Page 42 of Kentrell

“I love him,” she said again, her voice barely above a whisper. “And her.”

My hand reached for her shoulder. “Mars...”

She turned to me, and her eyes were glossy, shimmering with tears she didn’t want me to see.

“I don’t know what to do,” she confessed, the words unraveling. “I’ve never loved like this before. Not both. Not at the same time. Not in a way that makes me feel like I’m breaking either way.”

“When have I ever kept anything from you?” I asked, voice soft.

“Never.”

“Then why would you keep this?”

Her lip quivered. “Because it’s not just sex anymore. And I don’t know who I am when I’m not hiding behind that.”

That was it. The truth behind the smoke. Behind the bravado and raunchy jokes. Behind the trail of lovers and lust-fueled nights.

I didn’t say anything else. I just pulled her into me, arms tightening as she began to cry. Quietly at first. Then deeper.

This was the version of Mars no one else got. Not Stacia. Not Ayesha. Just me.

This wasn’t the sex kitten. This was the woman she kept hidden from the world.

And as I held her, something moved inside me.

That ache again. That longing. That need.

Maybe she was right.

Maybe one night wouldn’t be enough.

Maybe it never had been.

Mars wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, then let out a long breath and stepped away from me. It was like watching someone zip a mask back over their face in real time. Her spine straightened. That familiar glint returned to her eyes. And just like that, the vulnerability vanished—tucked back behind a wall I wasn’t going to force my way through.

“Enough about me,” she said, waving a hand like she was brushing the air clean. “This isn’t my therapy session. You the one with a tongue in your mouth that’s still recovering from that man’s kiss.”

I blinked, still reeling from her confession, but she wouldn’t let me stay in that space.

“Mars…”

She lifted a brow at me, already walking back toward my desk with her wine in hand. “Don’t ‘Mars’ me. You done pulled out the wine, wiped my tears, now let’s circle back to you and Mr. Too-Fine-Smells-So-Devine-And-Wastes-NoTime.”

I started to object, but before I could form a sentence, my computer gave a soft ding.

My head turned automatically. New email.

Mars leaned over the desk before I could even stop her. “Oooh, is that him?”

I narrowed my eyes, clicking the email open. Her gasp let me know she’d already started reading over my shoulder.

“Well, damn,” she whispered.

The subject line read:

Tenant Files + What I Owe You

The message was brief. And filthy in its simplicity.

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