by S. Ann Cole
There. Kiss my ass, Formal.
I read over all the lies in the text. Ha. Busy my ass. Unless obsessively refreshing my Inbox and checking his Instagram counts as work, then yes, I’ve been as busy as a bee. And no, today isn’t “perfect timing”. An hour after I walked out of his apartment would’ve been perfect timing. Also, my father doesn’t know about our arrangement because he’d have my head if he did.
I should be ashamed of myself but I’m not. When I want something, I go to any lengths to get it. And what I want is Kholton Sharpe’s sperm.
“Um, Miss Bentley?”
The sudden voice has me whipping my head to the door. Fiona—my father’s assistant—and five men in business suits stand just inside the door with bemused frowns on their faces.
Oh, right. They need the room.
I must be a sight, sprawled belly-down on the conference table, legs akimbo as I stare anxiously at my screen.
With as much grace as I can muster, I ease off the table, taking care not to flash any of the men, gather my belongings and stride confidently out of the room. “Gentlemen,” I say with a courteous nod, tossing them a deviant smile.
It’s not until I’m back in my office, preparing to head out for another meeting, that a chirp alerts me of an email from Kholton.
Miss Bentley,
No, it’s fine. A suite at AKA is not necessary. Allow me to choose a suitable location.
I will email you the study schedule in an hour.
Enjoy your day.
Regards,
Kholton Sharpe
Freelance Instructor of Mathematics, Physics, Accounts and Finances
Financial Adviser
Krav Maga Instructor
For credentials, please visit sharpeteaching.net
Son of a…
I scowl at the text. Well, hello, Formal. I see you’re back.
Hmm. This is going to be harder than I thought.
Especially as a redhead.
Nine - Serena
“You’ve got a fever.”
Blue Apple - Assisted Living Facility, reads the sign on the looming white-bricked edifice on the Upper West Side. I curse under my breath.
A retirement home. Ugh. I’m familiar with this place. It’s in my stalker files. At 6PM every Tuesday and Saturday, Kholton can be found here. Who does he even know here? It’s almost as if he knows what I’m up to and is deliberately thwarting me.
Too excited to get the ball rolling, I didn’t give much attention to the address when he emailed me earlier. I’d just rattled it off to Beau. A freaking retirement home.
I want to be locked in a warm, comfy room with him, dammit. Ambiance pre-set, unbeknownst to him. I want to be in control. I’ll have no control in a retirement home full of old biddies.
A displeased huff on my lips, I exit the car. No worries, I’m up for the challenge. Whatever it takes to get the next addition to the Bentley family.
Entering the building, I’m taken aback by the white-marble, crystal chandelier luxury that welcomes me. I am not assaulted with piss odor or flowery, allergy-inducing perfumes scents as I usually do in places like these. No grumpy old perverted men or forlorn women, but rather fresh, clean, dehumidified air, spectacular lighting, welcoming comfort in every corner, and smiling, contented faces. In fact, it’s closer to a five-star hotel lobby than a retirement home.
A gray, circular, sectional sofa is situated close to the reception area, and in the center of it sits Kholton, his electric shock of white hair finger-styled to perfection. On either side of him, sits two little old women, while one in a wheelchair parks right in front of him.
He appears to be regaling them with a tale. All lies, I’m sure. The women’s attention is rapt.
The plump silver-haired biddy on his right rests her spotted, papery hand on his thigh, and blatantly begins shifting it toward his crotch. Kholton catches her hand and removes it from his person. Wagging a finger at her, he admonishes her in a patient voice and a small smile. He’s used to it, I realize. He’s their boyfriend. He’s got a senior citizen harem.
He looks up suddenly and notices me watching.
His smile vanishes at once.
Lips pressed tight, he scans me up and down. And all of a sudden, he’s visibly irritated.
I’m wearing a body-clinging color-block work dress with a less-than-professional split on the right thigh. I’m dressed to inspire lust. I don’t care.
Excusing himself from the harem, he pushes to his feet. He’s so darn tall. Clad in khaki slacks, a navy-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a brown leather satchel slung across his body, and shoes to match.
Save for the white hair, he legit looks the part.
Long, self-assured strides eat up the distance between us. Shoulders wide, gaze intense, he’s so suave and smooth in his movements. So unapologetically sexy—even in freaking khakis.
Straightening my posture, I lift my chin and rebuke the arousing tingles crawling all over my skin. I must not get ahead of myself. I must be patient. I must focus if I intend to get this me-hater where I want him. That is, on top of me. Thrusting deep enough for his sperm to score.
“You’re late,” he says levelly, no preamble whatsoever.
“Sorry about that.” I give an apologetic smile. “A meeting went over. Though it’s not like you were bored. You had a whole harem of grannies hanging all over you.”
I peep around his broad shoulders to the wrinkly women, and they’re all glaring at me. Oops. Guess I’m not welcome.
Kholton watches me for a beat, then turns and stalks off in the direction of the elevator. I bite my lip and trot after him. He jabs a rigid finger at the call button.
“You’re wound pretty tight,” I note. “Bad sex? No sex?”
The doors open and we walk in. “Miss Bentley,” he begins, hitting the R button. “The moment you signed that contract this became a student-teacher relationship. I’m not your friend. I don’t care about your personal life and I would appreciate it if you kept your nose out of mine. All our conversations will be strictly professional and educational. Nothing else.”
Pfft. We’ll see about that, Playboy. We will be having sex. Lots of it. “Is that the rule for all your female students, or is it specifically for redheads?”
Dipping his head, he pinches the bridge of his nose and mumbles under his breath, “Why the hell am I doing this?”
“What was that?” I ask, fighting back a smile.
“Nothing.”
I will break you.
From inside my handbag, I pull out my first bag of tricks. Hot, salted cashews. Courtesy of my stalker files, I know he’s obsessed with these. He buys them on his way out and on his way in, every day, from a truck near his house.
As the salty aroma fills the small space, his head whips to me, forehead creased with a frown.
A cunning smile pulls at my lips as I shake the white paper-bag. “I guess that means I’ll be munching on these all on my own then. Because I only share my nuts with friends.”
He eyes the bag. Licks his lips. Then his gaze narrows. “That’s right.”
“Oh, well...” I shrug and open the bag, the smell of fresh, roasted cashews lashing the air like a whip. I pop one into my mouth, close my eyes, and hum. “Hmm. So good.”
When I open my eyes again, he’s staring at me.
I lick my lips. That’s right, I’m going to break you. You’re the player, but I’m the slayer. “Come on. You know you want it.”
He looks away, but I don’t miss the bob of his Adam’s Apple.
The doors open and deposit us out onto an amazing rooftop terrace, which boasts a stunning view of the city and Hudson River.
“This is one seriously luxurious retirement home,” I murmur, trailing behind him. “Killer view they’ve got here.”
The terrace is clean and beautifully decorated with cone-shaped shrubs, palm trees, moss, and pots of flamboyant plants. High-polished wooden chairs, tables and benches. Air fresh and breezy cool
, I understand now why he picked this place.
We choose a two-seat table close to the wall. Just as I’m sitting down, an elderly woman in a mobility chair rolls up to our table. “I smell cashews.” Her voice is strong for her age, somewhat regal. Making her stand out even further is her black and white hair. Not salt-and-pepper black and white, but half-and-half black and white. As in, the right half is a dull, grayish black, while the left half is full white. Long, curly, frizzy. On top of that, she’s wearing a suit that I can tell costs no less than two-grand, along with what appears to be a sizable diamond broach above her left breast.
Sticking her hand out, she demands, “Hand them over, Collin.”
Collin?
He lifts his satchel over his head. “I didn’t get any today, Naan.”
“Bullshit,” she snaps, startling the heck out of me. “I can smell them. Now, be a good grandson and give me those damn cashews.”
He laughs, then gestures to me, making the woman aware of my presence. “Naan, this is a new client, Serena. Serena, this is my foul-mouthed granny, Naan.”
I offer a smile along with my hand. “It’s such a wonderful pleasure to meet you, Naan.”
Indeed, it is. Considering I haven’t been able to unearth any information on his family no matter how deep the background check, it’s a relief to finally meet a relative.
Through sharp, shrewd eyes, she looks up at me with such command and authority that I almost believe the nuts are hers and I stole them. She demands, “Hand them over.”
I glance at Kholton and he shakes his head. “Naan, those are salted. And Dr. Cornwell said you should watch your sodium intake.”
“That Dr. Cornwell is a little bitch,” is her response. “A coward. I will not allow the fear of death to control what I eat. I’m going to die one way or another. Whether it be death by sodium or death by masturbation.”
Kholton groans. “Naan.”
I giggle.
“Hand over them nuts, Missy,” she hisses at me.
I hand them over.
Kholton shoots me a glare.
Naan lifts the paper-bag to her nose and sniffs long and deep. “Hell, yes. If this is what death smells like, then life can lick my balls.”
Kholton shakes his head. “Naan, we’ve got work to do. Go bother someone else.”
“Be quiet,” she curtails him, shaking the bag of nuts while eying me closely. “You’re Serena Bentley.”
I confirm, “I am.”
“My Collin saved you.”
I nod. “He did.”
“Hmm.” Her piercing gaze never leaving me, she tosses a nut into her mouth. “I know what you want from him,” she states matter-of-factly. “You’re a bitch in heat with a swollen vulva right now. I can smell it all over you.”
This jolts me back. “Excuse me?”
“Naan,” Kholton reprimands. “Cool it.”
“You’re in heat.” She waggles her brows at me. “You’ve got a fever.”
Yep. A baby fever. How can she tell? How can she tell?!
I must have an alarmed look on my face, because Kholton frowns now. Curious, he asks, “What’re you talking about, Naan?”
“Oh, nothing. Nothing.” She quickly stuffs a handful of nuts in her mouth.
Huh? Why isn’t she ratting me out? He’s her grandson. I’m the stranger who’s on a mission to steal his sperm. She should hate me. She should be warning him to run for the hills.
“Naan—”
“Get to work, kids.” She spins her mobility chair around. “I won’t take up any more of your time.” And she’s gone before her grandson can get another word out.
He eyes me with suspicion. “What’s she on about?”
I shrug. “Heck if I know. Why does she call you Collin?”
It’s his turn to shrug. “Heck if I know. Her head’s going.”
Now it’s my turn to be suspicious. He’s hiding something.
But so am I.
Our eyes lock, challenging each other.
He opens his satchel.
I open my bag.
He gets out a fattened folder with my name on it, a ballpoint pen, a calculator, and an iPad.
I get out the required text book, a wire-bound notebook, a fountain pen, and my iPad.
Eyes like silver lightening, he holds my gaze with a fierce grip.
I don’t back down.
He wants to ask questions as much as I do. It’s a tit for tat battle. But neither of us are up for the tat part of it, just the tit. Pun intended.
It all comes down to how important our truths are to us, for them to remain hidden. Mine is hella important. Might as well stamp that bad boy with a big fat Top Secret. His is probably something dumb like, ‘The name Collin felt gay and I hated it’ or something.
The tit for tat game is so not worth it. He’ll never go for it if I asked him outright to impregnate me and then disappear forever. He can’t even stand me, let alone be willing to have a red-haired baby with me.
Nope. Noooope. Not going to risk it. Therefore, I’ll let him keep his secret, while I keep mine.
I reach inside my handbag for one final thing. A second paper-bag of hot, salted cashews. Rest it on top of my text book. Out of his reach.
I smile. “Shall we begin?”
He glances at the paper-bag, conflicted. Shakes his head and opens the folder.
He drums his fingers, eyes flicking to the paper bag again. “Screw it,” he mumbles, right before he lunges for the bag of hot nuts.
Checkmate.
Ten - Serena
“Find another tutor.”
My assistant runs smack into me as I’m leaving my office to go meet Alaric for lunch.
“It’s lunch time,” I say as she opens her mouth to speak. “Whatever it is, it has to wait. Especially if it’s David Doucheface.”
“Um, it’s your dad,” she informs me. “I told him it was your lunch hour and he replied, and I quote, ‘I don’t give a shit. Tell her to get her ass up here’.”
Uh-oh. I make an eek! face and she nods. “He seemed really angry. Maybe it’s about David?”
Nope. I sigh. I know exactly what it’s about. “Call Alaric. Tell him Mr. Bentley’s in Mad King mode so I’m going to be a bit late.”
My father’s waiting for me on his throne, his crown of fury askew, unwilling to hold out his scepter. Ready to sentence me to death.
I take careful steps into his vast, overly masculine office. All dark wood and hunter-green, a panoramic vista. “You wanted to see me?”
From behind his giant oak desk, he jabs a finger at the tufted leather chair in front of it, “Sit.”
I don’t move. I hate it when he’s like this. I’m not afraid of him, I just hate it when he’s mad at me. “I’m not sure I want to…?”
“Serena,” he says, tone threatening. “Sit. Down.”
“Daddy—”
“For the love of God, ‘Rena!”
“Okay, okay.” My hands go up in surrender as I move across the office and sit down. “Look. I’m seated. Happy?”
Mouth set in a firm, disappointing line, he picks up a folder and slaps it down in front of me. I don’t need to look to know what’s inside. A part of me anticipated this, too.
It’s not a question when I say, “You’re having me followed.”
“You were kidnapped a few months ago,” he thunders. “Of course I’m having you followed!”
“Daddy—”
“Why, ‘Rena?” He sounds hurt. “Why would you do this?”
I fiddle with one corner of the folder as I mumble, “I’m expanding in Finance. I need to start sharpening my edges if I’m supposed to run this company one day.”
He shakes his head, disbelieving. “When I pushed and pushed you to pursue finance, what did you tell me?”
“That numbers are boring?”
“And they’re not now?” he asks.
Well, yeah. Numbers are important, but a snooze. Only when Kholton Sharpe is teaching me d
o I find numbers exciting. Because I get to be close to him and smell him and ogle at him. “Nope,” I lie. “I’ve matured.”
“Bullshit,” he spits. “Why him? Of all the tutors out there, why him?”
“He’s the most qualified.” I shrug. “Have you seen his resume? He’s like a whizz. Not to mention he has connections to top colleges that allow his students to sit the final exams on campus and earn their degree. Of course, it’s for a hell of a price, but not many tutors can offer that.”
This piques his interest, and I know he’s about to prick my bubble. “And just how does some average man from Williamsburg have ‘connections’ with top colleges?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.”
“No, no, sweetheart.” He shakes his head. “You should care. You should pay attention and ask questions.”
Oh, Christ. I should just tell him the truth. That I really don’t care about numbers or degrees or how he has the connections he does. What I care about is getting knocked up and giving birth to a cashew-loving, numbers whizz and Krav Maga badass of my own. But he would lose his marbles if I tell him the truth, so I let him believe the lie.
“Find another tutor,” he commands. “I don’t trust this man.”
“Like hell,” I object. “Do you have any idea how expensive this guy is? I already paid in-full and it’s non-refundable.” This is a lie. Students can cancel at any time and request a refund on the studies not completed. But I can’t let him rip my plant from the ground before it’s begun to sprout.
“Let him keep it,” he insists. “I’ll cover the costs with a new tutor.”
“I don’t understand.” I’m getting irritated now. “Why do you hate him so much? He saved my life, he didn’t sell the story, and he refused all of your ‘compensations’. How many people do you know who would turn down a million dollars? He’s making a living the honest way, has a killer resume, a clean record, and he’s still a villain to you?”
He appears perturb that I know what he’s been up to. “He told you, huh?”
“Of course, he did,” I crack. “The guy straight up tried to kick me out of his house thinking I was there for the same reason. What you did was insulting and cold. That’s the kind of thing that make people like us look like assholes.”
