Tell Me You Love Me: A Novel

by S. Ann Cole

  Chest to back, he curves over me, breathing heavily into my now matted hair. “Serena?”

  “Hmm?”

  “The way you take me, the way you suck my dick,” he breathes out. “You’re off-limits. No one touches you. Understand?”

  When I don’t reply, he pulls out of me and spins me around to catch my eyes. “Yeah?” he prods.

  I comb my fingers back through my hair, but they get snagged in post-coital knots. “Will you be off-limits?”

  He studies me for several beats. “You want me to be?”

  Fingers still fighting to untangle my hair, I drop my gaze to his sweaty, heaving chest.

  He cups my chin and dips his head to meet my eyes again. “Why’s that a hard question to answer?” he asks. “You plan on screwing someone else?”

  No, but at the same time I don’t think it’s fair of me to ask him for exclusivity when I’m in his life under false pretenses.

  My plan does not include a relationship with the child’s father. All I want is the child.

  With Kholton as the donor, I will be winning big time. On top of having glorious aesthetic genes, he’s whizz-smart, multi-disciplined, multi-talented, caring, and overall a better human than I expected him to be.

  It should be enough. It’s all I came for and it’s all I should leave with.

  As amazing as the idea of exclusivity sounds, it’s not right to ask for or encourage it. I certainly don’t plan on having sex with anyone else—pretty sure I’m ruined for other men now—but it’s better if he thinks I do.

  I’m already falling. I don’t know if what’s happening on his end is “falling” per se, but I know he feels something for me. It’s in his touch, his kisses, his eyes. Either that, or he’s just really damn good with women.

  Reading my silence as an affirmative, he lets go of me and steps back. He looks slapped. Insulted. He expected me to ask for exclusivity. Wanted me to. He would have given it to me.

  The sound of the lock on the front door turning punctures the silence.

  Kholton grabs me shoves me behind him, shielding me with his body even though I’m still wearing his t-shirt.

  The door opens as he’s pulling up his sweatpants.

  A heavy, deep voice. “Woah—oh, shit.”

  A female giggle.

  “Don’t mind me.” A chuckle. “Carry on.”

  I peek around Kholton and spot Brock shielding his eyes with one hand. His other hand engulfs the much, much smaller, slender hand of a tiny Latina as they hurry for the stairs.

  Wow. She’s brave. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to sleep with someone as huge and darkly intense as Brock.

  Once he’s up the stairs and out of sight, Kholton moves away from me and begins clearing the saucers and half-full wine glasses.

  “Khol.”

  He doesn’t acknowledge me. He takes the dishes to the sink.

  “Kholton.”

  He grabs the pastry box with my untouched strawberry cake and half-eaten eclair and dumps it all in the garbage.

  “Are you seriously not talking to me?” I snort. “How mature of you.”

  Heading back to the sink, he picks up the sponge and dish soap to start washing up. “Go take a bath, Serena,” he says with his back to me. “There’s cum running down your legs.”

  Twenty- Three - Serena

  “You keep saving me.”

  My alarm screams like a banshee, jarring and relentless.

  Blearily, I stretch for my phone on the nightstand and kill the noise. Yawning, I scratch my neck and roll over.

  Kholton is missing.

  He maintained the silent treatment when he came back to the room last night. Still, he wrapped himself around me before turning out the lights.

  It’s 6:00 AM. Not nearly enough sleep after going to bed somewhere around 3:00 AM. But I’m an early riser regardless and rarely snooze late unless it’s a Sunday. Also, I live for my morning runs.

  Dragging my half-rested ass out of bed, I freshen up and don my workout gear.

  Kholton is nowhere to be found in the house, so I scribble a note to let him know I’ve gone out running and stick it on the fridge.

  Out on the beach, I breathe fresh morning air into my lungs as I conduct warm-up stretches on the sand. The sun’s orange forehead peeks just above the horizon, casting a tangerine hue across the sky. From my side of the world, I’m not granted this kind of view in the mornings, so I tilt my face to the sky to show my appreciation.

  I’m about fifteen minutes into my run along the beach when I spot white hair, tanned skin, and hard, sweaty abs, roughly fifty feet away.

  Yanking out my earphones, I stop running, chest heaving.

  He’s supine on the sand, facing the ocean, hands behind his head as he crunches up and down in rapid succession as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.

  Farther up on the sand are two Namaste blondes with rolled-up yoga mats whispering and giggling as they ogle him with hungry, horny eyes.

  Take your greedy eyes off my baby daddy and stay in downward-dog position, bitches. He’s mine.

  As a wave of possessiveness crashes over me, I break into a sprint toward him. I slow down when I’m near.

  He doesn’t notice me. His earphones are in and his focus is intense.

  I skip up and jump astride him, sinking onto his lap, knees digging into the sand.

  He pauses mid-crunch, momentarily confused. Then gray eyes focus in on me.

  Before he can make a sound, I grab his face and kiss him—open-mouth, tongues, saliva and clashing teeth. It takes but a second for him to reciprocate, his arms curving around my middle and pulling our sweaty bodies together.

  God, I’m nuts about this guy.

  We break apart, breaths quickened.

  “Good morning,” I rasp.

  “’Morning.” His gaze dips to my heaving chest. “Someone’s wearing a bra today.”

  “Sports bra,” I correct. Sports bra and bikini tops are the only forms of breast-hostage garments I tolerate. “What time did you get up?”

  “Five.” He pokes my belly button. “Came to join me?”

  I shrug. “Why not?”

  Without warning, he flips us so I’m on my back and he’s above me. “How many kisses do you want?”

  I grin like a loon. “Fifty.”

  Assuming plank position, he says, “Pucker up and count, Red Witch.”

  He starts doing push-ups. Each time he presses down, our lips meet and I count. Of course, he goes to sixty instead of fifty, the showoff.

  Collapsing on top of me, he flips us again so I’m above and he’s beneath. “Your turn.”

  “How many kisses do you want?”

  He grips and squeezes my ass. “How many do you think I deserve?”

  Throwing him an eye-roll, I get into plank position and begin. But he doesn’t make it easy for me. He brings his hands palm-up to his chest and each time I press down, he squeezes my tits. And I can’t stop giggling long enough to kiss him properly. “Stop it!”

  He does. But then he starts to tickle me instead.

  I fall on top of him in a fit of giggles. “You cheat!”

  “Nah,” he denies, “You’re just weak.” He sits up so I’m once again straddling him. “I like your laugh.”

  “I like your eyes,” I say.

  “I like your lips,” he returns.

  “I like your smile.”

  “I love your pussy.”

  “Oh, my God!” I drop my forehead to his shoulder. “Couldn’t keep it clean, could you?”

  “Your pussy isn’t clean?” he asks. “Well shit, I need to see a doctor ASAP.”

  I lift my head from his shoulder and punch him. “Jerk.”

  He licks my sweat-sheened collarbone. “Up. Time for legs.”

  “Squats!” I say excitedly.

  “You first.” His grin is devilish. “I’ll just lie here and count your reps as you squat over my…lap.”

  “Challenge accepted.”
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  With a smirk and waggling eyebrows, he lies back and folds his arms behind his head. Sand coats our skin.

  I get up to ten reps before he begins thrusting his hips upward each time I squat down. I knew he’d do something like this, the cheat. But I don’t let it distract me this time. I keep going, and going, and going, until he grabs my hips to keep me still on top of him.

  He sits up and our mouths collide.

  I grip his hair.

  He yanks my ponytail.

  We kiss as if the world is about to end. We don’t care that the beach is dotted with joggers, dog walkers, and yoga posers. All that matters is the beat of his heart against mine, the fever of our kiss, the passion and desperation.

  This is more. I’m not sure of what exactly, I only know it’s more.

  We kiss for what feels like forever, before we slowly, slowly break apart.

  “I love the way you kiss,” he tells me.

  “I love the way you lick,” I return with a lascivious grin.

  He laughs and smacks my ass. “C’mon. Lunges.”

  We do three sets of 30-rep lunges together, sans hanky panky, then three sets of 20-rep burpees. After that, we have a plank-hold contest to see who would cave first.

  I last sixty-two seconds. He lasts two whole minutes and he didn’t cheat. I officially hate him.

  When the sun’s glare starts to get a bit too obnoxious, we finish up with some bicycle crunches then decide to jog back to the house to keep our heart-rates up.

  “What’s your dad’s schedule like today?” he asks between breaths.

  “We have a breakfast thingy with the Webbers at nine. Then we’re free until our meeting with the Nelsons at five,” I reply. “Why?”

  He glances over at me with a strange, almost forlorn expression.

  “What?”

  “I just admire your bond,” he says. “I asked about him and you replied with we.”

  “Well, he’s my world.” My heart warms as I think of the man I’m lucky enough to call Father. “We do pretty much everything together. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

  Someone’s dog breaks free from a leash and charges toward us, slobbery tongue hanging to the side, thick, brown fur beaten back with the wind. Kholton is quick to grab me and spin me out of the way.

  The dog bounds past us. Its owner chases behind, throwing us an apologetic smile.

  I gaze up at Kholton. “You keep saving me.”

  He lets go of me and resumes jogging. “Let me know if your dad can fit me in sometime today. Need his advice on something.”

  I assume whatever he wants to talk to my father about is his family quandary. I’ve been around enough powerful men to know that whenever a man feels as if things are out of his control, it’s better to let him broach the subject when he is ready. Forcing him to talk about it before he has a handle on the matter will only remind him how out-of-control of the situation he is. So I don’t ask.

  In the most chipper voice I can muster, I say, “Sure thing.”

  We can smell the coffee before we even enter the house. Brock is in the kitchen pouring java into a mug. His Latina is absent.

  He lifts an eyebrow at us as we trail white, grainy sand across his high-polished hardwood floors.

  Laughing like teenagers, we sprint up the stairs.

  We have sex in the shower. Loud and hard. Hair wet. Skin hot. Orgasms quaking through our bodies.

  “What are you doing after your breakfast thing?” he asks me once I’m dressed and ready to leave.

  “Well, Paul wanted to—”

  “Fuck that guy,” he curtails.

  I arch an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure you want me to do that?”

  “Serena Bentley,” he growls and I laugh.

  “Okay, what do you want me to be doing after my breakfast thing?”

  “Me,” he says easily. “Call me the second it’s over.”

  “Okay.”

  He pins me up against the doorjamb and kisses the breath out of me.

  “I have to go, Khol,” I whisper against his lips.

  “In a minute.”

  When his hand starts sliding up my dress, I have to wriggle away, lest we rip each other’s clothes off and go at it again. I attempt to extricate myself, but he reels me back in and buries his face into my neck.

  “Khol.” It’s a half-grumble, half-moan.

  “Call me after,” he reminds me.

  Then he lets me go.

  Kholton

  3 Unread Messages

  Brian: It’s done. Natz helped. Talk when you get back.

  —

  Caleb: Dad collapsed last night. We took him to the hospital and he’s fine now. But we need to talk. Stop ignoring my calls. You can’t turn your back on us.

  __

  Teddy: Hey, big head. I uncovered some interesting things on your client, and on the abduction of SB. It’s sensitive and complicated. Come straight to Philly on your way back.

  Twenty - Four - Serena

  “Too bad we don’t always get what we want.”

  Despite my promise to Kholton, I gave Paul an hour of my time after our breakfast meeting. I don’t see the harm.

  We won them over at breakfast, and before it was over, the contract was signed. The least I could do is play nice a little longer.

  A Lyft takes me to the address Kholton texted me.

  I wasn’t expecting a modern three-level office building, bearing the marquee BCI Services in red and black letters. There also appears to be some renovations going on, seeing as the front door is held open by a cement block, while men in paint-splattered overalls mill in and out.

  I quickly slip through the open door. Inside is a chaotic mess of dust, dug up tiles, and walls stripped of paint. I stop one of the workers hefting out a bathroom sink. “Hi. I’m here to meet someone. His name—”

  “Don’t know nobody here, Misses. But check the third floor,” he clips while walking off, clearly not in the mood to be bothered. “First and second floors are under renovations.”

  I take the debris littered elevator up to the third floor and it’s a whole other scene. The air-conditioner is blasting and it’s dust and debris free. Clean and modern.

  A pretty Hispanic woman is at the reception desk.

  “Hi,” I greet her with a smile. “I’m here to see Kholton Sharpe?”

  She scans me up and down, unimpressed. “You’re Serena?”

  “Correct.”

  “He’s in Brody’s office.”

  “Brody?”

  Her tone is snappy when she replies, “Last one down.”

  I have no idea what that means, but it’s obvious she’s not interested in helping me, so I guess I’ll have to find “last one down” myself.

  There are two hallways and a large area of cubicles with workers hunkered down behind computers. I choose the hall that goes left since it has a golden “Management” on the wall.

  Down this hall, there are three doors. One on the left, one on the right, and one at the end. The latter is left ajar so I beeline for that one.

  I can hear his voice the closer I get. It’s the confident, orotund voice he uses during studies. He’s talking numbers.

  I stop outside the door and peek inside. Seated in one of two chairs on the opposite side of the desk, he’s facing away from the door, his laptop open on the desk in front of him. Two girls who look to be in their early twenties are on the screen.

  “Kathy, you’re doing terrific,” he says to the screen. “But Sheila you’re falling behind.”

  Kathy beams and Sheila pouts. “I frickin’ hate numbers.”

  “You keep saying that,” Kholton says. “You need to open your mouth and tell your mother you’re not interested in finance.”

  “We have to do what she wants if we want to keep our privileges,” she whines. “You have no idea what it’s like!”

  “Trust me, I do.” He sighs and rubs a hand down his face. “Unless you start showing signs of improvement,
I won’t be able to get you a sit-in for finals at the University. There needs to be, at minimum, a ninety-percent guarantee that the student will pass in order to sit in.”

  Both girls panic. “I’ll help her,” Kathy says quickly. “Can she re-do the test?”

  “Certainly. I’ll give you a week to prepare.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Mr. Sharpe. Thank you so much.”

  “Bye. See you when I get back.”

  As I am about to enter, I hear disembodied rustling, and then, “Oh, my God, is it just me or was he even hotter today?”

  “I think it’s the California tan.”

  “Can you imagine what it’s like to have sex with him?! I bet his cock is, like, huge.”

  “With that kind of shameless confidence? I mean, uh, yeah.”

  “He probably thinks I’m a pretty dunce, doesn’t he?”

  Instead of letting the girls in on the embarrassing fact that the connection is still running, Kholton leans forward and ends it. Such a ‘good guy’ move.

  Pushing the door further open, I rap my knuckles against the wood to announce my entry.

  Kholton turns.

  “Hey,” I say with a heady grin.

  He studies me closely for several heartbeats. “Fuck you, Serena.”

  I jerk back at the unexpected verbal attack. “Excuse me?”

  In one fluid motion, he shoots up from the chair and backs me up against the wall. “Where did he touch you?”

  For a moment, I’m confused. Until it dawns. Paul. “How did you—”

  “I’m the player,” he says simply. “You let him touch you. Where?”

  Wow. How could he just know that from looking at me? “We just held hands for a little bit.”

  His hard eyes search mine. “He kissed you?”

  “He—He tried to,” I admit. “But I sorta dodged it. It caught my cheek.”

  “Where?”

  I tap my right cheek and he grits his teeth.

  Slowly, he leans in and bites my cheek. Just enough so it stings. To the other untainted cheek, he plants a long, lingering, caressing kiss.