Maritza chuckles. “I meant, like … are you hungry? Do you want to grab dinner? Do you want to stop at your mom’s? But I like your answer. It sounds pretty perfect to me.”
I kiss her, threading my hand through hers and pinning her back against my car.
Our future starts right here, right now, in this high school parking lot, just a former waitress, a former Army corporal, and a lifetime of memories ahead of them.
* * *
THE END
* * *
Loved the book? Check out Melrose’s story next!
P.S. I MISS YOU
Dream Cast
DREAM CAST
* * *
Isaiah – Milo Ventimiglia
Maritza – Olivia Culpo
Melrose – Jennifer Lawrence
Rachael – Rachel McAdams
Gram – Susan Sarandon
Murphy – Murphy Renshaw
Myles – Matthew Gray Gubler
Cold Hearted
Epigraph
“And long after I have given up, my heart still searches for you without my permission.”
* * *
—Rudy Francisco, poet
Prologue
Rhett
I toss her on the bed—recklessly—the very same way she treated my heart.
Reaching for her jeans, I yank them down her thighs, my calloused hands rough against her tender skin. My bad. Was that careless of me?
Her panties are next.
I rip those straight down the middle, not unlike the very thing she did to me. It was almost too easy. Was it that easy for her?
“Rhett,” she breathes my name, holding me in her wanton gaze, but I mute her with a rough kiss, my hand knotting in her hair as I control her mouth.
I won’t be kissing her softly tonight. Nothing about this is going to be gentle. This isn’t a jaunt down memory lane—far from it.
Running my finger beneath the left strap of her bra, I pull it taut before letting it snap her skin. Even in the dark, I see the beginnings of a welt, but it’s only minor, and it’ll fade with time. Nothing like the mark she left on me.
Unfastening my jeans, I shove them down and climb over on top of her, crushing her lips over and over, sucking the air from her lungs and digging my fingers into the curved flesh of her perfect fucking ass.
Her thighs hook around mine.
She wants this. She wants me.
Hate to break it to her, but I’m not the man I used to be.
I position her beneath me, dominating her and spreading her legs apart, teasing her clit with the tip of my swollen cock before dragging it to her entrance, pressing just enough to torture her.
Yeah. I want to fuck her. That feeling never quite subsided no matter how much I tried to force it away, but I can’t fuck her like I used to. She might get the wrong impression.
I rise, pulling my body off hers. “On your knees.”
She hesitates before rolling over and pressing herself up on all fours. Tonight I’m going to fuck her like a dog so I won’t have to feel her staring at me. I don’t want to see that little sliver of hope in her eyes that has abso-fucking-lutely no business being there.
Grabbing a condom from my jeans pocket on the floor, I rip the packet with my teeth before rolling it down my shaft. I’ve waited a long time for this, and I’m so fucking hard my cock aches.
Tracing my fingertip along her seam, I watch as her body shivers, and as soon as she exhales, I thrust deep inside her with one forceful move.
Ayla sighs, falling to her elbows and pressing her cheek against the bed as she grips the sheets.
My hands clutch the flesh of her hips, leaving rosy imprints where I squeeze, and soon the slap of my skin against hers mixes with the scent of her arousal and the soft breathless sighs escaping her traitorous mouth.
Deeper.
Faster.
Harder.
I fuck her until we lose track of time; until she’s screaming into the sheets, telling me how good I feel inside her and begging me not to stop. She’s having quite the experience, but I don’t feel a fucking thing.
I’m numb.
When it’s over, I pull out, toss the condom in the trash, and hit the shower.
I need to wash her off of me.
One
18 months earlier…
* * *
Ayla
* * *
The asshole died.
He died before I had a chance to meet him.
“Sorry for your loss,” my half-brother’s landlord says in a thick Brooklyn accent. His lips are drawn into a sagging frown as he hands me a set of keys, and his hooded dark eyes are glassy. I can tell he was a fan of my brother, and by fan, I mean an actual, loyal-to-the-end Bryce Renner enthusiast. He’s wearing a replica New York Spartans hockey sweater with RENNER across the back in bold lettering, and he hasn’t removed it since the funeral this morning. “His lease was paid through the end of the year, so take your time. Let me know if you need anything. I’m in 12A at the end of the hall.”
“Thank you.” I take the keys, squeezing them tight in my palm.
The landlord stops in the doorway, taking in my brother’s place like it’s the last time he’ll get to see it like this, exactly the way Bryce left it.
“He was a good kid, your brother,” the man says.
“That’s what I hear.” I lie, offering a bittersweet smile and watching as he smooths a palm along the interior frame of the door.
“Don’t believe anything anybody tells you about him.” He exhales, then clenches his fist like he’s angry with God before disappearing down the hall. I close and lock the door behind him.
Dirty dishes fill the sink and random stacks of mail litter the counter tops. A half a dozen pairs of sneakers are thrown in a pile next to a shoe organizer by the entryway, and a heap of sweat-scented hockey sweaters rest in a laundry basket beside the closet door in the hall.
I’m positive that beneath the grime and clutter, this is a nice place. The building is a centuries-old limestone with a big black awning that extends all the way to the sidewalk, there’s a doorman and twenty-four-hour security, and I’m a ten-minute walk from Central Park.
Shuffling across the concrete floors, I take in the city view as night descends and the lights begin to flicker and shine. This must be what they call a million-dollar view.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me out of my exhausted, jet-lagged little daze, and I smile when I see it’s my mom calling.
“Hey,” I answer.
“How was it?” Her voice is sweet and low and laced with worry. I’m not sure why everyone is so worried about me. It’s horribly tragic that he died, but I didn’t know him. Honestly, the most heartbreaking part about this whole thing is that I’ll never know him, and it’s not for a lack of trying. He wanted nothing to do with his father’s illegitimate love child, and he made it abundantly clear each time I tried to reach out to him over the years.