Cold Hearted Page 18

  A second later, he’s flipping me to my stomach, and the clink of his belt fills the space we share follow by the metallic tug of his zipper. He produces a condom, sheaths himself, and a single thrust later, he’s filling every inch of me.

  On my knees, I grip the sheets, letting him fuck me just like the last time. He grunts and groans, his hands digging into my hips as he controls my hips to meet his every thrust. My skin feels red and raw, and I’m oddly more aroused than I’ve ever been.

  But I don’t want this—not anymore.

  I pull my body away from him and roll to my side, climbing off the bed and gathering my clothes. He watches, face twisted in frustration.

  “Ayla,” he says.

  “I don’t want to do that with you,” I say, throwing on my t-shirt and slipping my leggings back on. My bra and panties are lying somewhere around here, but the room is dark, and I don’t feel like searching.

  I’m hot. The room spins. Making a beeline toward the balcony, I fling the sliding doors open, greeted with a burst of fresh, rain-scented air.

  Rhett steps outside a moment later, sweats over his semi-hard cock.

  “I miss the old you,” I say, arms wrapped around my side and legs crossed as I sit at one of the chairs. “In a way, it feels like I’m cheating on him ... with you.”

  He takes the chair across from me, resting his elbows on his knees and breathing into his hands. Rhett pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes concentrated at his feet.

  “I love you, Rhett,” I glance at him, and our eyes hold. “I want to be with you. Still. But not if you’re going to hate-fuck me every time you see me.” I stand up. “I can’t.”

  All I wanted to do tonight was talk. I thought maybe we could sit down, put the ego and bullshit aside, and figure this out. I was prepared for it to go either way. I wasn’t prepared for him to all but throw me against the wall and take ownership of my mind, body, and soul all over again.

  I hate myself for giving in.

  I stand, drawing in a deep breath and mustering the strength to do what I have to do. “Goodbye, Rhett.”

  He stays, unmoving, planted in the chair and watching me leave. Before I step inside, I decide to tell him one last thing.

  “And yes,” I say. “I do think you should forgive me. But if you don’t want to ... if you can’t ... that’s on you.”

  43

  Rhett

  “Hey, hey.” Locke shows up at my place looking every bit the part of a single father who has no idea what he’s doing, but he’s giving it his best anyway. He balances his daughter, Joa, on one hip, a black leather diaper bag hanging off his opposite arm.

  I try to grab the bag, but he hands me my niece instead.

  “She doesn’t bite,” he says. “Not often anyway.”

  Joa smiles at me, her big brown eyes lighting like they always do when she sees me. I’ve never been great with kids, and I always feel awkward around babies, but Joa adores the hell out of me for some reason.

  “I think she pooped,” I tell Locke, holding my breath. “Yeah. She pooped.”

  Joa laughs, and I hand her off.

  Watching Locke as a father is comical, but he’s doing a good job so far. We were all shocked when he told us he knocked up this up-and-coming pop star he met on his own dating app, and we were even more shocked when she said she wanted to give the baby up for adoption so she could focus on her budding stardom but Locke wouldn’t allow it.

  Now Joa’s all his. And she’s his whole world.

  He changes her on my kitchen island. Whatever works. And places her on the ground when he’s done. She makes a beeline toward my living room where I keep a small basket of baby toys, mostly ones Locke’s left behind during previous visits.

  “I didn’t know she was walking,” I say.

  He rests his hands on his hips, watching her proudly. “Yeah, just started last week.”

  “Man, you need to get some color in here. This place is depressing,” he says like he always does every time he comes here. “Gray couch. Gray walls. Gray floors. Live a little, Rhett.”

  “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” I take a seat in one of the chairs. Joa crawls under the coffee table, examining something she finds for all of two seconds until Locke swipes it out of her slobbery hand.

  My laptop rests on the side table to my left, the screen open right where I left it—on Ayla’s Facebook page. I quickly shut the lid before Locke notices.

  I was bored earlier, so I was looking her up. Her page is full of photos, and she always looks so happy in them. Everyone loves her. She has tens of thousands of followers. Sometimes she posts little status updates about what she ate for breakfast or what her work station looks like today. Sometimes she’ll post an interesting observation or a funny story about something embarrassing she did.

  Two weeks ago, she walked out of my hotel room in Seattle. Once again, I let her go.

  It felt like the right thing to do at the time. It wasn’t like I could flip some switch and go from hate-fucking her brains out to making sweet, sensual Barry White love to her.

  Plus, I was too proud.

  I needed to validate my anger, and chasing after her would’ve undone every emotion I’ve felt this past year and a half. It would’ve proved her right—that she’s worthy of forgiveness. And I’m not ready yet.

  “Oh, hey, can you watch Joa tonight?” Locke asks.

  “What?”

  He smirks. “She’ll be in bed by seven thirty. I’m meeting this girl tonight for drinks.”

  “Locke.”

  “She’s an old friend. It’s not like that.”

  “Yeah. Sure, she is.” I don’t buy it. “Dude, I’ve never watched a kid before. Never changed a diaper. Never made a bottle.”

  “Seriously. I’ll take care of all that before I go. Rhett, please. She’s the best sleeper ever, and she rarely wakes up in the middle of the night. If she does, just give her a bottle and lay her on your chest for a little bit and she’ll fall right asleep,” he says. “I’ll be home by midnight at the latest. And I’ll have my phone on me at all times.”

  I pull in a deep breath. I’ve never babysat a day in my life, but she’s my niece and he’s my brother, and he’s been working his ass off at being the kind of father she deserves. Granted, he has a nanny during the week, but I know his nights and weekends are one hundred percent devoted to Joa.

  He’s approximately less than half of the playboy he used to be, if I had to quantify it. He still dates, just not nearly as much, and Joa’s his number one priority.

  “You go on many dates these days?” he asks. “I hope you’re getting out when you can because these girls here in Philly? Whew. Hot. And so nice.”

  I smirk. “Nah.”

  “Why the ... heck ... not?” His eyes go to Joa.

  “Just haven’t felt like it.” I’ve yet to tell Locke that I’m still hung up on Ayla. He’ll give me shit, and I’m not in the mood to take his shit. He doesn’t believe in getting stuck on people, he believes in forging ahead like they never existed, and I can’t do that.

  Wish I could sometimes.

  “Probably for the best anyway,” Locke says, leaning on his elbows and scraping his hand along his smirking mouth. “I don’t think anyone would want to ... you know what ... with a porcupine.”

  He can call me a prick all he wants. I don’t care. I’ll own it.

  “Whatever.” I smirk.

  We watch Joa play, and every so often she looks up at Locke, grinning like he hung the moon. There’s so much unspoken, real love between the two of them it gives me the chills. He’s lucky. He’s lucky to be loved so hard, so unconditionally. For the first time, I see what my brother has, and I want that. I want that pure, unrestricted love.

  And I want it with Ayla.

  I want her to look at me like she used to.

  And I want to feel the way I used to feel when I was with her ... like nothing else mattered but the two of us.

  Later, when Locke puts J
oa to bed and hands me the baby monitor, I head to my room and flip on some TV to occupy my mind, simultaneously thumbing through the contacts in my phone.

  For the past two weeks, every night at about this time, I get the urge to text Ayla, to tell her I want to make this work. But the urge always passes when my stubbornness kicks in, and I never do it.

  But tonight, I can’t stop thinking about it. The urge hasn’t subsided yet. Maybe it’s a sign that my anger is dissipating and I’m ready to forgive her? I’m not exactly sure, but I furrow my brows, take a deep breath. and compose a text with two simple words—CALL ME—and I send it before I have a chance to change my mind.

  44

  Ayla

  I’m exhausted, and the last thing I want to do tonight is read, but I have to sign off on this proof by tomorrow, and I have two more chapters to get through. I should’ve done this weeks ago, but all this jet setting and dealing with Rhett has left me drained.

  Tonight I’m in Miami, staying at the Fontainebleau in a room with a view of the rolling Atlantic. A group of local readers took me out for drinks and salsa dancing tonight. My feet are covered in blisters and my head is still buzzing from the liquor and loud music, but I had a blast.

  I flip to the next page of my book, to the part where Reed asks Ariana to marry him and professes his undying devotion. He presents her with a ring. It isn’t a diamond. She’s not into that. It’s just a simple gold band meant to symbolize eternity. Their initials are carved on the inside along with the date they met.

  The proposal is simple and sweet because I imagined Rhett—the old Rhett—would’ve stuck to something simple and sweet. He was no frills. Straightforward. He didn’t make grand gestures because he didn’t need to.

  The words on the page feel fresh again, every emotion still raw and magnified. The joy. The sorrow. The hope that no longer resides in my heart.

  My phone vibrates on the nightstand to my right, and I glance over, bleary-eyed, to see a short text message displayed across the screen.

  There’s a hitch in my breath, and for a second I think I’m imagining it.

  Next to Rhett’s name are the words, “Call me.”

  My heart races and flutters, and I feel myself getting all worked up, like my body has no idea if it should be happy or sad or nervous.

  I read the message again, biting my thumbnail as I try to steady my breathing.

  This is going to hurt, but I have to ignore it.

  I have to ignore him.

  It’s the right thing to do—to end this once and for all, because I’m not getting through to him. We’re not on the same page.

  I have no choice but to love the memory of him, the version of Rhett Carson that no longer exists. So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll love him quietly, from afar, because what choice do I have? We can’t keep going in circles.

  And he’s right. I won’t survive him again.

  45

  Rhett

  Ayla’s second to last book tour stop happens to be in Minneapolis at the same time as my game in St. Paul, and I decide I have to see her. This could be the last time our paths will ever cross, and if I don’t tell her what I need to tell her now, I might never get the chance again.

  The second I’m showered and heading out of the guest locker rooms, I text her. It’s late, and she’s probably in bed, but I don’t care. I tell her I’m in town, and I know she is too. I tell her I could get to her within an hour. I tell her to listen to what I have to say, and if she never wants to see me again after that, I’ll let her go once and for all. I tell her I’ve been thinking—about her, about us, but mostly about her. And I tell her I’ve come to a conclusion.

  It takes twenty minutes, but she responds with: JUST THIS ONCE. DO NOT KISS ME. DO NOT TOUCH ME.

  I tell her I can’t promise I won’t try to kiss her, but I can promise I’ll be gentler this time. She says nothing, only texts me her hotel information, and as promised, I show up at her door an hour later.

  Her arms are folded across her chest, and she keeps a careful distance from me. She’s guarded, and I realize I have my work cut out for me. I want to tell her this is just as hard for me as it is for her, but it’s not about me tonight.

  It’s about us.

  “It’s hard for me to accept the fact that you’re his sister,” I say. “And I hate that you kept that from me during one of the blackest periods of my life. I hate that I fell for you so hard, so fast, and that you let me down.”

  She presses her lips together, her eyes averting to the floor.

  “But I can’t hate you,” I add. “I’ve tried. And I can’t.”

  Ayla drags her finger beneath her eye, looking away.

  “It’s only ever going to be you for me,” I continue. “And the way I see it, I’ve got two choices. I can either live with this gaping hole in my heart for the rest of my life, resenting you for it. Or I can figure out a way to make it work with you.”

  She looks up, our eyes locking.

  “I’m still angry with you,” I say. “But I still love you.” I swallow the hard lump in my throat and ignore the tight squeeze in my chest. I wish I could read her, but her expression is more curious than excited. She’s not running to me, throwing her arms around me. She’s keeping back. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  Ayla doesn’t move. This isn’t going the way I thought it would. She isn’t running into my arms, pressing her lips onto mine or crying tears of joy. She’s not jumping at the chance to try to make it work. Instead, she seems hesitant.

  I release a steady breath. “All right. That’s all I came to say, I guess.”

  It isn’t until I turn to leave that she tells me to wait. When I face her again, she’s walking toward me, her eyes dancing between mine.

  “You have to promise me something,” she says, brows furrowed.

  “Anything.”

  “You can’t hold this against me for the rest of our lives. I want to put this behind us. If you forgive me, if you want to move forward, don’t ever bring it up again.”

  I pull in a lungful of air, contemplating her request.

  “Even when we’re fighting,” she says. “Never, ever bring it up.”

  She brushes her dark bangs from her eyes and clasps her hands at her chest, waiting patiently for my answer.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll never speak of it again. But I need one thing from you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Never keep anything from me,” I say. “Even if you think you’re protecting me. Even if you think it’ll hurt me. Even if you think it’s the right thing to do.”

  “I promise.”

  I move to her, circling my hands at her waist and bringing her close. Breathing her in, I feel my body relaxing with each passing second. Cupping her cheek, I lift her chin and deposit a slow kiss against her pillow-soft lips.

  Ayla’s hands slide up my chest, hooking behind my shoulders as she kisses me back. Pulling my mouth from hers, I take her by the hand, to the nearest bed, and we take our time peeling off our clothes. I unbutton her shirt, and then I kiss her. She unzips my pants, bringing her mouth to mine again. Her velvet tongue slips across mine, and within moments, we’re naked and my body is hovering over hers in the middle of the bed.

  Her breasts are swollen, her nipples peaked, and I circle my tongue around a pointed bud before running my fingertips down her center. Pressing her thighs apart, I slide a finger inside her wet pussy before bringing it to my lips and tasting it.

  God, I’ve missed this.

  I didn’t exactly enjoy her the last time…

  Not like this, anyway.

  Ayla pulls me against her, until her body is pinned beneath mine and her legs anchor my sides. My cock is full and throbbing, rubbing against her seam as she writhes beneath me.

  I kiss her full lips again and again, taking my time, and she reaches below, sliding her hand between us until her hand wraps around my shaft, pumping the length in her hand before teasing her clit.

 
“Tell me,” she pleads, breathless and running her hands up my sides, “have you been with anyone else?”

  I shake my head. “No. Have you?”

  “No, of course not.” Her nails dig into my ass as she presses me into her. “I’m still on the pill.” Ayla’s lips pull into a smile. “I want to feel you inside me again. All of you…”

  Gripping the base of my cock, I guide myself in, thrusting hard and deep, finding the perfect rhythm. Not too fast, not too slow.

  “Oh, yes,” she says, slipping her hands around my neck and bucking her hips beneath me. “That’s it, Rhett. Don’t stop…”

  I slide my hands beneath her ass, pulling her deeper against me with each thrust, filling her with every inch as she sighs, begging for more with each breathless gasp.

  This woman…

  …is everything.

  46

  Ayla

  “What the hell is this?”

  I emerge from the hotel shower to see Rhett sitting on my bed, holding up my proof copy of Cold Hearted ... and judging by the frown on his mouth and the lines across his forehead, he’s not exactly pleased.

  “That’s my next book.” I yank the towel off my head and finger comb my damp hair into place.

  “Reed and Ariana?” he says, flipping through the pages. “Ayla, this is us.”

  I offer a hesitant smile. “Yeah. Kind of.”

  “This isn’t cool. You can’t do that. You can’t just write about people without their permission.”

  “I changed all the details,” I say. “We met after a wedding. You’re a baseball player. I’m a singer/songwriter.”

  He doesn’t seem amused.

  “No one will ever know,” I say.

  “Bullshit they won’t. Anyone with half a brain who sees us together and reads your book will put it together.”

  “Who’s going to see us together and read my book?” I roll my eyes.

  “If you’re with me, you’re going to get photographed. The tabloids will figure out who you are and—”