Never Say I Want You

by Pennza, Amy

  Slowly, he shook his head. “Not even a little bit.”

  Ice shifted in Juan’s glass, hurtling Catalina back to the present.

  He watched her, a knowing look on his face. “Yes,” he said. “My tastes have changed in some areas.”

  It took her a second to realize he referred to her comment about the expensive vodka.

  Still watching her, he continued. “In others, though, they haven’t changed at all.”

  Her heart sped up. This was a bad conversation for both of them. Didn’t he know that? She should get up, thank him for the drink, and go back to her room.

  The only problem was her body wasn’t moving. It stayed put, as if he’d cast some kind of spell over her. As surely as if he’d spoken an incantation, lust curled a slow, sinuous path from her core to her most private places, where there was nothing between her and the chair except a couple flimsy layers of cotton.

  He toyed with his glass, using his thumb to rub a clear spot in the condensation that had built around the bottom. It was an innocent motion—not provocative in the least.

  Yet each sweep held her captive, the rhythmic movement stroking along her nerve endings, trailing fire in its wake.

  Get up. Get up and leave before it’s too late.

  But it was already too late, because he gave the glass a final swipe, then lifted his hand and placed his thumb on her lower lip, confirming beyond a doubt that he, too, recalled that moment in the mud room. Back then, his touch had been hot—a brand that seared her skin.

  Now, it was a cold, wet point. A tremor shuddered through her.

  He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Things had been complicated between them eight years ago. They were even more complicated now.

  “Are you going to let that stop you?” she’d asked.

  Juan pressed, sliding his thumb just inside her mouth, touching the cold tip to her tongue.

  “Not even a little bit,” he whispered.

  Later, she wouldn’t remember how they ended up on the table. One minute, they were in their chairs, the next minute she was sprawled on her back, Juan’s big body looming over her. He braced his weight on his forearms, his hands tangling in her hair, holding her still while he plundered her mouth.

  She took him in, letting his hot kiss carry away the last of the cold. When her tongue slid across his, he shuddered. The table creaked as he wedged his hips more firmly between her thighs, making the robe and nightgown ruck above her hips.

  Without breaking off their kiss, he smoothed a palm down her chest and belly until he reached her ass. He cupped one bare cheek, pulling her into his erection.

  “So fucking hard, Catalina,” he gasped against her mouth. “You make me so fucking hard, I can’t think.”

  His scent filled her lungs—expensive cologne, clean skin, and a subtle hint of vodka. She clutched at his shoulders, pulling him down until his body molded against hers from hip to shoulder. Her nipples tightened, and heat gathered between her legs. Her hips lifted of their own accord, brushing her sex against the rigid length of his cock.

  He reared back, a wild look in his eyes, his chest heaving.

  Don’t go. The thought, heavy and powerful, crashed through every barrier she’d erected over the years.

  She reached for him, gripping his T-shirt and pulling him over her. He grasped her wrists and stretched her arms over her head until her wrists hit the table’s edge.

  Gently, he turned her hands, then curled her fingers over the rounded wood. He leaned over her and kissed her forehead, whispering, “Hold on.”

  Confusion swirled in her mind. “What are you…”

  Her question ended in a sharp intake of breath as he gripped under her knees and lifted her legs. He set her heels on the table, then pushed her thighs apart. Warm air hit her sex, caressing the damp flesh. His gaze landed there, his stare like a spotlight on her bare folds.

  Her heart raced. Somewhere, deep in her mind, a warning blared. Only it was smothered by the rush of blood in her ears as he smoothed the robe and nightgown higher, tucking it just under her breasts. Now she was almost fully exposed, her belly and sex on display.

  More heat pooled between her legs, then rushed like a river to her breasts, where her nipples grew tight, tenting the thin nightgown.

  He brushed reverent fingertips over the peaks, sending little sparks shooting through her. There was something intensely erotic about having her breasts covered when her most intimate area was open to his regard.

  He abandoned her breasts, turning his attention to her sex once more.

  “I like you bare,” he said, tracing a featherlight touch down each intimate lip. “You’re so beautiful here.”

  A shudder passed through her, and her legs shook.

  “That’s right, sweet.” He made another light pass along her labia. “Open for me.”

  She did. Heaven help her, she did, letting her thighs fall open in blatant invitation.

  “Bien.” Good. He dipped a finger in her entrance, gathering moisture. Faint, slick sounds reached her as he painted her own juices over her lips and clit. He worked moisture in a slow circle, venturing almost to her rear entrance before sliding back to the top.

  She gripped the table’s edge, unable to stop him…unable to look away from his hand making slow, lazy movements between her legs. Her belly trembled, going concave as she sucked in her breath.

  He leaned over, lowering his head as if he meant to…

  Her sex clenched, and a little sob escaped her before she could stop it.

  He glanced up, just once, before lowering his head all the way. A second later, his lips brushed her clit. Electricity jolted through her. Without thinking, she spread wider.

  He chuckled and dropped a kiss on the top of her sex. His tongue darted out, stabbing at the tiny center of her desire. Goosebumps rose all over her skin, and a wave of pleasure rolled through her.

  He licked a long stripe up the center of her sex, his tongue delving between her folds.

  Her breath left in a rush, and she gripped the edge of the table as her eyelids fluttered shut. Thoughts rose and fell in her mind. Should she let him do this? She couldn’t let him do this. There were consequences for letting this get out of hand…

  Then he sucked her into his mouth—hard—and all coherent thought fled.

  Pleasure rocketed from her sex through the rest of her body, firing along her thighs. Her back arched off the table, and she pressed her hips into the wood, uncaring if it made her look wanton. The only thing that mattered was more—and making the man between her legs give it to her.

  He did.

  She opened her eyes, unable to look away from his dark head bobbing gently up and down as he licked and suckled her, his tongue dabbing around her clit and over her lips. Without pulling away, he placed his palms on her inner thighs and pushed until her legs were flat against the table, spreading her as wide as she could go, opening her sex completely.

  Now she had nothing to hide.

  He took full advantage, moving his kiss lower and slipping his tongue in and out, in and out, burying his face in her sex as he made love to her with his mouth.

  An image of what they must look like popped into her head. Her with her hair streaming over the edge of the table, body splayed open, nipples stabbing the air. Him with his broad back flexing as he held her legs open, his dark head nestled in her sex.

  Slick, wet sounds filled the quiet dining room, punctuated only by her gasping breaths and his occasional satisfied groan.

  She clenched her hands around the table’s edge as heat built between her legs. The world condensed to the drenched flesh of her core, where her heartbeat throbbed and wave after wave of buttery pleasure spiraled around her clit, circling faster and faster. Everything about her sex was hot and slick, from the moisture flooding her opening to his slippery tongue teasing her clit. She strained her legs open, digging the sides of her knees into the table. Her hips undulated, thrusting her sex into his face.

 
“So wet,” Juan growled against her lips. “I can taste you getting ready to come.” He released her thighs and slid a finger inside her.

  Her sex clamped around him, squeezing, wanting more.

  “Ungh.” He tongued her clit, adding another finger, stretching her.

  Tremors traveled up her thighs, along her sides, up to her breasts. Her nipples snagged on the nightgown as her breaths turned into a pant.

  Without lifting his mouth from her sex, Juan added a third finger.

  Pressure suffused her sex. She grunted and rolled her hips, adjusting to the sensation of being thoroughly stuffed.

  He began to pump, sliding his fingers in and out in a steady rhythm as he continued sucking at her clit.

  Waves of pleasure swept her, radiating from her sex to her nipples, filling her core with heat.

  He increased the pace, pumping in and out, drawing moisture. Through it all, his tongue flicked over her clit, swirling electricity over the pinpoint of her desire.

  The pleasure climbed higher and higher. Her clit burned. A low, hoarse cry burst from her chest. The table creaked, and for a second, she wondered if she cracked the edge with her grip.

  Juan pulled his fingers from her sex with a squelching sound. He seized her hips and held her still, his broad shoulders brushing her thighs.

  She cried out, lamenting the loss of his fingers filling her.

  “Easy, baby,” he crooned, his breath fluttering over her sodden sex. Still gripping her hips, he dipped his tongue into her opening, stabbing in and out.

  Even with his grip holding her in place, she almost lifted off the table, her lips parted on a gasp.

  He circled inside, then sucked the fleshy top of her mound into his mouth.

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  His mouth left her. “No,” he said, his voice like gravel. “Look at me.”

  Her eyes flew open as cool air hit her drenched sex. Her clit throbbed, the ache of his loss almost impossible to bear. If he hadn’t pinned her hips, she would have thrust her sex toward his face, begging him to finish her. Her voice sounded like she just smoked a hundred cigarettes when she gasped, “Please…”

  “I know.” He held her gaze, but lowered his head, his lips hovering near her clit. “Look at me.”

  “Yes. Anything.”

  His smile was pure wickedness. “Now come for me,” he said. Without breaking eye contact, he seized her clit and sucked.

  She flew apart. Every cell exploded, breaking her into a million sizzling pieces. Forget about holding his gaze. She saw nothing but stars as the waves crashed over her, flinging her body into a relentless, pounding release. Her mouth opened on a soundless scream, the tendons in her neck straining as the orgasm ripped through her. She clutched at the edge of the table, holding on in case the intensity carried her away. Through it all, Juan sucked, working her over and over again, his fingers digging into her hips like he needed to hold on, too.

  At last, she drifted back to earth. Moments passed. Or maybe years.

  She opened her eyes, little aftershocks coursing across her skin.

  Juan lay with his cheek against her thigh, his stubble scratching her skin. He must have sensed her scrutiny, because he looked up. His hair was mussed, a few strands in front spiky with sweat.

  He’d never looked sexier.

  She let go of the table and started to sit.

  He met her halfway, grabbing her arm and pulling her against him.

  “Missed you,” he said in Spanish in her ear.

  The warning from before blasted back to life—and now there was no lust to muffle it.

  God. What had they done? What had she done? The careful, essential distance she’d cultivated for eight years had just crumbled.

  What the hell was she going to do now?

  Juan kissed the spot beneath her ear.

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “Juan.”

  He kissed her temple. “Mi amor.” My love.

  “Juan, don’t—”

  “Mi vida.” My life.

  She pushed against him, but he kissed the underside of her jaw.

  “Mi bella esposa.” My beautiful wife.

  “Stop it!” She shoved hard, and he stumbled back.

  His shocked expression was almost comical.

  Almost.

  Then his brows snapped together, and anger blazed in his eyes. “Catalina—”

  “Just stop.” She scrambled off the table, tugging the nightgown down and wrapping the robe’s halves around her. Her legs trembled—a side effect of the most powerful orgasm of her life.

  “What is wrong with you?” Juan stepped toward her.

  She flung up a hand. “I said stop!”

  He scowled, but he didn’t come any closer. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “This!” She gestured between them. “This can’t happen.”

  “Well, it just fucking did.”

  Out of nowhere, tears filled her eyes. She blinked them back before they could fall. She was not freaking crying in front of him. She didn’t cry in front of anyone.

  He noticed her struggle, and his face softened. “Bonita—”

  “No.” She pointed a shaking finger at him. “I’m not your beautiful, or your dearest, or your wife.”

  “I have a piece of paper that says differently.”

  “That’s all it is. A piece of paper. There’s nothing else between us.”

  He glanced at the table. “It didn’t seem like that five minutes ago.”

  She drew herself up, mustering as much dignity as possible after letting him eat her out like he was a starving man and she was a feast. God, she was still throbbing from him. “I’m going back to my room,” she said, then stepped around him.

  He caught her arm. “Not until you—”

  She feinted left, then dipped. Caught off guard, he swayed forward. In a blur, she struck out with her left hand, catching him in the nuts.

  He released her and doubled over. “What…the fuck.” His breath came out like someone just released air from a balloon.

  Before he could recover, she moved out of range. “I’m going to bed,” she announced.

  Still bent, he braced a hand on the table and shot her the same glare men the world over made when someone hit them in the balls.

  She lifted her chin. “Alone.”

  He said nothing, so she whirled and hurried down the hall. She wrenched open her door and slammed it shut behind her, throwing the lock. It couldn’t keep him out—not if he really wanted to get in—but Juan wouldn’t do that. He got his way through wit and manipulation. Brute strength was for cowards.

  She went to the bathroom and ran the taps until steam filled the air and fog obscured her reflection in the mirror.

  And it wasn’t until she stood under the spray, the water beating the back of her neck, that she gave in to her tears.

  It didn’t mean anything.

  It didn’t. One slip-up was meaningless—and easily forgotten. She and Juan were old adversaries. In a day or two, they’d be right back at each other’s throats.

  Tonight would hardly register as a memory.

  It didn’t mean anything.

  Her brain was convinced.

  Now she just had to convince her heart.

  15

  “Fuck.” Juan’s hand slipped, and the wrench clattered to the floor.

  Again.

  He stepped away from the engine and swiped the back of his arm across his forehead. He’d been in the engine room since dawn, and he’d made exactly zero progress in…who the hell knew how many hours he’d spent sweating his balls off.

  Speaking of balls…

  He adjusted himself, then checked to make sure he didn’t transfer any engine grease to his shorts. That’s just what he needed, a goddamn reminder of last night.

  The physical pain of Catalina’s reaction had faded in minutes.

  As for the emotional pain? Well, that was sticking around, wasn’t it. Maybe caring made him weak.
That’s what someone looking in from the outside might think.

  Whatever.

  He was too wrapped up in Catalina to bother with safeguarding his masculinity. They were well past that. And she might try to deny it, but she was just as wrapped up in him.

  Last night was proof of that.

  His cock tightened. The moment he touched her mouth, it was like the past eight years never happened. They might as well have been standing in that mud room all over again, acknowledging the mutual attraction that had built for years.

  When he first realized his feelings for her were far from brotherly, he tried to deny it. Going away to college and then law school had helped—but only a little. Because she was always waiting for him back home. Over the years, her customary snark and attitude had blossomed into something more, and her teasing had developed a flirtatious edge.

  Still, he’d dismissed it. Catalina was a girl transitioning to womanhood. That was all. She was experimenting, testing the boundaries of her sway over men. She probably didn’t even realize she was doing it.

  At least that’s what he’d told himself.

  Then she blew all that out of the water.

  “You’re not my brother,” she’d told him, and there had been no confusion about what she meant. Anyone looking into her eyes could have seen it.

  But Catalina had insisted on keeping their relationship secret—at least until she finished her first year of college. She’d worried his mother would intervene, saying Catalina was too young, or that it was inappropriate for the son of a capo to marry the daughter of a teniente.

  None of that mattered to Sarah Salvatierra. She loved Catalina like a daughter, even if Catalina couldn’t see it. She’d been heartbroken when Catalina left college halfway through her first year and fled to Venezuela without telling anyone.

  It was the one thing Juan had never really been able to forgive. Catalina thought he banned her from his mother’s funeral because he was ashamed of her profession. But that was only part of it. What truly bothered him was her refusal to explain the why of her actions.

  Why she left school.

  Why she stopped wearing his ring.

  Why she ran to Rafe.