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.”
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.