Twenty - Two - Serena

“You want me to be?”

 

 

 

I press the doorbell and step back.

It’s late, and I shouldn’t be here, but I can’t help it.

I fought long—fifteen minutes—and hard—halfheartedly—not to come knocking, but here I am. Actually, I might have been here sooner if it wasn’t for that bland dinner party with the Webbers that I was obligated to attend.

Okay. So, I didn’t fight at all.

Seeing him today was like sunrise. Paul is nice. But he’s no Kholton.

Kholton is in a category all by himself. He lights up my body, ignites my soul. He makes me feel butterflies like a teenage girl. All without touching me.

The door jerks open and Brock’s big frame stands across the threshold. Clad in all-black and steel-toe boots, he smells good, too. “Yeah?”

“Hey,” I greet. “It’s nice to see you again. All is well?”

He just stares at me, waiting. Okay, then. Maybe he doesn’t remember me? It’s not as if we had exchanged words. I highly doubt it, though. He’s probably just a jerk like his twin.

“Want something?” he prods.

Yep, he’s a jerk. “Seriously? You don’t know why I’m here?”

“Who am I? Nostradamus?”

“I see being a dick runs in the family.” I roll my eyes. “Khol. I’m here to see Khol.”

“S’all you had to say.” He steps aside, holding the door open for me to enter. “Upstairs. Second door on the left. Think he’s out cold, though.” He snags a jingle of keys off the side table by the door. “Let him know I’m out for a bit.”

“Where—” I start, but am shut up by the door slamming shut.

These men are some real unmannerly assholes.

The beach house has a nice open layout and is as modern and clean on the inside as it is on the outside. Lots of white and squares, with a few masculine touches here and there.

A box of pastries in one hand, my oversized handbag stuffed with running gear and toiletries in the other hand—just in case I don’t make it back home tonight, fingers crossed— I slowly make my way up the staircase to the second floor.

The door is ajar, so I gently push it open. It’s dark, but I can make out the shape of his long, lean frame stretched out on his back, one arm loose over his abdomen, the other bent awkwardly above his head. His audible snoring indicates he’s in deep slumber.

Entering the room, I switch on the bedside lamp, set the box of pastry on the nightstand, and dump my bag on the floor. Sandals off, I climb into bed next to him.

I lean over and sniff him. He smells like the beach, with an undertone of alcohol. He’s been drinking.

I’ve been high on adrenaline since I saw him earlier, so I’m far from sleepy. I want to wake him and ravish him, but I’m not sure what kind of day he’s had, what with him being here on “family business” and all. Which is confusing as hell, since as far as I know, he’s been expelled by them.

Arching over the edge of the bed, I get my iPad from my bag on the floor, then lean back against the headboard and open my Kindle app to my current read.

About an hour has passed with a 43% dent in my reading progress, when I glance over at Kholton and find him watching me. I got so lost in the story that I didn’t even realize his snoring had stopped.

I sit up from my slouch against the headboard. “You’re awake.”

“Is that smut?” he asks, voice sleepy, hoarse.

I laugh. “Nope. It’s about a storm-chaser. Two sisters and a boy with white hair, like you.”

“Hmm. When did you get here?”

I close out of the app and set my device on the nightstand. “About an hour ago.”

Quick as a flash, he reaches out and grabs me, hauling me to him. He buries his face in my neck and breathes me in. “What took you so long?”

I shudder. Light my body up. Ignite my soul. “Some boring dinner party.”

“With the gingerhead?”

When I don’t answer, he pulls back and stares down at me. “You were with him before you came to me?”

“It’s not what you—” I sigh. “Look, I’m just playing nice, okay? We’re trying to land them, the Webbers, for a big project. Paul has been obsessed with me since forever. If I make him think he has a chance, we could get the deal. That’s all it is. Business.”

“You do that often?”

“Do what?”

“Use your beauty and sexuality to get what you want.”

I gaze up at him, his features shadowed in the dim glow of the lamp. “When it’s absolutely necessary, yes.”

“Are you doing that now? With me?”

Boy, you just hit the nail on the head. But I know better than to ever admit to anything. “Screw you.”

“In a minute,” he promises. “You let him kiss you?”

“No,” I bite out. “I know how to lead men on the proper way, thank you very much.” I thrust my hips up. “Them, I lead on. You, I straight up want inside me. No mixed signals. No ifs, buts, or maybes. I want to have sex with you, Kholton Sharpe.”

“About time,” he murmurs, right before he slams his lips to mine.

Overcome with complete pleasure and sexual release, I moan when he grinds himself against me.

My legs fall open, giving him the green light in all areas. A feral growl echoes in his throat as he settles between them, his body hot, solid, and hard against mine.

I’m primed, slicked, eager. I’ve been ready.

He scrapes his teeth along my jaw, retraces it with his tongue. I cling to him like Saran Wrap as he peppers kisses all over my neck, afraid he’ll change his mind and stop.

Fingertips skim along my shoulders. Kisses follow the trail of his fingers. He licks my clavicle, shifting lower.

Hot, experienced hands cup and squeeze my breasts. Lowering his head, he licks and nips and flicks my hardened nipples under the thin material of my dress, hands kneading, squeezing, killing me slowly.

A desperate sound escapes me, my body squirming, lit like a furnace.

Tender hands drift caressingly down my sides, over my hips, and soon, one’s between my thighs. There, he finds me bare and slick, dripping for him.

“Christ.” He finds my eyes. “You came prepared.”

I’m shameless. “I told you it’s yours, didn’t I?”

We both inhale sharp breaths as his fingers slide through my slippery wet heat. I exhale slowly, carefully, controlling my breathing, my excitement, lest I come all over his fingers right there and then. I’ve been wanting this for so long. Too long.

He withdraws his fingers and lifts them to his mouth, licking the glistening liquid clean with his tongue, all while holding my gaze with pent-up lust and promise.

My walls clench in reaction. He’s so damn hot.

In one smooth motion, he grips my hips and flips me over, pressing my face into the powder-fresh pillows. Then he urges me up onto my knees so my ass is in the air.

He shoves up my dress. Rubs my ass-cheeks. Squeezes and caresses them. Then, before I can anticipate it, his hot mouth is there, tongue dancing through my heat.

I let out a cry of sheer ecstasy. This…feels…amazing.

He eats me from behind like it’s his profession, running his nose up my crack and back while two fingers pump slowly in and out of me.

Involuntarily, I push back on his face, hips rotating, body winding tighter and tighter, preparing to explode.

“Oh God!” I press my face into the pillow. “Kholton.”

He spanks my ass in response, eating the will out of me. Dammit, but he’s too damn good at this. I’m fighting so hard not to come—it’s a losing battle.

Having him eating me out from behind like it’s his duty is a glorious experience that I don’t want to end. 

But when I feel his thumb move up my crack and massage my pucker while he sucks on my clit, I know it’s over. Just as his thumb penetrates the entrance, I implode. Shatter into smithereens, sharp shards of screams and epithets flying everywhere. Splinters of pleasure scar my body.

He reduces the intensity, massaging me with his tongue. Licking and petting.

Once I’m all calmed and lax, he flips me to my back again.

“You okay?” he whispers.

A loopy smile stretches my lips as I nod. I’m so okay I don’t even know what day it is.

Palms to the mattress, he dips down and touches his lips to mine. I kiss him back with fervor and exuberance.

He chuckles at my avid hunger and draws back.

He grabs the hem of his shirt and hauls it over his head. 

I lick my lips. Yes, yes, yes, to all that beautiful, taut, tan, cut, glorious perfection.

He shoves his sweatpants down his hips and…there it is. The object of my fantasies. Even more beautiful than I imagined. Longer, thicker, with a cherry-red head.

It’s better. So much better.

Dark excitement twisting in my belly, I wet my lips again. 

Fisting himself, he expels a low groan. “Condoms,” he breathes out, jerking his chin to the nightstand. “Grab one for me.”

I don’t. I can’t get pregnant with condoms. “Um, I totally forgot about this,” I hedge, “and I hope it’s not a problem but…”

“What?”

“I’m allergic to latex.”

His self-stroking pauses. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. There are non-latex condoms if you—”

“Useless,” he says, shaking his head. “They break on me every single time and I don’t trust them for STI protection.” He sighs and drops back on his knees. “Shit.”

The heck? Is he really not going to have sex with me? “Khol, I’m on the pill and I’m clean. I’ve only ever had sex with one man and we were together for five years. There’s been no one else after that.”

Crazy thing is, I should be the one worried about having unprotected sex with him. He’s the playboy. Yet, I’m not, because I’ve met him. He’s too aware and ahead of himself to go around having unsafe sex.

“No. I’ve never…”

Dammit, he’s not biting.

“Just this once,” I cajole, propping up on my elbows. “We can find an alternative later on.”

I run my palms over his abs, lean in and trace his V with my tongue. “Please.”

Wrapping my fingers around his own on his cock, I urge him to resume stroking.

A strained noise leaves him and he gives in, our hands moving in unison.

I lean in and lick the head, run my tongue through the slit. The sound that escapes him is ferocious as he shoves me back on the bed, restraint broken.

My dress is up and off me in a blink, sailing across the room.

Fresh arousal pools at my core with anticipation bated for penetration.

He sucks one nipple in his mouth while he fondles the other. I arch up, encouraging, fingers curling in his hair. More, please. More.

Drawing back to his knees, he lifts one of my legs over his shoulder. His thumb finds my clit and circles a few times before sliding down to my entrance and pressing in. “My pussy?”

“Y-yes,” I gasp out.

He withdraws his thumb and drags it across his lips, glossing them with my arousal. “Damn right it is.”

Gripping his cock, he glides it up and down my folds, mixing stale cum with fresh arousal. I’m restless, my body playing its own game of Snake & Ladder, twisting and turning. It’s torture.

Face dark with lust and desire, he hisses through his teeth, riveted with his own ministrations. “You’re hot as sin, you know that?” He pokes the head at my entrance, circling, teasing. “Pink. Wet. Sweet…So sweet.”

He hisses again, and as if he can’t take it anymore, he plunges in. All the way home. Eyes rolled to the ceiling as if he’s entering heaven. “Shiiit.”

“Yesss,” I breathe with sexual relief. I feel full, stuffed, owned.

He moves. Slow at first. Extended withdrawal, deep plunge in. He kisses my leg on his shoulder, his expression reverential.

I open up and let him have me.

But before long, the adoration is gone and a sex demon takes over as he throws my other leg over his shoulder and screws me harder and deeper than my ex ever could.

He knows pace, and he knows rhythm. He knows when to go deep and when to ease up. He knows where and how to touch me at the right time to make me cry out for more. It’s everything.

Sliding my legs from his shoulders, he bends them to my chest and keeps them fixed there.

In this position, I am as bare and exposed to him as I can possibly get. It’s all his.

He rubs the head of his cock over and around my button of nerves. Slippery circles again and again, ratcheting up the pressure until I can’t take it anymore…

I seize up. A punctuating beat of silence, and then I’m busted open. The sluice gates ripped away as the current carries me off. My heart thump, thump, thumping out of my chest.

Kholton doesn’t wait this time. He thrusts in deep, making certain I feel him, and then he takes me to another universe.

His groans grow deeper and deeper, guttural. His thrusts fall out of rhythm, uncontrolled. Swifter, almost spastic.

He lets go of my legs and crashes on top of me. Cups my face and kisses me hard. Hips pumping wild and rough.

I undulate, throwing it right back at him, giving as I take.

He crushes his face to my neck, nipping my skin, muttering intelligible garble.

I lock my legs around his waist and force him deeper into me. At this, he growls out a throaty curse and sucks hard on my flesh as his body stiffens, his cock pulsing inside me, filling me up.

My body sings. Rejoices. Yes. Yes! It’s happened. Kholton Sharpe’s sperm is inside me.

As his body sags from pleasure above me, mine sags with relief beneath him.

“Holy shit,” he pants into my neck. “I’ve never…It’s never…It’s never felt like that before.”

“Hmm,” I hum, overly satisfied. “The magic of skin to skin.”

He pushes up on one elbow and finds my gaze. “Or maybe it’s just you.”

I arch up and kiss him, legs still locked around him to keep him there as long as possible. Higher chances…

“You’re…wow,” I say.

He grants me a lazy, post-coital smirk. “I know.” He kisses my chin, my cheeks, my nose, my eyes, forehead, lips, neck… He inhales me, cups my breasts, and kisses both nipples. It’s as if he can’t stop touching me, kissing me.

“I smell chocolate,” he whispers to my cleavage.

“It’s the éclairs.”

The body worshiping comes to an abrupt stop as his head shoots up. “You have éclairs?”

“Yeah.” I laugh because his expression is just comical. “I brought you pastries. Éclairs and strawberry cheesecake.”

In a flash, he lurches off the bed and swivels around the room until he spots the pastry box on the nightstand. He leaps for the box and flips it open, taking a long sniff. “Mmmgod,” he sighs and closes the lid. “C’mon. We need wine for this.”

Setting the box down, he disappears into the adjoined bathroom, returning a few moments of throat gurgling and running water later.

As he’s donning his sweatpants, I tell him, “Go on. I’ll be right down. I just need a few minutes to recover.”

“Yeah?” His half-grin is wickedly delicious as he kneels one knee onto the bed and dips down to suck on my nipple. “Your tits are unbelievable.” He kisses a slow journey up my neck until our lips are connected.

I touch my hand to the side of his face and kiss him tenderly. A piece of my heart breaks away and floats toward him. I’m not being careful. I’m not playing safe. I’m riding bareback and setting myself up to get hurt.

But it’s difficult. Kholton’s touches are like no one else’s, his kisses are like no one else’s. No one’s ever looked at me the way he does, like I’m something more, something he needs but is afraid to have. With every kiss, every touch, every look, I lose a piece of my heart to him.

Unsafe. Unwise. Reckless.

With one final nip at my lip, he backs away from the bed and snatches up the pastry box. “You have five minutes before I devour it all.” 

I watch him stride out the door and wait for a count of thirty seconds before I grab a pillow, stuff it under my rear, and stick my feet up in the air.

Kholton Sharpe is unpredictable. Who knows what kind of mood he’s going to be in tomorrow? He just might wake up and decide we can’t have sex again because insert stupid-dumb reason here.

Therefore, I have to make use of the product. This needs to work. It’s everything I want. And even if I do fall for him, when he’s bored and through with me, at least I will forever secretly own a part of him. Flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood.

After sufficient time has passed, I dash to the bathroom and clean up. Spotting Kholton’s discarded t-shirt on the floor, I snatch it up and drag it over my head.

Downstairs, I find him at the breakfast bar on what appears to be an intense phone call. Bent neck and harsh, inaudible whispers.

As I approach, he glances up and mumbles, “Talk later,” into the phone.

“Girl troubles?” I ask, hiking up on a tall chair next to him. It’s well after one o’clock in the morning. Who else would he be talking to at this hour, if not a woman?

I ignore the sting, the bite beneath my skin. He’s not my boyfriend and I’m on the home stretch of getting what I want. I’m not about to screw that up with jealousy. I have no business being jealous. What I should be focused on is getting as much of him inside me as possible.

Two empty saucers, two forks and two glasses of wine sit on the island.

He picks up one of the wine glasses and hands it to me, ignoring my question. “I bit into your éclair. You took too long.”

I peek inside the pastry box. Sure enough, a bite of my éclair is gone, and there’re only crumbs left where the second éclair had been. I laugh. “Such a gentleman you are.”

With his fork, he transfers one slice of strawberry cheesecake onto a saucer. “If I wake up with a four-pack instead of a six-pack tomorrow, it’s on you, Red Witch.”

I roll my eyes and take a sip of wine. “So, is everything alright with the family?”

He forks cake into his mouth with cool nonchalance, but I don’t miss the strong dip of his Adam’s apple or the tightness around his eyes. “My father’s dying.”

“Oh my God.” I reach over and touch his forearm. “I’m so sorry, Khol.”

“I’m not.”

I understand his reaction. It could easily be misread as indifference, but it’s not. It’s pain and resentment, confusion and disbelief.

Family is family, no matter how cruel they’ve been to you. There is an intrinsic love for family that never dies. You resent that love and your inability to give them the hate and unforgiving coldness they deserve. We are made from a God whose name is Love, so hate will never win, especially within blood.

“He’s leaving the company to me,” he says after a while. “And in true controlling, vindictive Baron Capshaw fashion, he tied my siblings’ inheritance to me. If I try to sell the company or sign it over to my older brother, they get stripped.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” I frown. “Where will the money go?”

He laughs, but it’s bitter and scornful. “To his mistress and their two little girls. The second family no one knew he had.”

“Wow,” I mutter in disbelief. “I—wow. I’m sorry, but your father’s despicable.”

He stuffs his mouth with more cheesecake. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I really am sorry, though.” I flip his hand over, palm up, and press a kiss to the center. “It sucks. All of it. But I’m here if you need me.”

Canting his head to the side, he looks at me as if he doesn’t know me, or maybe doesn’t understand. A look that’s ambiguous and uncertain.

I wonder what he thinks of me, if he can guess that I’m here because I need something from him. Can he see through me to the deceit? Can he see all the little red lies seeping out of my pores like blood?

“Actually, I need you right now.”

Dropping his fork, he leans over and presses his thumb between my lips.

I open up and suck on it. Chocolate and Kholton.

His eyes glaze over, lids low with lust. His thumb thrusts in and out of my mouth, while his other hand moves down to his tented sweatpants, eyes locked on my lips. “Serena…”

I moan around his thumb in response.

Freeing himself, he wraps his fist around the monster, sucking air through his teeth as if he’s in pain.

Forcing his thrusting thumb out with my tongue, I hop off the chair and sink to my knees before him. 

His lips part as lust-crazed eyes watch me hijack his cock from his fist and circle my tongue around the head. 

Slowly, I take him in my mouth, his veins pulsing against my tongue.

He moves one hand to the base, as if daring me to come that far.

I accept the challenge. I don’t stop until my lips meet his circled fingers at the base. My throat is stuffed full of him, my eyes watering.

Abs flexed, he inhales a sharp, shuddering breath. “Shit, yes.”

Slow and steady, I pull back, circling my tongue around the head again. Then, I go in on him. Whipping out all the tricks I know. I lick and suck and tug. I fondle, I play, I tease. I twist and I torture, eliciting the sexiest, throatiest sounds from him.

His hips jerk restlessly, fingers tangled in my hair.

“’S’christ, you’re good,” he breathes out, bucking his hips up.

Through the pulses in his cock, I can feel the rapid beat of his heart. When his groans become growls, his grip on my hair grows tighter and tighter, his hip-thrusts become erratic, I know he’s close, really close.

So I stop at once and jump to my feet. Turn away from him and hike up the t-shirt I’m wearing as I bend over the chair, ass out, waiting.

No way in hell am I about to let his seed go to waste in my mouth.

I hear the sound of his fist pumping back and forth over his shaft. Then I feel his fingers on my soaking wet folds. My core is tight, my walls clenching and impatient for him to fill me.

He grips my ass and squeezes, gritting a curse out through his teeth.

Next, his head is at my opening, and my sex all but sings, quivering in anticipation.

I’m wet and ready and overly-accommodating, so he enters easily. But once he’s in, my walls greedily latch on like a leech, thirsty for his seed. He exhales loud, pleasure-high groans as he pumps in and out of me, fingers working my bud, skillful and patient.

It’s not long before I’m bent in a bow and coming all over his relentless shaft.

He grips my hips and pounds me hard until he’s cursing God and the world. Jerking and spastic, he spills into me.

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.”