girls at this school wearing promise rings that were given to them by their fathers,” Malcolm says. “They all copied Wren. Remember? It was a bunch of girls in our class and the freshmen when we were sophomores.”

Annoyance fills me. “That trend died a slow, painful death.”

Pretty sure Wren is literally the only one still wearing the ring.

“Right,” Malcolm drawls with a dirty grin. “Now they’re all a bunch of sluts, begging for our cocks.”

I chuckle, though I don’t find what he said very amusing. Malcolm has this way of insulting women that I find extra annoying. Yes, we’re all a bunch of misogynistic assholes when we hang out together, but none of us go around calling girls sluts like Malcolm does.

“Such a derogatory term,” Ezra says, causing us both to glance over at him. “I like whore better. Slut is just so…mean.”

“And whore isn’t?” Malcolm laughs.

We’re veering off track. I need to bring the conversation back to Wren.

The sweet little birdy who’s scared of the mean and nasty cat with fangs.

That would be me.

“If she’s actually having a birthday party, I want an invitation to it,” I tell them, my voice firm.

“We can’t work miracles,” Ezra says with a nonchalant shrug. But what does he care? He’s already been invited. “Maybe you should try a gentler approach with Wren. Be nice for once, instead of your glaring asshole self all the time.”

Seeing her makes me automatically scowl. How can I be nice when all I want to do is fuck her up?

Fuck her up as in, fuck her senseless. I see her, and I’m immediately filled with lust. Watching her suck a lollipop between her lips makes me hard. She’s sweet, gentle Wren for everyone else.

I see her differently. I want her…differently.

I don’t know how else to explain it.

“He’s glaring just thinking about her right now,” Malcolm points out. “He’s a lost cause. Give it up, mate. She’s not for you.”

What the hell does he know? I’m a Lancaster for God’s sake.

I can make anything happen.

Like fucking a virgin.