by Kayley Cole
The last image is the tornado, spiraling toward the screen as a voice behind the camera lets out a low whistle.
Clapping erupts in the room, but all that matters is Ellie's kiss, sending sensations through me that makes me think of the aurora borealis, which tastes as sweet as it looks. The praise and congratulations sway above us like clouds, but I can see her— the red of the hair, the blue of her eyes, the sweet pink of her lips— and know that she is my northern lights.
Ellie
"A couple of weeks after native Denver band, Body Satellite, released their music video for their song, TORNADO, it became a national hit. Acclaimed director, Jake Amberden, was the visionary behind the music video while his new girlfriend, Eleanor Rue, wrote the lyrics. This was all in a combined effort to help Amberden's hometown, Saffron, after a tornado destroyed several houses and buildings in the area. With the help of numerous construction companies, Saffron has rebuilt and...let's just take a look at these before and after photos. It's truly stunning."
Jake turns the TV off. We hadn't turned on any of the lights since we got back to the hotel room, so we're thrown into darkness except for the faint glow of lights through the window.
"Did you come up with some ideas for your music video?" he asks me. "Gas Pedal Records is practically clawing my eyes out, desperate to kick your career off with a music video."
"I have some ideas," I tell him. I look down at the silk blanket between us.
"Are you still thinking about your brother?"
"I just don't know if putting him in an inpatient program was the best idea."
"We gave him an ultimatum. He preferred to have the choice to talk to you after all this is over. That's good. He just got messed up after your mom died. We'll figure it out. If he isn't better after this, it's best if you cut all ties with him."
"I know." I grab the silk blanket, feeling its smooth texture in my hands. "It's just hard to believe."
"He had your best interests in mind. He just became overwhelmed by it all."
"You're being very empathetic for a man who was beating him two weeks ago."
He shrugs. "I don't want to be the thing that ruins your relationship with your brother. I can promise you that if he tries to pull any of that shit on you again, I'll do more than ruin a relationship."
"Oh?" I ask, tossing the blanket onto his lap. "What would you do?"
He crumples the blanket, throwing it onto the coffee table. "Are you questioning if I'd carry through on my threat?"
"Maybe," I tease. "I do recall you threatening to punish me at dinner for snatching one of your fries."
"That is true. I do owe you for that."
He lunges forward, but I manage to barely slip out of his grasp. I take off running, moving around the couch as he follows. I run to the kitchen, nearly slipping on the marble flooring. He grabs onto the edge of my blouse. I tear it off, the buttons clattering onto the floor. I take the sharp turn around the kitchen island, running full-tilt back toward the living room, but he catches me, grasping me around the waist before tackling me, barely getting his body under me before we crash to the floor. His hand brushes over my breasts, sending a shiver through me.
He slips his hand under my bra, causing the band to cut into my back but it just contrasts with the rush of blood storming through my body as his thumb brushes against my nipple.
"What do you think the punishment is for fry stealing?" he asks. He moves his hand higher up in my bra, the band cutting into my skin more as he pinches my left nipple. I arch my back despite myself.
"I don't know," I say, my voice coming out breathy. "At a place like that, a single fry had to be at least five dollars."
"Even more, I'd say. We could call it grand larceny."
"Well, you know how the system deals with thieves."
"Rigorously and mercilessly."
On the last syllable, he grabs me around the waist again, flipping me from my side onto my stomach. My hair flips over into my face. I'm so turned on, it takes a massive amount of self-restraint for me not to start rubbing against the floor.
He unclips my bra with an efficiency that reminds me of how much more experienced he is at sex than I am. He's never made me feel less adequate than him, but it reminds me that it's good when he takes control. He knows exactly how to turn me into a shivering bundle of nerves.
He rubs under my shoulder blades, where the bra's strap had cut into my skin. I just need him to rub between my legs the same way.
"Maybe I should just walk away now," he whispers. "Let you serve some solitary confinement for a little bit."
"I don't think that's fair…” The last word comes out a note higher than I usually speak as he reaches under my skirt, his fingers brushing against my lace underwear.
"Punishments never are fair. Stand up. Strip."
I unsteadily get onto my feet. He's watching me with such intensity that I can fully imagine he's committing every moment of this to his memory. This is the film that he'll replay in his head like he treasures it just as much as Tip of the Flame.
The zipper on my skirt is at my right hip. I undo it slowly, hoping I look sexy instead of insecure. The skirt drops to the floor. With the breeze going between my legs now, I can feel the wetness in my underwear and I'm more aware of how naked I am. I'd normally be self-conscious, but the way he looks at me makes me feel like a sculpture of a goddess except with soft flesh and a desperate need to be touched.
I slowly pull down my underwear. He keeps watching me as I step away from my remaining clothes.
"Put your hands on your hips and stand with your feet a foot apart from each other."
I do what he says. He gets on his feet. He unbuttons his shirt so slowly and I take in every movement. He drops it close to my clothes. His chest is a gallery of muscles, and I want to touch every one of them.
He whips off his belt so quickly that I startle. He gives me a small smirk— a symbol of the joke and the reassurance— before pulling his pants down. The girth of his erection is so tempting, I take a step forward. He stops moving, looking straight at me, so I take a step back, getting back into the position he wanted me in.
He pulls his boxer briefs off and throws them into our pile of clothes.
"Do you admit that you're guilty?" he asks.
"Yes," I whisper.
"Then kneel in front of the couch and start to pray."
I don't think at all. I kneel down in front of the right cushion of the couch. My knees touch the bottom of the couch while I clasp my hands, resting my elbows on the cushion. I bow my head, closing my eyes. I pray.
Please touch me. Please touch me. Please touch me. God.
I feel his body heat behind me. His cock brushes against my ass. Involuntarily, I feel myself raising my ass up and my legs spreading wider apart.
"Did you pray for me?" he asks.
"Mmm."
His cock slides against my pussy. I arch my back, sliding the bottom half of my body farther away from the couch. I feel his hands on my ankles, moving them farther apart. His hand moves to the small of my back, drawing an X over my spine. X marks the spot.
When he pushes into me, my wetness must make it feel easy, but he's so big that I feel like I'm as tight as I was when he took my virginity. My pussy clings onto him as I move my hand down toward my clit. He smacks my hand away, sending a shock of pain through me, but it just seems to awaken all my other senses.
"Keep praying," he says. "You don't have autonomy until your punishment is over."
I want to protest, to tell him that if he doesn't let me touch myself, I'll end up humping this overpriced couch, but he's never led me down a wrong path, so I clasp my hands together again.
As he thrusts inside me, my clit bumps against the edge of the couch. I would start rubbing against it if Jake didn't have such a firm grip on my hips. A few religious names slip out of my mouth every time he quickens his pace— ones I barely remember learning. But then he slows down like he knows that's the perfect way to p
unish me.
My knuckles are starting to turn white from me clasping them together so hard. I feel my body ready to burst, to jump off a mountain higher than any of the Rockies. I take a deep breath, trying to hold it back, but Jake knocks it right out of me.
"Jake," I squeak out. "I can't…I can't last much longer."
"I'll just have to keep you forever," he says as his hand moves over my clit. His fingers caress my clit so perfectly— the pressure switching from barely anything to just as hard as the edge of the couch. As he thrusts into me once more, it's like a trigger is pulled. Pleasure gushes through me, a torrent of sheer exhilaration ricocheting through my body. My body shakes so hard that my hands become unclasped and I barely feel Jake come inside me, but it adds to the moment as he wraps his arms around me, pulling me on top of him as he falls to the floor.
I listen to his heavy breathing as I lie on top of him. After a few minutes, he kisses my cheek.
"I fucking love you," he whispers. I close my eyes, waiting for doubt to wash over me, but I know his words are true.
"I love you too,” I say.
"I'm going to marry you someday, Ellie.”
He had told me that once when I was almost fifteen. I had believed him then, but we were stupid kids, barely old enough to know what we wanted. But deep down there was always hope— twisted hope in some sense— but still, hope. Now I know what I want and I know he knows what he wants— and in all of it, we want each other.
"I'm gonna marry you someday too," I say. He kisses me again. I open my eyes. I take him in. Everything is a mess right now, but so was Saffron a couple of weeks ago. We're in the eye of a storm, but my heart is here. Jake is holding onto it, and I know he won't let it go.
The End.
About the Author
Kayley Cole is an emerging author of New Adult and College Romance. Writing great stories, listening to your ideas... creating characters you'll love.
Kayley currently lives and works in Central California with her husband. She loves reading, writing, traveling, and spending time outdoors with her dogs.
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Other Books & Previews
CHAT Me book series
CHAT Me (Book #1 — short prequel to CHAT Me Exposed)
CHAT Me Exposed (Book #2)
CHAT Me L.A. (Book #3)
Twisted Hope
CHAT Me
Adam runs a video chat service that allows wealthy men to talk to beautiful women, with various levels of "chatting" allowed.
When his best friend's little sister, Sage, blackmails him into letting her be a contractor in his business in order to help fund her college education, he's annoyed about his hand being forced, but tempted by Sage's beauty and persistence.
As Sage continues to lean on Adam, will she be able to overcome her sexual naivety and let Adam show her that he can be trusted? Or will Adam and his bad boy reputation ruin everything after all?
CHAPTER ONE
“SAGE”
Economics is considered to be a social science because it concerns people's behavior--- why people buy certain products over others, what changes people's purchasing patterns, or why my parents act like co-signing on my student loans is equivalent to paying the actual $60,000 per year cost.
"No.” The blade of her knife slams the cutting board as she chops the lettuce, but her answer is still unequivocal.
"Mom," I say, the word feeling strange on my tongue. The central air is on to combat the summer heat, but I can still feel my internal temperature rising.
"I paid for my first year, and I'm not asking you to pay for anything. I'm just asking you to co-sign on some loans."
She sets the knife down, the blade facing toward me. "You paid for your first year with your grandparent's help."
"Of course, with my grandparent's help. It's over $60,000 a year. And I'm fine with paying that back through a loan. No other college is as good as Cordero University when it comes to economics classes. Nearly all of their alumni are hired by Fortune 500 companies."
She scoops the lettuce up, tossing it into her crystal bowl. It was just another reminder that my parents earned so much money that financial aid laughed in my face.
"Your father's company is close enough to a Fortune 500 company." She grabs a tomato from the refrigerator. "You can learn more getting real-life experience working for a company like his than you can get from four years of college. If you take out some loans, all you're doing is throwing money, plus interest, down the drain. Your father and I worked hard to give you a good life, and you're throwing it all away."
She opens the oven door, pulling a casserole dish out. She avoids eye contact with me and, right now, I can't blame her.
"I'm not ignoring it. I just don't want to work for a construction company."
"A construction and civil engineering company," she corrects.
"Is it so hard to believe that I don't want anybody to look at my career and think that I only achieved success because of my father? I want them to know I worked for everything I ever got. Besides, Dad doesn't want me to get any hands-on experience. He wants me to be a secretary to..."
"A personal assistant. Not a secretary. And it would be to the Chief Operating Officer of the company. It's a job most people would kill for."
"The only reason you two want me to take that job is because you want me to fall in love with Jacob. You've been inviting him to these dinners since I was eighteen. You might as well call it an attempted arranged marriage." She rolls her eyes at me.
I ran away when I was eight because I was certain I was adopted. I have the same dark hair like my father, but my mother's eyes are denim blue while mine are a different shade of brown, depending on the lighting. Her hair is reminiscent of beach sand, while mine is darker than obsidian.
"You're being overdramatic, Sage. We just think you're not giving him a chance. He's a good man. He's going to have a great future."
"I'd like to have a great future too," I mumble. I hear the front door swing open and the sound of my brother's wheelchair rolling on the floor. Caleb and I aren't especially close-- my family is more like a solar system where we revolve around each other without any regard for the others' existence. We used to be on better terms before his car accident-- before he lost feeling in his legs, as well as his ambition.
Still, I turn toward him as I hear the wheels turn toward the kitchen. He despises pity, but I can't help but feel guilty for still being able to walk. I should be running marathons or scaling Denali. I should be researching the human body to figure out how to cure his paralysis, but the best grade I received in science was a "B" in geology. I can only hope to earn enough money one day to pay for the right people to help him.
I begin to smile, forcing this idea that nothing is wrong in this family when I see who's following behind him.
Adam Gallagher.
I instinctively move in front of my mother to block her view, but I can feel her rage just as I've felt it prickling under the surface since the accident six years ago.
"Mom," Caleb cautions.
"Get him out of here," she manages to spit out. "He wasn't invited. He will never be invited."
"Mom," Caleb repeats. "Come on. Aren't you always preaching forgiveness?"
"Forgiveness for those that deserve it." She grips onto the kitchen counter, glaring at Adam like he's the second coming of Lucifer.
"I'll go," Adam says, his hands shoved in his pockets. He's nearly thirty by now, and I've known him since I was a kid, but his sharp edges only seem to become more sharp with time. Every time I see him, it feels like a shock-- like he's a stranger I sudd
enly noticed was following me down a dark street. The image of war, blood spatter and all, on his right arm and the bear on his left arm certainly gave no reassurances, and I can't blame my mother for hating Adam even before the accident happened.
"Don't," Caleb says to Adam. "She knows you're my best friend. She can cope with you being here."
"This is my house..."
"It's Dad's house," Caleb finishes.
"Caleb Owen Kieran, I swear to God…"
I tune them out, watching Adam slowly inch away from Caleb. He catches my eye for the briefest second before he turns around and disappears. A few seconds later, I hear the front door snap shut.
Honestly, this all just pisses me off more. There's a certain inevitability to my family's implosions, but that doesn't mean he has to cause them the moment he enters a room.
Caleb has rolled up closer to my mother. She's leaning away from him like she's afraid that her exaggerated hand motions might hit him, but she's still talking to him like he's an unruly teenager.
I sidle away from them the same way Adam had. It shouldn't surprise me that they don't notice me leaving, but there's old soreness in my chest, knowing that my parents will always care more about my brother's well-being, and I have no right to resent it.
I close the door more quietly than Adam had. The last thing I want is my mother to follow me out, telling me that if I were more grateful, I'd listen to the whole screaming match between Caleb and her.
Adam is standing a dozen feet away from the house, a cigarette between his lips. I should be even angrier-- nobody is allowed to smoke on my parent's property-- but seeing him from a distance creates a different ache in me. Adam was the center of my fantasies when I was a young teen. Every romance I read, every movie I saw, every detail I heard from friends-- I imagined him and me in those roles. I used to lie in my bed, my hand between my legs, trying to imagine what his hands would feel like. Rough. Commanding.
