by Elodie Colt
I chew at the inside of my lip, grinning. “Last time I checked, there was no Prada bag underneath my pillow, I swear.”
The rustling stops. “Matthew? Shit… Come on in!”
I open the door. Jillian is sitting cross-legged on her double bed, wearing a cropped shirt, yoga shorts, and a flustered expression as she hurries to collect the papers scattered across the cushions.
“Sorry about that.” She sends me a coy grin, stuffing the papers into a textbook. “I thought it was Mom.”
“You don’t say.” I chuckle. “Is it a bad time? I can come back later if—”
“No!” she cuts in, eyes widening in horror. “No. I can do the rest tomorrow. Sorry, my room is a mess. Exam season is always chaos.”
She grabs the pile of textbooks and dumps them onto the nightstand. I’ve never been in Jillian’s room before, and the first thing that comes to my mind when I travel my gaze over text markers littering the glass desk, corkboards hanging askew on the wall, and artificial flowers in the corners is—the complete opposite of Sam’s room.
I shoo the thought away. Tidiness isn’t one of my virtues, either.
“No cleaning staff allowed in here, I take it?” I ask when she flutters around the space to collect random clothes and throws them through a door leading to a massive walk-in closet.
“Nope. I like my organized chaos.”
I sit down on the bed, running my fingers over the gray satin sheets. The mattress bounces when Jillian takes a seat next to me, tugging one leg underneath the other. Her high pony tail sways when she tilts her head to regard me.
“Is there a reason you dropped by?” she asks, dragging her lower lip through her teeth.
“I’m off to Tampa this evening for a few days to check on things.” I place my hand on her naked knee. “I thought we could spend some time together before I leave.”
I send her a suggestive glance from underneath my lashes, scouring her face for any reaction as I circle my thumb over her skin. Her gray eyes collide with mine, her dimples becoming more pronounced as she pokes a tongue into the inside of her cheek.
She puts a hand over mine, looking down at our entwined fingers. “Matthew, I know my mom. I know her angle. She’s pushing you to hook up with me.” She drops her gaze, her bangs flopping over her eyes. “I don’t want you to make any advances on me just because you feel obliged to do so.”
Crushed, she slides her hand from mine, but I tighten my grip, tugging on her fingers. Her eyes snap up to me.
“I’m here because I want to be.” Not a lie, technically. “Obviously, Christina is using every opportunity to set the cogs in motion,” I say cautiously, and Jillian snorts at my choice of words, “but maybe a little nudge was exactly what I needed.”
More like a kick in the ass and a few grand on top, but I keep that trivial information to myself.
Her eyes zig-zag between mine, the surprise etched onto her features as I lean in to brush my lips over hers. She remains stock-still, waiting for me to make the first move this time, but I can tell she’s itching to feel my hands on her gathering from the way her fingers claw into mine over her knee.
She gains confidence when I grab her face and thrust my tongue down her throat, letting me taste her berry lip balm and her yearning for the release she wants me to grant her for the third time now.
The urge to just pin her down and fuck her raw until her bed breaks apart, to push all my pent-up aggression into her, makes me groan into her mouth, but I hold back, trying to give her the passion and tender loving care she deserves. After all, this thing between us isn’t supposed to end with a quickie, and if I want her to fall in love with a guy who can’t offer her more than a farm house and sour cognac breath, I should go the extra mile and make it worth her while.
I caress her naked belly, drawing invisible lines up underneath her shirt. The way I flick her nipples over her bra sets her alight, and she grabs my package, simultaneously fumbling with her shorts. My dick springs to attention when she gives me a hard push, making me fall backward on the mattress. The breath blows out of my lungs in surprise, and soon, she’s straddling my hips, rubbing a peach-colored, lacy thong against my jeans.
Feverishly, I grab the hem of her cropped shirt, yanking her down on me to latch her mouth against mine. Her pony tail whips against my cheek as she dry-humps me with the ambition of a hula hoop gymnast, chafing against the boner in my jeans so hard, I fear she’s about to rub off her clit. Her heavy breaths, though, tell me she’s eager for more friction, so I slap my palms against her naked butt cheeks, docking her to my groin.
Damn, that girl is a savage. A wild cat that has been caged in for too long, and now she’s savoring every second of her freedom. Tearing her lips from mine with a grunt, she pushes herself up, allowing me a gorgeous view of her lithe body writhing like a snake on top of me. A huge damp spot is visible on her thong, and I groan at the sight, letting my eyes slide shut. Jillian moans, too.
But the moment she does, all I see is the picture of the girl next door finding her release on the couch, oblivious to me looming above her.
I snap my eyes open with a jolt, honing them in on the brunette rodeoing on my lap. I claw my nails harder into her ass, channeling my focus on her, and only her.
“Don’t stop,” she whimpers, although I’m not doing anything other than trying to keep my head in the game. I let her prattle her pleas, allowing them to wash over me and down to my groin until her toes curl, and an almighty scream erupts from her.
She brings me to the brink with her, her voice vibrating all the way through my cock as he spills his load into my boxers. I’m close to slapping a hand over her mouth to muffle her tortured squeal, just in case a passerby thinks someone is getting murdered and calls the cops.
With a last moan, she flops down on top of me. I nuzzle her neck as she pants into my shoulder, inhaling the sweet scent of after-sex, bubblegum, and fruity shampoo. Eyes darting up to me, she quirks her lips in a shy smile.
“Sorry about that,” she mumbles.
“What are you sorry about?”
“For skipping the actual sex part. It’s that time of the month…” she grumbles.
Thank God. Wait, what?
She places a hand onto my chest and pushes herself up to wriggle into her shorts. “But I promise we’ll catch up on that when you return.”
My head bobs absently in a nod while I’m still trying to figure out my weird train of thought. The fact that we didn’t hit fourth base is a disturbingly relieving one. As if it would have been a mistake. As if I’m vehemently trying to stay true to the wrong girl for whatever fucked-up reason.
The buzz of Jillian’s phone jerks me out of my reverie.
“That’s my boss,” she mumbles when she picks it up. “Give me a second.”
She flutters out into the hallway to take the call while I push to my feet to adjust my jeans now sticking to my sack like glue. While I wait for Jillian to return, I swing my gaze over her bookshelf. I edge closer, dragging my finger over all kinds of heavy literature—nutrition science, biology, chemistry.
My gaze wanders down to the bottom row stuffed with a few fiction books when something catches my eye. I squat lower, sloping my head. The blue-yellow spine of one of the paperbacks seems oddly familiar. Weird. I can count on my hands how many books I’ve read over the last decade, and I doubt I’d remember half of the titles, let alone the colors of the covers.
I pull it out, examining the front that shows a handsome guy with a naked chest sporting more muscles than Arnold Schwarzenegger in his best years.
Harmless—A Dark Erotic Romance, Book1 the curly font says. Hell, I had no idea Jillian was into this shit. Not that I know much about Jillian other than her knack for vegetables and her general distaste of her profligate mother, but she didn’t strike me as the chic lit reader.
Then it hits me like a bus. I saw the same book in Sam’s tree house yesterday. A dozen identical copies have been stashed in her shelf, but
she closed the sliding door before I could have a closer look, as if afraid I’d figure something out she wanted to keep hidden.
I scan the author’s name underneath the title. Sam K. Sapphire. The name unfurls a fuzzy feeling in my stomach. I remember asking Sam what she does for a living. I also remember her cheeks taking on the color of overripe cherries when she stuttered her answer.
‘I’m an auth… editor.’
I drag my incredulous stare over the name. What are the odds that Sam K. stands for Samantha Kent?
And what are the fucking odds that Sapphire stands for her favorite color?
Jillian slips back into the room, and I push to my feet. She frowns when she notices me standing in front of the shelf with a book in hand.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to nose around,” I say, lifting the book. “Can I ask where you’ve got this from?”
She sweeps over to me to read the title, then shoots me an amused look. “Why, are you into this genre?”
I huff. “No, I… uh, Sofia, my father’s caretaker, likes the author.”
“Oh. I think I borrowed this one from Sam a few years ago. Forgot to give it back, it seems.” She shrugs.
“Can I borrow it?” I ask a little too eagerly and clear my throat. “I’m sure Sofia would love to read it.”
“It’s all yours. Only collecting dust here anyway.”
“Thanks. I’ll leave you to it, then.” I tap a knuckle onto the book, heading for the door. “I’ll check in later again before I hit the road.”
But first, I’ll take the time to dive into Sam’s dirty fantasies.
Fifteen
Matthew
“Where’s my bicycle?” Dad asks, his voice so raspy, I fear his vocal cords are about to snap.
I muster a weak smile that hurts my cheeks. “You gave it to me as a present for my eleventh birthday, Dad.”
“Yes, yes…” His head bops in an absent nod, a heavy wheeze coming out of his bulbous nose. “My son… Do you know where Matthew is?”
Sofia shifts behind me as I brush a hand over the tufts of his wispy hair. His dull, glassy eyes roll aimlessly in their sockets as he tries to focus on me.
“He’s on the plantation planting some new trees,” I choke out.
“Ah, good, good… Tell him to fertilize them right away. They need good nutrition.”
“I will.” I pull the covers up to his shoulders, tucking him in. “Time for your nap, Dad.”
He graces me with one of his rare, wrinkled grins. “Yes, a nap is what I need right now. It was a hard day of work, son, eh?”
I cup his cool cheek with another forced smile, knowing he’ll forget his son the next minute. His eyes drop halfway shut, eyelids twitching as his decaying synapses bring him back to a past only he can see.
Sofia’s hand finds my shoulder. “Come on, boy. You must be hungry. I’ve made some Cuban Sandwiches.”
With a heavy heart, I tag along as Sofia walks out onto the porch. A big plate filled with sandwiches and fries is waiting for me. I grab a piece of warm, toasty Cuban bread, collapsing on the rusty porch swing.
“He’s better when you’re around,” she says when she settles into one of the wooden chairs. “Hasn’t been that chatty for days.”
Her pacifying words are of little consolation, but I show my appreciation with a tight smile as I bite into roasted pork, molten cheese, and juicy pickles. I can feel her gaze on me as I stare at the rows of crops spreading in a grid underneath the setting sun. This time of day is my favorite, when the sun nestles behind the trees, throwing its last rays onto the oranges and making them look like fire orbs burning on the branches.
“Patrick repaired all the wind breakers on the east side,” Sofia goes on, just to kill the silence.
I wipe a sleeve over the mustard clinging to the corner of my mouth.
“I found a copy of Dad’s will today,” I say in a leaden tone. The food I’m forcing down feels as if I’m chewing on the swarm of wasps circling the nest they’ve built in the barn. “He wants to get buried on the plantation, at the farthest end south-east.” Where the sun shines the brightest, and the oranges grow the fastest.
Sofia huffs a throaty chuckle, reaching behind her to open the fridge and pulling out two bottles of orange beer. I brush my greasy fingers on my work pants and take the one she’s handing me.
“Figures. Harry always said he didn’t want to spend eternity on a bleak cemetery where the soil is as fertile as desert sand.”
I put the ice-cold bottle to my lips. The hinges of the swing squeak as I prop my feet onto a wooden stool, crossing my ankles.
“What if I lose the plantation?” The words twist painfully in my mouth, like a handful of thorns. “What if I bury him here and have to sell the land? The next owner will raze every single tree to the ground, build an apartment complex or a hotel or a fucking spa. Dad would rather I throw his bones to the dogs than bury him underneath a mountain of concrete…”
Sofia frowns, propping her elbows onto the table. Her black-brown mop of hair bounces on her head as she tilts it. “I think it’s time you tell me where the five-thousand dollars came from. I respect your aspiration to keep the plantation, but if you’re trying to save it with dirty money, God forbid, I—”
“It’s not dirty money,” I cut in with a hiss.
She settles back in her chair, crossing her arms as she waits for an explanation.
“Christina Robinson offered to help me out if…”
“If?” she presses when I stall.
I smack my lips, knowing she’s going to rake me over the coals and tell me that I’d be an idiot selling my heart just to do my dying father a solid.
“If I marry her daughter.”
I listen to the irrigation sprinklers pfft-pffting in the distance as Sofia drums her fingers onto the table.
“And you agreed,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone.
“I haven’t agreed to anything yet. Not officially.” I tip my head back, looking skyward to watch the clouds moving with the soft summer breeze. “The money she transferred was a foretaste of what’s to come if I tie the knot with Jillian.”
“And that girl, Jillian,” Sofia says cautiously, “is she a good catch?”
“I guess.” Shrugging, I take a deep breath. The air is thick with the scent of mulch and wildflowers. Fresh and rich and natural. It smells of the freedom I don’t want to lose. “Pretty, smart, ambitious… Maybe not the woman to swing a shovel, but the one who knows how to juggle numbers and run a modern-day business.”
I scratch the itchy skin around the band-aid on my neck, anxiously waiting for Sofia’s response, but she just pushes her half-moon glasses up her nose and takes a long swig of her beer.
I turn my body fully toward her. “When you were promised to your husband, had you been in love with him?”
She chuckles, softly shaking her head, but it’s more a where-have-those-times-gone gesture. “Love? God, no. My parents promised me to Eduardo Castillo when I still thought a penis was only growing on animals.”
I snort into my beer bottle.
“I was sixteen when we married, far from a full-grown woman,” she goes on, smiling. “Love was a foreign concept to me. A four-letter word people used to express loyalty and deep friendship.” She throws me a sidelong glance. “Love is a fickle thing, my boy. You never know when it strikes. It can hit you like a lightning bolt, capturing you on the spot, or it can grow gradually, blooming inside your heart over the years. It wasn’t until I gave birth to my first daughter and saw her in Eduardo’s arms that my heart swelled with pure, undiluted love for my husband. And that love never ceased to exit, not even when he died in my arms.”
A harsh gust of wind follows Sofia’s profound words, making the shutters of the barn bang in the wind.
“So, you’re saying I should tie the knot with Jillian and give this marriage a shot?” I say, mixing my statement with a question.
For some reason, I was hoping for Sofia’s objection. Fo
r her to tell me that exchanging vows in front of God means more than signing a prenup, throwing children into the world, and securing thirty acres of land. Instead, she’s substantiating the decision I’ve already made. The right decision, I keep reminding myself.
“I want you to understand that, sometimes, love requires patience, time, and effort,” she says when she takes in my pensive expression. Reaching over, she squeezes my calloused hand. “You have to nurture it and let it grow before you can harvest the fruits.”
I steer the tractor through the orchard, but not even the sputtering engine disrupts my whirling thoughts.
When I left West Palm beach three days ago, with Jillian’s scent on my jeans and her taste on my tongue after our sweet goodbye, I was full of hope. Hope to save my business, protect my inheritance, and fall in love with the girl who’s been sending me sweet ‘I miss you’ texts and hot ‘I’m waiting for you’ pictures over the last few days. We had a video chat the other day that ended in Sofia snatching my phone and telling Jillian embarrassing childhood stories about me for the following hour.
“That girl fell head over heels in love with you,” were Sofia’s words this morning at the breakfast table. “You’d be a fool not to marry her, Matthew Mallory.”
My thoughts exactly, if my memory serves me right, and I still intend to go through with my plan and seal the deal with Christina. And if it’s true that Jillian fell for me, I’ve already cleared most of the hurdles.
Leaves only one. An insignificant but supremely aggravating one that stabs me like a pebble in my shoe, sending a perceptible jolt of pain through my nerve system with every step I take.
And that pebble is a gem with the name Sapphire in it.
I was a good boy, I swear. Haven’t opened the picture once since I came here. The only pictures I allowed myself to admire were the ones Sam sent me. Pictures of the rustic little table she made from the tree trunk, or the candle holder she crafted from a few leftover branches. Each pasted a smile onto my face that I was unable to erase until I had to forcefully recall her parting words.
