Tell Me You Love Me: A Novel

by S. Ann Cole

  The caption reads…

  I bit the apple.

  #amfucked #bothways :)

  His comments section is flooded with questions. Everyone wants to know who the “redhead” is. Some even comment that I’m ugly—even though my face is hidden—and that my back is fat. Goes without saying, his followers are 95% female. Understandably.

  Funny how this missed me, because I check his Instagram daily like it’s my duty. Today is the one day I didn’t, for obvious reasons.

  I’m indignant and flattered and pissed off.

  What gives him the right? I have a strong, two-step lock on my phone. Which meant he legit broke in. I mean, what the heck?

  And on top of invading my privacy, he went on social media and outed me. Just who does this dude think he is?

  I seethe for the next half-an-hour, ignoring Alarics’ persistent texts. Finally, I hear footsteps descending the stairs. Aaron first, Kholton behind him.

  My father takes one look at me and asks, “What’s wrong?”

  I wag my head. “Nothing. Just this book I’m reading.”

  He eyes me with skepticism, but lets it slide, pulling me into a goodnight hug. “I’m off to bed. Where’s Max?”

  I shrug. “Somewhere pouting.”

  He gives me a chastising look, but it’s followed by a kiss to my forehead. Letting me go, he turns to Kholton and they engage in an intense silent exchange. It’s not pleasant, and borderline uncomfortable.

  My father’s voice is cold when he bids, “Mr. Sharpe.”

  Kholton nods, but it’s more than a nod. “Mr. Bentley.”

  I wait until my father is gone before I give Kholton my attention.

  He eyes the phone in my hand, how tightly I’m clutching it.

  Through clenched teeth, I say, “Let me walk you out.”

  Before he can respond, I turn and go ahead of him, not stopping until I’m a small distance from the house. Toes in the sand, fury under my tongue. The moon overhead full and bright, the sea as black as my rage.

  I whirl around and cross my arms, only to realize he’s more than a few feet behind. Taking his own sweet time catching up to me.

  He’s wearing powder-blue cutoff shorts, a white linen shirt, and sandals. God, I can’t stand how good he looks sometimes. Especially when I’m mad at him.

  Hands loose in his pockets, he stops in front of me.

  “What. The. Hell, Khol?” I grit out.

  “What?” he asks, playing dumb.

  “Exclusively his?”

  He shrugs. Unapologetic. “A man can only dream.”

  “You hacked my phone.”

  “Your fingerprint plus the last four digits of your phone number. Wasn’t that hard.”

  Is he serious right now? “That’s not the point!”

  He shifts on his feet, face shadowed by the darkness, yet highlighted by the moonlight. “What’s the problem here, Serena? Is it such a crime to want you to myself?”

  “Why?” I half-shout. “Why do you even want this? Aren’t you supposed to be a playboy or something? Sex without attachments, ‘love ‘em and leave ‘em’, yada yada.”

  “You’re different.” He says this in such a gentle voice that the words almost get lost on the wind.

  “No, I’m not!” I stomp my foot to drown out the sound of my exploding heart. “You hated me, remember? I pretty much forced my way into your life.”

  “You’re a fool if you believe that. I never hated you,” he admits. “I was…afraid.”

  “Afraid?” I shake my head. “Afraid of what?”

  “Of this!” he bites out. “This bullshit argument. These bullshit feelings. All of it. You think I wanted this? Any of it? I didn’t. But the more I pushed you away, the harder you chased me. And now I’m the asshole?”

  I turn away from him to the dark horizon. Because he’s right. I’ve been relentless in my pursuit of him. His response is natural. His request is not unreasonable. From where he’s standing, exclusivity should not have even been a request.

  I am responsible for this. And while I can’t give him what he wants, I can’t walk away either.

  “I asked you a question today and you answered with a lie,” he says to my back. “So, I’m gonna ask again. What. Do you want. From. Me?”

  Cool night wind teasing my hair, I turn around to face him again. “I didn’t lie. I want you. Just not…exclusively.” The words burn my tongue on their way out, because they’re nothing but flaming lies.

  The thought of him being with someone else makes me sick. I want everything with Kholton. I’m high and insanely happy when I’m with him. He’s all I never knew I needed.

  But more than I want Kholton, I want a baby. And as much as he seems willing and ready to hang up his playboy hat for me, a baby will unquestionably send him running in the other direction. What is “too soon” for him is a dream for me. Aaron and I have been such a lonely duo for so long, a new addition to the family will be perfect for us. Kholton would never understand that.

  Moving in, he brushes wisps of windblown hair from my face. Then he cups the back of my head and kisses me.

  It’s slow. Soft. Gentle.

  Breaking with a sigh, he pulls back and whispers, “If it were anybody else, Serena. If it were anybody else. But not with you. Just…not with you.”

  He brushes his lips against mine one last time, before he turns and walks away from me.

  Twenty - Seven - Serena

  “But I’m selfish.”

  Sixty-two minutes.

  That’s how long I’m able to stop myself from going after him. I’m so weak. So desperate.

  Our sexcapade over the past twenty-four hours might be enough to knock me up, especially since I’m ovulating. Might be.

  To some extent, I got what I wanted. There’s no need to continue chasing him, torturing him. I can go. I can leave him and hope all the sex we’ve had so far is enough to do the job.

  After watching him walk away from me on the beach, I went back inside and swore to let him be, put an end to it.

  But that resolution lasted all of one hour. Because, while getting knocked-up is my motive, the fact of the matter is, I’m obsessed with Kholton Sharpe.

  I’m obsessed and addicted. I’m obsessed and addicted and desperate. I crave him like a drug. My soul reaches out to his. My body bows before his. My heartbeat echoes like a gong when he’s near. My skin sings when he touches me. I think about him nonstop. I stalk him. I study him. I dream of him.

  I want all that he wants, and though I cannot give it to him, I also cannot give him up. I’m restless.

  That’s why I’m now jogging to Brock’s house at one o’ clock in the morning. Hashtag pathetically selfish.

  Although this area is relatively safe and I can spot at least two couples on the beach and another drinking wine on their balcony, I’m still paranoid as I jog the distance. Getting kidnapped does that to you.

  I run into Brock at the pathway to his house. He’s holding the hand of a completely different woman tonight. This one looks Filipino. Seems he likes them exotic.

  When he realizes it’s me, he glances around as if searching for someone. “Don’t tell me you’re out here by yourself at this hour.”

  I fold my arms against the chilly late-night wind and shrug.

  He curses under his breath, something along the lines of “crazy” and “rich people thinking they’re invincible.” Unlocking the door, he uncouthly ushers his date inside and then me. Rough much?

  “Left him up on the balcony an hour ago,” he tells me.

  And that’s where I find him, lounging back on a sun-bed, a green hand-towel thrown over his face, two beer bottles on the ground.

  I can’t tell if he’s asleep or not. One arm is hanging off the sun-bed, dangling near the beer bottles, the other is resting on his stomach.

  I stand there watching him for a long time, until I hear him mutter under the towel, “I can smell you, Serena.”

  Really? I step further
out onto the balcony, sidling toward the sun-bed. The crashing waves against the shore sound so much louder up here. Or is that the sound of my heart?

  “Oh, yeah?” I say. “What do I smell like?”

  “Bullshit and cowardice.”

  Umbrageous, but it’s the truth. I am full of shit and I am a coward.

  I yank the hand-towel from his face.

  He stares up at me, flat and expressionless. “Your ex escorted you?”

  “Yes,” I lie. Better he thinks Max escorted me here than to freak out that I came alone. I remember him cautioning me that first night. If only I’d listened…

  “Man, I’d hate to be him.” The chuckle that follows is bitter. “Almost feel sorry for the guy.”

  Another truth that makes me wince. Although Max knows he’s the only man I’ve ever slept with—pre-Kholton—he’d confessed that it’s not easy for him to watch me parade with other men, whether ruse or real. We were together for five years, after all. We were in love.

  Kholton scans me up and down, my little floral dress, my gel sandals. “You came to give me what I want?”

  “No.” I throw one leg over the sun-bed and straddle him. He’s already hard. Predictable. “I’m here to take what I want.”

  When I lean in to kiss him he turns his head.

  I try to force his face back to me but he grabs my wrist.

  I grind against his erection.

  He bucks up his pelvis to get me off him, but I fist his shirt and hold on. He dodges me when I try to kiss him again. Grabs my other hand and jackknifes up.

  We’re eye to eye, nose to nose, mouth to mouth, glaring at each other, panting in each other’s faces. Not from exertion, but desire.

  He’s so fiercely hot my heart aches.

  I shift and sink my teeth into the flesh of his forearm.

  He drops my hand at once and growls.

  I go in to kiss him again and, this time, he meets me halfway. His fingers curl in my hair as he kisses me with rough passion. Our tongues clash and battle it out. He’s mad at himself for giving in. I’m mad at myself for using him.

  I rock against his hard-on. A throbbing bundle of need pounds like a migraine between my legs.

  He tugs my head back by my hair so my neck is bared to him, and then he feasts on it, sucking my skin so raw I know it’s going to leave a mark.

  His other hand dips between my legs and finds me bare. “Christ,” he growls against my skin.

  He fingers my slippery, swollen clit.

  Head tilted back to the sky, I mewl.

  Abruptly, his hands are gone. I look down to see he’s undoing his pants. To speed things up, I ease up so he can get himself out, hard and promising.

  Quivering and impatient, I shift and hover above it.

  Squeezing the head, he lifts his gaze to mine. He resents me in this moment, but I don’t care. I smack his hand away and sink down on him, instantly soothing the ache inside me.

  When I take it to the hilt, he sucks air through his teeth.

  God, I love the feel of him filling me.

  Gripping my ass, he begins rocking me against him. “This all you want?” he grunts out. “My cock?”

  In answer, I cling to his shoulders and ride him like I mean it.

  He rips down the front of my dress and devours my breasts, deep moans rolling in his throat. He palms them, cups them, squeezes them, sucks them, marks them. It’s fuel, food for the whirlwind of pleasure building up inside me like a hurricane, getting stronger and stronger.

  I ride him, harder, wilder, faster. I’m panting, sweating, hanging on for dear life.

  Out of nowhere, my orgasm spin-kicks me like a samurai and I convulse, rocking, shaking, stifling my cries.

  While my body is overcome with rippling euphoria, unable to keep riding him, Kholton grips my hips to still me and begins pumping upward, hard, fast, relentless.

  “This what you came for, right?” he grits out. “Take it. Fucking take it.”

  “Oh…Oh gah…Please…Argh,” I wail as quietly as I possibly can.

  His pumps are merciless, punishing, delicious. It hurts so freaking good. Yes, no, yes.

  Falling back on the sun-bed, he takes me with him, hugs me to his chest, and resumes pumping into me. It’s not long before his unremitting pounding has me unexpectedly imploding all around him again.

  With a growl and a curse, he follows suit, filling me with his seed. Warm and sticky. My walls clench and milk every last drop from him.

  Like two balloons tied by a single string, we deflate together, a sweaty, panting, tangled mess.

  I tried my best to be quiet, but Kholton didn’t. Brock might be too busy with his girl of the night to have heard us, but if there’s anyone down on the beach or awake in neighboring houses, they most certainly heard. Probably even saw us, too.

  But I don’t care. I’m so hot for Kholton I’d have sex with him on a packed subway.

  “What time does your plane leave?” he asks after an extended moment of ragged breathing.

  “Eight.” My face is tucked under his neck. “We have to stop in Washington for a few days before heading back home.”

  I wait for him to speak again but he doesn’t. “Can I sleep over?”

  His chest puffs up and deflates with a sigh. “You either want me or you don’t, Serena. You can’t have it both ways.”

  “I know.” I press myself tightly to him. “But I’m selfish.”

  He doesn’t reply with words, but his arms come around me and hug me even closer to him.

  It’s answer enough.

  He’s selfish, too.

  Kholton

  Well, that didn’t take long.

  I knew that the moment I gave in and sank into the cum-sucking quicksand of Serena Bentley, that I’d be a goner. Man card revoked.

  I fought it for so long because I knew this would happen. I resisted, ate my urges and jacked off until my palms were like marble.

  I knew. I knew she’d have me wrapped around her finger if I tasted her. I knew I’d care more than I should. Knew I’d want more.

  Still, I bit the apple and now she’s got my head fucked. I hate it. I hate that I give a shit. I shouldn’t care that she leads men on and lets them touch her. And I especially shouldn’t be bitching about it.

  I’ve never been so disappointed in myself. I’m ashamed. So weak and dickless.

  Pathetic.

  But hell, Serena’s pussy is like sorcery. Her touch like black magic. All she needs to do is breathe in my direction and it’s over. Every defense I throw up crumbles like the Wall of Jericho.

  I don’t even know why I’m pushing it. It’s not as if anything can come of it. She’s a job. I stole from her. The job is done and sooner or later I’ll have to go ghost on her.

  The whole thing is futile. We should have never screwed. I broke my own goddamn rule and now I’ve got more welts than a Submissive.

  Whipped.

  Hashtag that shit.

  Twenty - Eight - Kholton

  “Not her father. Her.”

  Center City, Philadelphia

  I’ve been dreading this stop since I received that text from Teddy, afraid of whatever it is she has discovered. It was fun being in the Serena bubble.

  Now, it’s back to reality.

  Two weeks ago, I asked my girl Teddy to take a deeper look into my client. Like Natalie, she’s a secret government agent who’s got access to resources that can unearth anything, no matter how deeply buried.

  But now I’m second-guessing if I should bother to go deeper or if I should just finish the job and move on with my life. A life without Serena.

  Because, isn’t it all really about her?

  Deliver the item and leave her. Or find a justifiable reason not to deliver the item and keep her.

  I drum my fingers on my knees as I wait on a park bench, looking out at the Delaware river. Teddy’s late, and Teddy doesn’t do late. She’s too anal for tardiness.

  It’s early July, the s
tart of hurricane season. Damp air and erratic weather. Windy today, still and humid tomorrow. Hot as an oven today, chilly as bare ass tomorrow.

  The weather’s just about perfect for noontime. Cool air, singing birds and harried college students.

  Teeth grinding with impatience, I check my watch. An hour late. This is so unlike Teddy that I almost resign myself to the possibility that she’s standing me up.

  But when I look up again, she’s there, like magic. My gaze lands on her and my annoyance instantaneously dissipates.

  Curly golden hair with wild bangs frame her face and big silver eyes shine behind thick, black glasses. With a petite frame, she’s cute but she dresses like the geek she is, her blouse buttoned up to her neck, a pleated skirt, black stockings, and ballet flats. Grinning wide, I stand up and scoop her into a bear hug. I love the shit out of this tiny little Brit. Such a complete genius and whizz, that although she’s British, the US government couldn’t resist poaching her.

  Like Natalie, I got to know Teddy through working jobs together in the past. But unlike Natalie, no hanky-panky ever went down between us. We had a lot in common and were both genuinely interested in each other as friends. We developed a strong bond and our friendship has been solid and dependable for years now.

  “Put me down,” she protests when I lift her up and spin her around, but she’s cackling.

  I set her down and tug her golden ponytail. “How’s it going, Geek Girl.”

  She pushes her glasses up on her nose with one finger. “Stressful at work, blissful at home.”

  “And your other half?” I ask, sitting back down.

  “Suspicious.” She slides her bag off her shoulder and sits down next to me. “We were supposed to have lunch and I told him something came up. I pulled the old ‘classified’ card, but I don’t think he believes me, so I can’t stay long, yeah? I need to get back before he starts sniffing around.”

  Oh, her other half, Francis, who’s also with the government is another old “co-worker” of mine and he isn’t thrilled with the fact that I’m best friends with his wife. Can’t blame him, though. Even I get jealous of myself sometimes.