by S. Ann Cole
With a courteous nod to Kholton, he leaves us.
Stay awake? What does that even mean? Does he see something else in Kholton that I don’t? Wait, does he like him or not?
Kholton breaks through my running thoughts. “You cook like this everyday?”
“Not everyday. Sometimes we eat out. But I cook at least four times a week.”
“You’re really good at it,” he compliments. “Your mom taught you?”
“Nope. I’m like that fourteenth child. My mother died giving birth to me.” I poke fork holes into my apple pie. “I had a nanny up until I was thirteen. She taught me most of everything.”
“Had no idea about your mom. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I stand and start to clear the dishes. “It’s not like I knew her.”
He stands, too. “Let me help.”
“No, no, you don’t have to.”
He insists, “I want to.”
In companionable silence, we clear the table in two trips back and forth between the kitchen and dining room, which are separated by swinging double doors.
In the kitchen, he dumps the leftovers and rinses the dishes before passing them to me one by one to load into the dishwasher. It feels easy, like we’re at the soup kitchen all over again, working together. Like we do this everyday.
I pour dish-washing liquid in and start the washer, then make a display of dusting my hands. “This usually takes me a lot longer when—”
I’m broken off when Kholton hooks a finger through one of my belt loops and tugs me to him.
He sweeps flyaway wisps from my face. “How do you do that?” he asks. “You and your dad.”
I’m breathless from being flush up against him, breast to chest. Soft to hard. Red to white. Still I manage to get out, “What do you mean?”
“You get me to tell you shit.”
“So, you don’t normally tell people ‘shit’?”
“Hell no.” This is said with complete vehemence.
“No one?”
“No one,” he confirms.
I’m reluctant to believe him. “But that first night, you were so open…”
“It was you.”
“And tonight?”
“Your father.” He stops and ponders a bit before continuing, “He’s got this honest softness to him—although he tries to appear hard on the outside. It’s like…I dunno. I just couldn’t lie to him.”
I press one palm to his chest and feel the steady beat of his heart. “It’s not us,” I say softly. “I think you’re just tired of holding it all in.”
“Maybe.” He takes my chin between two fingers and tilts my face up to him. “What is it about you, Serena Bentley?”
“It’s not me—”
He kisses me. No warning. No time to prepare. He just takes what he wants.
I snake my arms around his neck and moan into his mouth, tipping up on my toes so I can kiss him deeper. At this, he groans and slides his fingers into my hair, curling at the back of my head.
This kiss is different from the first. This kiss is fervent. Urgent. Unrestrained.
He wants me. It’s not only evident in the bulge against my stomach, but in the little sounds he’s making, as though he can’t get enough. In the way he keeps changing angles, as though he can’t get deep enough.
My stomach is tight. My knees weak. My nipples throbbing.
I want to climb his body, wrap my legs around him, lick his—”
“Ahem.”
We break apart, and I whip my head in the direction of the interruption. Max, head security and my ex, is standing inside the kitchen doors, black T-shirt stretched tight across his bulging muscles.
He glowers at Kholton.
I roll my eyes. “What, Max?”
He looks at me with a cloud of accusation. “Just thought you’d like to know Natalie was escorted home safely.”
What? Since when does anyone escort anyone anywhere? And since when does he hunt me down to make a simple report like that? “Um, okay. Thanks?”
He stares at me.
I stare back. “Anything else, Max?”
His face is stony, pissed. “No, that’s all.” He levels Kholton with a threatening glare before leaving. The doors swing wildly back and forth in his wake.
“You fucking that guy?”
I jerk my head back from the bluntness of his words.
“Excuse me?”
“Babe,” he begins, “a man doesn’t look at a woman like that unless he’s been inside her, claimed her, and thinks he owns her. Either he’s screwing you or he used to screw you. Which is it?”
“My God.” I press my palms to his chest to shove him away. “Do you have to say it like that?”
“Which is it, Serena?” His tone is stark, slightly nettled, as though he really needs to know.
I stuff my hands into my back pockets. “Used to.”
“How long ago?”
“We broke up three years ago.”
“You still love him?”
“Who said I loved him to begin with?”
His gaze is so deeply focused on me, reading my soul. “Because you’re too intense for casual. If you’re in, you’re in, and you apply the full force of who you are. You know what you want. If you were with him, you loved him.”
What? I’m intense? Too intense for casual? What does that even mean? And where the hell does he get off reading me like that? You don’t know me, Kholton Sharpe!
“No, I don’t love him…anymore.” I’m surly. I mean, who does he think he is? Demanding answers from me like that.
“Good.”
He pushes off from the counter and reseals the distance between us. The pad of his thumb sweeps across my lower lip. His fingertips skim along my shoulder. His teeth nip at my earlobe. “Now, will I be getting that tour or not?”
Eighteen - Kholton
“I’m your Uber tonight, asshole.”
Piece of cake.
The Bentley residence is heavily secured, but not a challenge. I’ve broken into more high-risk places. In fact, breaking and entering is Brian’s forte. That sonuvabitch is like a panther, unseen and unheard.
“We’ve got six bedrooms,” Serena prattles with vivacity as she guides me from room to room.
I feign awe. It’s a spectacular mansion, but I’ve seen it all before. Marble, gold, grand staircases, crystal chandeliers, over-the-top light fixtures, wide archway's and double doors, high ceilings, human-size potted plants, grandeur and splendor dripping from every crevice and corner.
Uh-huh. Yeah. It’s all good. But my interest lies in one thing only. The in-house museum, which I’ve yet to see. According to the client, it’s on the third floor, and we’re still touring the first floor.
“That villa across the pool is for the guards,” she informs me when we’re on her back porch, pointing across the pool and gazebo to a small villa. It’s more contemporary, as opposed to the house itself which maintains somewhat of an historic charm.
“You’ve got a lot of them, huh?”
“Security?” She sighs, as if it overwhelms her. “It’s Daddy. He’s kind of…he’s just better when they’re around.”
“And you?”
“It’s a bit much, yeah,” she admits. “But I don’t really see them anymore. I just pretend they’re not there.”
It’s another ten minutes before we’re finally on the third floor, which is, naturally filled with more cameras and opulence. I bet Aaron Bentley is sitting in a dark room somewhere staring at a glowing screen with narrowed eyes, switching from camera to camera, watching our every move.
He should be suspicious of me. I want both his daughter and the seventy-million-dollar prize in his museum. Though I know I can’t have both. It’s one or the other. The question is, which one do I want more?
It isn’t long before we stop outside a stainless-steel door with a keypad mounted on the right post. Serena glances over her shoulder at me before moving her body in front of the keypad in an
attempt to block it from me as she punches in the code.
I scoff at the attempt. She’s got no idea.
The monitor beeps and she turns the door handle. “Last but not least, our very own museum.”
I trail in behind her. “Wow.” I gape with mock astonishment. “Your own museum?”
The room is long and cavernous, with tall glass cases filed against white walls on either side. Each case has its own unique lighting, which illuminates the object inside. The lighting in the room itself is deliberately dim to draw focus to the exhibits.
“These are all heirlooms of the family,” she informs me. “Coming down from generation after generation. My father was the firstborn and only son to granddad, so he inherited the Bentley museum.”
Each glass case showcases a single heirloom, with everything from violins to double-barrel shotguns, to Degas, to gold and diamond jewelry.
I move casually from case to case, asking mindless questions to keep her talking while I actively search for the client’s item. By the time I get to the last case, I figure there had to have been some sort of misinformation, because the item isn’t here. I’m slightly irritated, but I smile at Serena as she talks.
At the front of the room sits an intricately hand-carved grand piano made from mahogany. Serena skips over to it.
“Now this is my contribution to the museum.” She grins with pride as she runs her fingers along the keys. “It’s from my mother’s side of the family. My grandmother willed it to me after she died.”
She plops down on the tufted bench in front of it and pats the spot beside her.
I don’t want to sit. What I want is to get the hell out of here and make some phone calls. I didn’t come this far to find out the information was bogus.
But I’m nuts about this redhead. She has no idea how easy it would be for her to have me wrapped around her finger. And I thank shit for that. I’m already losing control, unable to restrain myself.
I’ve kissed her twice, and damn if she doesn’t taste like redemption. Tonight, I couldn’t help it. As I watched her in her space, domestic and graceful and unapologetically confident, three words circled round and round in my head.
Mine.
Wife.
Future.
It’s both bizarre and arousing. I’m both curious and craven. I want to possess her and I want to run far from her. There’s this pull, this invisible tether. The more I’m around her, the deeper I spiral.
She pats the space beside her again, those conniving green eyes gazing up at me with demand and expectation. So goddamn beautiful. My very own Mumtaz Mahal.
I take the spot beside her. “Can you play?”
She presses an F key. “Yeah. ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’.”
I laugh. “Lemme hear it.”
She gives me a narrowed look as if checking if I’m serious. When she realizes I am, she stifles a laugh and begin to play. It’s a dissonant mess, but she plays the nursery rhyme with such confidence one would believe that’s how it’s supposed to sound.
When she’s done, she makes a small bow and I can’t help the laugh that escapes me.
“Uh, well done?”
“Damn straight,” she replies with attitude.
“Can I try?”
She looks surprised. “You play?”
“Eh.” I offer a shoulder shrug. “I’m a little rusty.”
With too much enthusiasm, she orders, “Play me something.”
“Mood?”
She ponders for a second. “Soulful.”
“Okay.”
Closing my eyes for a brief moment, I roll my shoulders back and focus. It’s been a while since I touched a piano, but I’m good at it.
I test the keys first, do a little intro. Once I’m comfortable, I lean over and plant a quick peck on her cheek before launching into Sam Smith’s “Stay With Me”.
Less than halfway through and she’s squealing. “Oh my God, you’re so good! Wait, stop. Um, play something upbeat.”
I indulge her and play Kings of Leon’s “Sex on Fire”.
She wiggles beside me, head bobbing up and down, hair lashing about. “Holy shit, this is insane. Okay, um, give me something chill.”
I play Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds”.
Hands in the air with her eyes closed as if she’s at a concert, she rocks from side to side beside me.
I get so caught up in watching her, that I miss a key and mess up. I stop and take a breath to compose myself, before launching right into “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol.
She leans into me, laying her head on my shoulder. Quiet. And I wonder if she’s feeling how I’m feeling right now. Like I want to stay in this moment with her and never leave.
I keep dragging out the song even when it’s reached the end. It feels too good to be with her.
Once again, I miss a key and mess up. This time it’s because of her lips. They’re on my neck. Kissing, nipping.
I stop altogether when I feel her hand cruising up my thigh, closer and closer to my crotch.
I’m instantly hard. Shit.
“Serena.”
“Hmm?”
“What’re you doing?”
“Touching you.” Her voice is soft. Seductive. Bewitching.
Catching her hand, I remove it from my person.
She jerks back and glowers at me. “How is it okay for you to touch me but I can’t touch you?”
I grit my teeth at the painful throbbing in my dick. “It just is.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the teacher and I make the rules.” I grab the back of her neck and kiss her. Deep and swift. Then just as swiftly I let her go.
She slaps me across the face.
I laugh. It’s almost painless.
“You’re a tease,” she says, right before she tries to straddle me.
With a half-smile, half-grimace, I stave her off—the grimacing on account of my aching dick. “Behave,” I tell her.
“Whatever,” she grumbles, righting herself on the bench. “Where did you learn to play like that anyway?”
“I was a super advanced student in college, and even after being a tutor and a TA, I still had a lot of spare time. So, I used that time to learn Taekwondo, Krav Maga, and piano.”
“Wow. Is there anything you can’t do?”
Yeah. Fuck you. “Lots.”
“Oh!” She snaps her fingers. “I almost forgot. Get up, get up.”
Curious, I get up.
Bending at the waist, she flips the top of the tufted bench.
Hey, look at that. This is what happens when you aren’t focused. How could I have missed that the bench is also a storage box?
From inside the bench, she lifts out a small, hand-carved, mahogany box that matches the design of the grand piano. She fingers a little latch on the front and flips it open. “This is the actual contribution.”
And there it is. The prize. A stunning peacock brooch.
Its fanned tail has both colored and colorless diamonds. Oval diamonds, square diamonds, round diamonds, all difference sizes and colors of yellow, pink, orange, green and white. But the belly of the peacock is the star of the show, with a pear-shaped, deep-blue diamond, glistening under the light.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” she says. “Gram said it was made by my great-grandfather for my great-grandmother. He was a successful jeweler.” She removes the brooch from the box and holds it in her palm.
My eyes are drawn to her palm instead of the jewelry, the soft, pink flesh that cushions the hard diamonds. “Beloved jewel of the palace.” That’s what she is.
“Gram says it was worth around fifty million at the time. I’m not sure how true that is.”
I keep my voice flat and uninterested when I ask, “You never got it appraised?”
“Nah.” She shrugs and returns the jewelry to the box. I want to lick her palm. “Sometimes I forget I even have it.” She closes the box and puts it back in its hiding place.
I ask, “
Your mother’s family was wealthy?”
“I’m not sure. No one’s ever really been clear on that. But, of course, that brooch was handmade by my great-granddad himself with scraps of leftover diamonds from the contracts he got.”
Her great grandparents were liars, but I can’t tell her that. Her face lights up when she talks about them.
“Serena?”
“Yeah?”
“Are we ever gonna start this evening’s studies?”
Those green eyes turn to slits on me. “I hate you.” She brushes past me and heads straight for the door.
I adjust my pants. My balls are bluer than the ocean.
A buzz from inside my jacket pocket signals an incoming text. I get out my phone and smile at the words on the screen.
Natalie Fisher: Decline a ride from Beau and ring me when you’re ready. I’m your Uber tonight, asshole.
Nineteen - Kholton
“She’s got your head jammed.”
“What the fuck?” Natalie curses at me the minute my ass hits the leather seat of her Mercedes.
“Hello to you, too, Miss Fisher.”
“Khol, I’m serious.” She sounds it, too. “What are you doing with Serena?”
“Tutoring her.”
Thank shit I’ve got on my seatbelt, because my whole body is thrown forward when she jams the brakes. Through gritted teeth, she hisses, “I swear to God, Khol, I will stab you in the eye if you don’t tell me the truth.”
“Jesus.” I chuckle. “Simmer down, woman.”
A car honks behind us and she bullets me one final glare before hitting the gas again.
Natalie Fisher is an ex-partner—both in work and sex. We’ve done a couple of jobs together when we were both working for a private company.
One of the most stunning women I’ve ever come across, but I still see her as “one of the boys”. Well, except for that one—er twelve times.
But don’t be fooled by her dazzling beauty and soft curves. The woman is lethal. Savage. Wild. A total bitch. A bad bitch. One you should be afraid of. Her teeth are sharp and serrated, hungry for blood. And hell if I’m going to let her taste mine.
“I thought you hung up the gloves. Going straight and all that,” she says. “What, are you running out of cash or something? Do you owe someone?”