Chapter 53

Chapter 53

Harper

"Don't you want to come to bed?" Kent asks me.

It takes every ounce of willpower not to look up. Ignoring Kent is like trying not to look at Michelangelo's David. It's hard to ignore perfection.

From the corner of my eye, I see him leaning against the arch of his hallway, practically naked. Okay, so not naked, but just in boxers that would make even the sanest of women do insane things to catch a glimpse of. Things like giving their firstborn away to view his abs. Yeah, it's truly crazy but possibly worth it; who wants a crying baby anyway? Not me.

My mouth salivates when I see how the light shifts and bends over his rippled abs. Annie Leibovitz would kill to photograph his body.

This is my punishment for being…well, me. Kent Sterling is the sexiest man alive, yet also the most deliciously annoying. He's like Pop Rocks candy; you love the taste of the sugar and adrenaline of the zapping pops inside your mouth.

Okay, so I'll admit I, too, am dressed provocatively. Yes, I'm wearing my red satin robe with matching silk shorts and a bralette. I'm not going to change who I am or what I wear to bed because I got the short stick and am stuck sleeping in his apartment.

I rip open the box with more force than necessary as I reply, "I'm not sleeping in your bed. There's no telling what new form of disease is on it." I smirk at myself, then grab the new laptop out of the package.

I'm worried, upset, and incredibly frustrated over this situation Poppy is in. The only way to settle my mind would be to have sex or hack into something I shouldn't. Since option one is out of the question, I'll go with option two, minus the hacking, because Poppy's security is laughable. So I'll set up her new laptop and transfer the files from her old one onto it. I'll finish setting up her new phone tomorrow since she kept it with her.

Kent pushes off the wall, his heavy, masculine footsteps echoing forward on his marble floor. Of course, a man like Kent has marble floors. Wood is too rustic, carpet is, well, atrocious because it holds the stains and tile is too common. After all, the man wears a custom suit and a watch that costs more than the average yearly salary. Marble, now that's Kent: class, hard, sculpted, a little artsy with abstract vein patterns. It's a fitting reflection of his sophisticated and refined taste, just like everything else in his meticulously curated life.

All I want is to be alone so I can finish, and then naturally, once Kent is asleep, I'll snoop around his place. Maybe I can find some dirt to blackmail him to stay away from me.

"Harper, you're sleeping in my bed. I won't be able to sleep knowing you're on my couch," he says.

I shrug, "Fine, don't sleep. Meanwhile, I'll be getting the beauty sleep I require. Just get me a pillow and blanket."

"Harper," he stresses in a deep baritone that makes my pussy take on a heartbeat of her own. Naturally, my pussy is, in fact, a pussy. Sometimes, she likes to take orders from dominating masculine men. Other times she likes to tell me to screw off because she is going to do what she wants to do, which currently feels all tingly and wet when Kent speaks.

So annoying.

"I'm not sleeping on a bed you've had other women on," I hiss as I grab Poppy's old laptop and turn it on. Dear Lord, this thing is a dinosaur. I can't believe she has been working on this, but that's my Poppy; she holds onto things until the very end, like this laptop, which she has had since we started college.

"Is that seriously the issue? I wash my sheets," he says, coming closer and leaning on the edge of the table I've claimed as my workspace.

"You wash your sheets?" I raise a brow and finally look at him.

Huge mistake.

Square jaw, black hair, tan skin, hard muscle, and just hard all over, cocky, confident, and knows how to make a woman come in under sixty seconds.

In other words, my kryptonite.

"Someone does," he grins goofily.

"Your poor maid." I sign and shake my head.

"Please." He replies in a serious tone that shocks me.

"Have we resorted to begging so soon?" I snort, but deep down, my heart thumps harder and with more glee.

I hate it.

I love it.

I loathe it.

"You're sleeping in my bed. You can start on the couch, but just know as soon as those stunning eyes of yours close, I'm going to carry you into my room."

"Wake me from my sleep, and you'll wish you didn't."

He flexes his fingers, "I've got gentle hands when need be. I won't wake you," he smiles as he licks his lips.

My eyes linger on his hands, remembering just how hard and smooth they can be.

Okay, yes, I admit he's touched parts of me; others only wish they could, but I draw the line at sex. And that last encounter was purely a moment of weakness. He annoyed me so much that I just gave in, hoping a taste of me would quench his obsession.

See why I shouldn't be a parent. If my kid threw a fit, I'd buy the whole store just to make it stop. And yes, I referred to a child as 'it,' case in point.

"I have to fix Poppy's computer," I mutter, trying to focus.

"Then why are you still looking at my hands?" I hear the grin in his voice.

I tilt my head, "I'm planning what fingers to cut off while you sleep," I bite as I roll my eyes.

"Feisty," he pushes off the table, comes to my side, and leans down. His lips brush against my ear, and a moan escapes. My body is a traitor. "I love a challenge, Siren."

My fingers freeze over the keyboard. I narrow my eyes at him, "What did you just call me?"

He stands tall and crosses his arms. For a moment, I forget why I'm angry because all I see are biceps, pecs, and abs.

Focus!

"You like it," he smirks. "I was trying to think of a name that you'd like; then I figured anything I call you, you will hate. So I thought Siren. It's sexy; they are mythical creatures like you."

"How am I mythical, you idiot? I'm sitting right here."

His lips start to smile, "Because I've never met a woman like you before. Therefore, you're mythical."

"I'm not a damn mermaid," I growl. Siren...do I like it? Well, it's not ‘baby'. God, I hate that term of endearment; it's so fake and unoriginal.

"A siren isn't a mermaid. They are seductively beautiful like you and charming."

I snort a laugh, "You find me charming?"

"In the best of ways," he quips. "Sirens also like to trick men, and that shoe also fits."

I bit my inner cheek so he couldn't see me smile. I like the name. It's fitting, but I'll never tell him that. If you reward a dog, you'll never get rid of him.

"I've never tricked you. I've been honest. I'm not sleeping with you."

"You did trick me." He replies.

"When?"

"When you came so hard on my fingers that I had to hold you up. I thought to myself, ‘Finally, she sees the light.' Then you went back to running from me." He looks down at his hand and smiles as if he can see my orgasm still staining them.

He's got me good, and he knows it.

"Your problem is thinking you're the light or God's gift to women," I try to sneer, but my voice sounds weaker.

"I don't think that. I do think that we've got this insane chemistry, and for some reason, you're fighting it. That's okay. Eventually, you will cave. I'm a patient man, Harper."

"Good," I shrug, "be patient while I fuck other men because you and I are not happening."

His body stiffens. "I never said I wasn't possessive," he replies with a bite. "I said I was patient." He leans forward on the table, his shadow covering me like chains trying to tether me to him. "That's okay, Siren; I'll show you the difference when another man approaches you."

My pulse is racing. Two men fighting is a wet dream I often have. I seriously think I was born in the wrong era. I'd love to watch Gladiators, but then I think about the lack of technology, and I digress.

Kent's statement is sexy and hot and bossy and everything I want but everything I will never let myself have for longer than a night.

I do casual one-night sex. One night. I don't do this. Long-ended banter, flirting for weeks, growing feelings that one day could devastate me. I don't want to do long-term. I've felt pain and loss; I've tasted the bitterness of death. I have experienced the loss of my first love. My first crush. My first kiss.

Yes, I have kept a dark secret from my best friend, and I'll bury it in my grave with me. Peter, Poppy's brother who died, was my first love. It's cliché: best friend falls for her friend's sibling. Yet I did it, and I suffered the consequences.

I never want to taste that pain again. Therefore, I will never give my heart away and allow myself to fall in love.

"Hey," Kent's hand comes up and tips my chin up. I know what he sees, my darkness tearing up my eyes. My emotions slipped free. "Where did you go, Siren?"

Someplace too dark and deadly for you, Kent.

"I don't do relationships," I sternly reply, and then I pull my face back from his touch. Cold air replaces the warmth of his fingers.

His index finger, which was under my chin, hangs in the air. "I don't know who hurt you, but I'm not them," he promises.

It's sweet. Touching, really. I wish I could give in fully to him.

"You're right, you're not," I reply coldly. Peter didn't hurt me. I was cherished and chased, and that's how Kent makes me feel.

That's why I want to run.

I clear my throat. "I need to work, Kent."

"Fine," he dips his chin. I'll make you a snack and get you something to drink," he offers in a much gentler tone.

"I'm not a pet. I can feed myself."

"So no leash and collar kinks. Good to know." He tries to joke.

That's a good one. I'm impressed, but I'll never admit it.

I hear him tinkering away in the kitchen. I'm surprised he knows where it is. He's pampered, which usually is a major turnoff, but his sexy, come-fuck-me body overrides my senses.

A few minutes later, he sets down a fishbowl-sized glass of wine with a plate of cheese, cured meat, and fruit.

"What the hell is this?" I state in shock. I glance over my shoulder. "Is there a chef in there I don't know about?"

He grabs a cube of cheese. "I know how to take care of my woman," he claims as he pops it in his mouth.

I sit back in the chair and cross my arms. "Just how many times have you used that line?" I look at the plate, "And made this?"

His grin grows from ear to ear, "I've never made food for anyone, Harper. Only for you."

My eyes narrow in speculation. "I don't consider myself lucky, then, Kent. Experience is a good thing. This food might kill me."

He snorts a laugh, "I'm more than experienced where it matters most, as you know." He holds my eyes as he licks his fingertips—just like he did that night.

Damn my cheeks for blushing. That's it! I'm switching to full-coverage foundation.

He turns, sauntering away like a cowboy that just roped his cattle, or whatever it is cowboys do. He's got a winner's glow that seems to linger even after he's left the room. My shoulders slump, and I look at the couch.

"This is going to be really bad, Harper," I whisper to myself as I reach for the wine. "Hold your ground, cross your legs, and don't give in no matter what," I say, then I swallow down some wine, feeling like a cheerleader who lacks peppiness. My pussy, on the other hand, is jumping for joy over Kent's declaration.

Damn her.