by S. Ann Cole
I steal a plain black T-shirt and boxer briefs from Kholton’s dresser. Once I’m appropriate, I go in search of the tutor.
I find the twins in the kitchen, but no sign of Kholton. Both are formally dressed in button-downs and slacks. One is lurking by the stove, waiting for a whistling kettle to calm down. The other is leaning against the wall on the other side of the kitchen, nursing an energy drink.
Their attention is unapologetically on me when I enter, one amused, the other assessing.
I, too, eye them openly, distinguishing which is which. They’re identical in every sense of the word, down to having matching tattoos of a heart, spade, diamond, and clubs on their wrists. But I’m somewhat familiar with Brian, so it doesn’t take me long to tell them apart.
For one, Brock is built like a fighter—dry and shredded, with a chest that looks like it could stop a bullet. Brian’s build is more athletic—broad upper half, a bit more lean to Brock’s burly.
The most prominent distinction between the two, however, is the scar on Brock’s upper lip, either from a knife slash or a bad fall. Both are fine as hell, though. Unique complexion, whiskey eyes, inky black hair. I can’t tell if they’re white, black, or Hispanic. My guess is a mixture of all three, with the latter being the stronger gene.
“Mornin’,” Brian murmurs with a crooked grin.
“Good morning,” I return. “Where’s Khol?”
“Who?” Brian asks, still grinning.
“Khol, “I say. “Kholton. Your roommate?”
He shrugs and lifts the kettle from the stove. “Don’t got a roommate.”
“What?” Confused, I shift my gaze to Brock, but his face could be a brick wall for all the expression he’s showing, so I look to Brian again. “Are you screwing with me?”
He winks. “We sure did a lot of that last night, didn’t we?”
This piece of— Just as I’m about to go all Bitch Bentley on him, I hear the front door open and close.
When the tutor strolls into the kitchen, my heart flutters like butterfly wings.
Earphones in, a gray hoodie pulled over his head, a food bag in one hand, and a two-cup holder with coffee in the other. Head bobbing to music only he hears, he deposits the bag and coffee on the counter.
When he finally looks up, our eyes lock.
He bites his lip.
I lick mine.
Brock grunts and walks out of the room.
Kholton pops his earphones out and drops his gaze.
Brian dunks a teabag into his travel mug. “This the guy you were asking about?”
I lance a glare at him. “You’re a dick.”
He snaps the lid of his travel mug on and winks at me. “A big one.”
Kholton shoots him annoyed look. “Aren’t you late for church?”
Brian takes a sip of his tea as he starts out of the kitchen. As he’s passing Kholton, he stops and whispers loud enough for me to hear, “I’ll say a prayer for you.”
Kholton shoves him away and he laughs. “Bye, Julie!” he calls as he leaves.
“Why do you have a roommate?” I ask. “I mean, you charge an exorbitant amount for your teaching services…”
“New York’s expensive.” He shrugs. “I got you a pita sandwich and coffee. Black. Wasn’t sure how you take it.”
I eye the hot bag. I’m not familiar with the logo or name, but it has the word “organic” on it, so that’s good. Perfect even. The fact that he eats healthy just landed him another gold star.
Rounding the island, I take the coffee cup he’s proffering. “Thanks. I take it black ninety-five percent of the time.”
“And the other five percent?”
“Cappuccino.”
He nods and takes a sip of his own coffee.
“You?” I ask.
“Black, a splash of cream. No sugar.”
I hike up on a stool while he opens the hot bag and takes out the sandwiches. Sipping my coffee, I hungrily watch his long, masculine fingers as they unwrap the sandwiches.
The heck is wrong with me? His fingers? Really?
He slides one of the sandwiches across the counter to me. Egg whites and spinach with melted cheese stuffed in a pita pocket. “Called your driver yet?”
I don’t miss a beat. “Yeah. But he takes Sunday mornings off to attend church with his family, so he won’t be able to make it until noon.” I have no idea where my phone is and Beau’s an atheist.
“And your dad?”
I take a bite of my sandwich before I answer so the lies don’t burn a hole through my deceitful tongue. “Yeah. I told him I’m at my best friend Alaric’s house.”
Truth? Aaron’s probably losing his shit right now. Tough luck. I’m all about me right now. I care about nothing or no one in this moment. I’m not sure what’s happening to me, and it’s probably not a good idea to allow it to keep happening, but it—whatever ‘it’ is—feels good. Almost like a high. I don’t understand it, but I’m sure as hell not fighting it.
I just want to snuggle up next to Kholton and rub my nose against him like a needy puppy.
All while he’s probably dying for me to leave so he can get on with his routine Sunday life.
Too bad, Kholton Sharpe. Too bad. Because I actually like you.
“So,” I say around a mouthful of sandwich, “what do you usually do on Sundays?”
Head down, he takes a bite and chews slowly. He’s avoiding eye contact.
With one hand, I reach over to sweep the hoodie off his head and ruffle his hair. It feels like silk and rebellion. “There.”
He looks over at me, but doesn’t reprimand me for touching him. His expression is more of curiosity.
A few long minutes pass before he answers me with a shrug. “Catch up on all the missed episodes of my favorite series. Prep students’ assignments for the week. Do some research. Head up to the soup kitchen and help out. Then call someone over and we fuck until I fall asleep.”
I ignore the latter. If anyone’s getting screwed tonight, it’s me. “You volunteer at a soup kitchen?”
“Why’s that so hard to believe?” He cocks his head. “I do remember getting myself abducted and shot trying to save a stubborn rich princess.”
I nibble my lower lip with contrition. He’s right. I judged him again just as I did the first night we met. In my defense, though, anyone would.
The white hair, playboy swagger, and overall heart-breaker thing he’s got going does overshadow the brilliant, caring, attentive person he actually is. Forgive me for not being able to picture him volunteering in a soup kitchen.
“You’re right,” I say. “That was shitty of me.”
We finish off our sandwiches in silence and he disposes of the empty wrappers and cups. He plucks a toothpick from the dispenser on the island, sticks it between his teeth and watches me with a small frown.
He doesn’t know what to do with me. I’m disrupting his Sunday flow, not to mention, I insulted his character.
“What about your friend?” he asks. “Can he come and get you?”
“He has a girl over,” I lie some more. “I don’t want to bother him. Can I have one of those?”
He nudges the dispenser toward me. I shake one out.
“Well…” He nibbles on the toothpick, eyes lingering on my neck. “You could go back upstairs and play Candy Crush or something until your ride gets here.”
“And what are you going to do?”
He flicks the toothpick into the bin. “Watch last week’s episode of Star Wars Rebels.”
I don’t know what that is and probably won’t like it, but I’m off the stool and skipping to the living area in the next breath. “Cool, we can watch it together.”
I snag the remote from the old chest posing as a coffee table and dive onto the couch like an adolescent who’s had too much sugar.
Kholton takes hesitant steps into the room.
I power on the television. “Do you have it recorded?”
“No.” The monosyllab
le is slow and careful. “There should be a re-run in a few minutes.”
“What channel?”
“Disney XD.”
I pull up the guide and find Disney XD. Some other program is airing, but Star Wars Rebels is coming up next.
Kholton hovers by the couch. I glance up at him. “What? Are you afraid of me or something?”
He clamps his teeth down on his lower lip. Then exhales as he admits, “Little bit.”
Is he being serious or sarcastic? I laugh and make a cross-my-heart gesture. “I solemnly swear not to sexually harass you, Mr. Sharpe. Look,”—I pull at the waistband of his boxer briefs I’m wearing and mime tucking in a penis— “all clear over here.”
His lips twitch. “You’re…” He shakes his head as if to clear it then throws himself down on the couch beside me.
I’m all kinds of extra and bold, so I immediately fling my legs across his lap.
He neither acknowledges nor objects to this. Instead, he looks over at me and asks, “What do you do on Sundays?”
“Eh. Sunday’s an anything-goes day for me.” The truth for once. “I don’t have a routine. I just do whatever.”
“So, you’re not falling behind on anything or disappointing anyone by being here right now?”
“Nope.”
“What about the assignments I gave you?”
“Already done.” This is also the truth. He’s an excellent teacher and I’m a fast learner.
The credits on the current program start rolling, and a few commercials later his show begins. It’s sort of a cartoon spin-off of Star Wars. I never understood how grown men watch cartoons, but with Kholton, it’s cute.
I watch in silence with him, though I have no idea what’s going on.
“What’s next?” I ask when the credits start to roll.
“Guardians of the Galaxy. But that’s on an hour from now.” He gives me a side glance. “What do you watch?”
“Me? Hmm…” I drift my gaze to the ceiling in thought. “Well, I’m kind of boring. I’m obsessed with history so I watch a lot of medieval series, like The Tudors, Reign, White Queen, The Borgias, etcetera. Unfortunately, there’s not a buffet of historical series like there are with other popular genres, so mostly re-watch those series or just read a book.”
Interest and curiosity ballets across his eyes. “Huh.”
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. I just pegged you as a reality TV type.”
“Pfft. Um, no.”
“So you read, huh?” He rests his hands on my feet in his lap. “What’s your favorite book?”
“On Dublin Street by Samantha Young,” I easily reply.
“Ah, yes, I remember you telling me this,” he says with a smile. “I’m guessing that’s a romance book? Seeing as you mentioned wanting your very own Braden-something guy to love you like Joss-whoever girl.”
“Yes, it’s a romance. The best romance book ever,” I say. “What’s your favorite read?”
“The Maltese Falcon.”
“Huh. Interesting.” I meet his gaze and he shrugs. “Favorite song?”
Poking at my big toe, he thinks for a minute. “‘My Song Knows What You Did in the Dark’, Fall Out Boy. You?”
I bite my lip. “‘Drop It Low’?”
He makes a face and I cackle. “I’m kidding. ‘Someone Like You’, Kings of Leon.”
He studies me for several heartbeats while playing with my toes. “Put on one of your history shows,” he tells me. “We’ll watch it until mine starts.”
“So generous.”
I pull up his Netflix app. “I’ll start you out with The Tudors. Johnathan Rhys Meyers and Henry Cavill are fine as hell.”
“So, you watch it for the inaccurate history or the ‘fine as hell’ characters?”
“Of course I watch it for the inaccurate history,” I defend. “The fine as hell characters are just a bonus.”
“Uh-huh,” he says dryly.
Expelling a surrendering breath, I admit, “Okay, I watch it for the fine as hell characters.”
He chuckles.
I hit play on the pilot for The Tudors.
The episode is just under an hour, so by the time it’s finished, Kholton’s program has started. With no time to discuss the pilot, we switch over to Disney XD.
Somewhere along the line, Kholton’s idle toe-fondling transitioned into a foot massage. It goes without saying, I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything except his hands on me. He’s so engrossed in his cartoon that I don’t think he’s aware of what he’s doing. Or maybe he is. Maybe it’s routine reflex. Maybe idle foot massages are a regular thing with his girls. Maybe he’s a “Netflix and chill” pro.
Here I sit all bothered and acutely aware, tingles shooting all over my body like firecrackers, and he’s just…lounging. Head tossed back on the couch, attention glued to the TV, fingers mindlessly kneading and caressing my feet.
I’m pressed. Indignant, even, that he’s so unaffected touching me, while I’m all but melting at the mere thought of what else his hands can do…so casually.
When his program ends, we switch to Netflix again and watch another episode of The Tudors.
Kholton’s cellphone goes off.
“That’s my alarm,” he says through a yawn.
“Alarm for what?”
He lifts my feet off his lap and stands, stretching. “Soup kitchen.”
“Oh.” I sit up, feeling bereft and disheartened. I want to stay here and be lazy and get foot massages all day.
He starts to leave but then stops to look back at me. “Shouldn’t your driver be here by now?”
Eeek. Lies always catch up with you. “Yeah…Something must’ve happened. Can I borrow your phone to call him? Mine’s upstairs.”
He tosses the phone at me without hesitation and continues out of the room. “Gonna change.”
I don’t call Beau. I send a quick update to Alaric instead, then delete it from the phone.
Kholton’s screen-saver is a picture of him and a pretty blonde who every bit resembles the actress Ashley Benson, except with nerd glasses and a fluffy bang. His lips are puckered against her dimpled cheek, and she’s in the middle of an eye-roll.
It’s cute and goofy, but I’m mildly peeved because he’s posted this same girl one too many times on his Instagram with no caption of who she is. He also never answers when people in the comment section asks who she is.
After a quick glance at the staircase, I misbehave by sneaking into his photo gallery instead of respecting his privacy. The first thing I see is a photo of myself in his bed, in my Harley Quinn outfit, spread eagled on my back.
I stare at it for a long time, not knowing how to feel about him snapping a picture of me while I slept. What does it mean? Was he laughing at me and how much I looked like death? Was he appalled at how wild a sleeper I am? Or did he find me adorable and just had to snap a pick?
I quickly close out of his gallery. I don’t want to know. That’s what I get for snooping.
I’m not ready to leave. Not ready to leave him. I hop off the couch and bound up the stairs to his room. I find him in front of the dresser, finger-combing his hair.
“There’s been an issue with the car,” I tell him. “Beau won’t be able to get here until later.”
He’s distracted with his hair, styling it just right. “Yeah?”
“Yeah…so, I’m probably going to have to tag along with you.”
“That’s fine,” he says. “But you don’t have anything here. Is Serena Bentley cool stepping out in those?”
I glance down at my small frame swallowed up in his oversized T-shirt. “Do you have any tunic shirts?”
“Closet.”
Ambling over to his closet, I rifle through the racks. There are a plethora of plaid hipster dress shirts and a handful of stylish tunics to choose from. I opt for one of the hipster dress shirts where the back is longer than the front, and snag a belt from the shelves. “Can I borrow a black boxer bre
—” I start to say as I’m turning to leave the closet, only to bump right into his bare chest.
Oh, wow. “Um…”
“Dresser,” he murmurs. “Top drawer.”
I am momentarily paralyzed. The heat rolling off him is toxic. I want to cruise my tongue up the valley of his pectorals.
He steps to the side, giving me pass.
“Okay,” I mumble, throat scratchy.
I grab a fresh pair of boxer briefs from the dresser and dart into the bathroom. Back against the door, I take a moment to compose myself.
At this point, my attraction to Kholton is on a level I can’t even fathom. I really, really want to have sex with him—and not just to get knocked-up. Lots and lots of sex. I want to feel him hard and deep inside me, rough and sweaty. I want to do stuff to him.
Crazily enough, his casual indifference only seems to draw me closer.
I press the heel of my palm to my sex, begging it to cool the hell off.
It doesn’t.
Kholton’s not in the room when I emerge from the bathroom. I spot my purse peeking out from behind the nightstand. No idea how it got back there. Probably during my harebrained scheming last night. I pluck it up and check inside. Compact, lipstick, mints, credit cards, and my cell-phone—which is one-hundred-percent dead.
After painting my dry lips with some lipstick, I pop a mint into my mouth and head downstairs.
Kholton’s propped against the kitchen island, dicking around on his phone. White sneakers, black jeans, and a paint-splattered white T-shirt with the Flash symbol.
“Creative,” he comments when he sees me. “Though I doubt you’ll be able to do much helping in those heels.”
“Pfft, I can do a 5K run in heels. Trust me.”
The dress shirt I borrowed from him hits me mid-thigh at the front, while the back skims the back of my knees. The first couple of buttons are left undone, a belt cinched around the middle to give it shape. For shoes, I threw on my Harley Quinn sneaker-heels from the night before.
My hair is frizzy -curly from being washed and air-dried this morning, and my make-up free face is dusted with freckles. But I don’t care. I get to spend more time with Kholton today and that’s all that matters right now.
“If you say so.” He shrugs and starts out of the kitchen. “Come on.”
