by Tara West
I’m not feeling very sexy right now, wearing nothing but a towel and no makeup. I hate having to rush, but Andrés let me sleep in until the last possible minute. I know I’m a terrible mom for thinking it, but it felt so good waking up with Andrés’s lips on my neck, and not by the sound of crying coming from the baby monitor. Though it’s hard, I push the mommy guilt aside. I love my little boy. There’s nothing wrong with needing a break after thirteen months of catering to his every need. Besides, this tug at my heartstrings every time I close my eyes and see his little cherubic smile is reminder enough I love James beyond words.
I’m very aware of my husband’s appraising eyes on me as I toss the towel in the laundry basket and slip into some panties and pull a strappy sundress over my head. The dress has a flimsy built-in tank top, so I’m going to be daring and go braless today, something I haven’t been able to do since I stopped breastfeeding. I eye my boobs in the mirror, wondering if too much nipple is poking through the fabric, when Andrés comes up behind me and cups my breasts with his large hands.
I toss my head back and moan as he pinches each pebbled nipple, rolling them between the tips of his fingers. “No bra, mija,” he growls in my ear. “Are you trying to get yourself in trouble?” His rich, woodsy scent wraps around my senses, sending a wave of lust straight to my core. Gawd, I love the way my husband smells.
The alarm on my phone buzzes, reminding me we’ll need to leave soon, so I reluctantly pry Andrés’s hands away. Turning into him, I flash my best coy smile. “Not now, mister. We’ve got an appointment.”
Andrés heaves a sigh and adjusts the bulge in his pants. “I just spoke to the realtor. She’s got three move-in-ready homes to show us. One has its own boat ramp.”
“A boat ramp?” My skin turns cold.
Andres knows I’m not ready to buy a boat right now. Despite modern forecasting, unexpected severe weather is not an unusual occurrence on the Texas coast. Once when my dad took me fishing, our boat nearly capsized when we were struck by a freak storm. I don’t want our family getting stuck out on the ocean if the weather changes for the worst.
Andrés looks at me from beneath long lashes, flashing a boyish smile. I’ve seen that look before. That’s the same look he gave me when he wanted to buy a new truck with all the bells and whistles, or when he wanted to take off on a week-long Costa Rican fishing trip with his cousin Cesar. Andrés wants something, and knowing me, I’ll give in. I’m a softie where my husband is concerned.
“We’re meeting with the boat broker tomorrow,” he says, his tone dripping with guilt.
My jaw drops. “I thought we weren’t buying one until James got older.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “If we get a good price on the house we can get one with a cabin, mija, so James can have a place to rest.”
I love boating, but I wish Andrés would wait a few more years, at least until James is old enough to follow safety directions without throwing a temper tantrum. Still, Andrés is looking at me so hopefully, I can’t say no to him. I’ve denied him so much this year already.
“Just make sure it’s got high sides,” I tell him, “so James doesn’t try to crawl over.”
“You’re an amazing mother, you know that?” He cups my face and plants a feather-soft kiss on my lips. I lean into his warmth, moaning as he deepens the kiss. Our lips meld perfectly as he strokes my tongue with his, and then one hand is on my breast again, teasing that nipple until it aches. Moisture soaks my skimpy panties, and I worry it will seep into my sundress, too.
“Andrés, please,” I beg as I struggle to break free.
“I don’t care about the damn appointment.” He grinds his bulge against my belly. “This weekend is about us, remember?”
I lean on my tiptoes and wrap my arms around his neck, searching his gaze as my throat tightens with emotion. Andrés is right. I’m always putting his needs last. “I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you lately.”
“Don’t be.” He says as he runs his hands up my arms. “Our child comes first. I understand that.”
A shiver steals down my spine, and my legs weaken with lust even as guilt from my negligence threatens to eat at my soul. I cradle his cheek in my hand. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I should completely ignore you.”
Andrés closes his eyes and leans into me. The stubble from his light beard chafes my skin, but I don’t mind. He feels so very warm, so very male. When he opens his eyes, he’s got this wistful look, and I envision old memories are swirling beneath his caramel gaze.
“Remember when we were dating,” he asks, “and like a pendejo, I walked out on you because you didn’t want to have kids?”
“How can I forget?” I repress an involuntary shudder as the memories come racing back. “That was the worst night of my life.”
Where are you going? I had asked him as he stormed toward the door with his suitcase in hand. To live my life, he’d answered. As if the life he’d been living with me wasn’t enough. I would have saved us a lot of heartache had I known how much I’d love my little boy. But I had no frame of reference, since the snake who’d raised me treated me like dirt. And my deceased father had been no better, having raped me when I was just fifteen.
Luckily, the week Andrés walked out on me was also the week I met my birth mother, Jenny, the woman I now call Mom. Ever since Jenny was forced to give me up as a teen mom, she’d lived a life of sorrow and regret. When we reconnected, she showered me with a lifetime of love and caring. I knew then I wasn’t destined to become the same kind of parent as the uncaring mother and father who’d raised me. I could be just like Jenny if I wanted to.
And so when James came into my life, I made it a point to pour every ounce of love into our tiny miracle. For over a year, I have sacrificed my own happiness to ensure my baby is well-loved and he never has to endure the same kind of childhood I had. Looking back on the past year, maybe I have given him too much attention. Maybe I have been overcompensating for my rotten childhood. Either way, I realize now, no matter my past, I need to make the time for my husband as well.
And all this time, my sweet, amazing husband has never given me a guilt trip about it.
“Look at you now, mija,” he says as he smooths a hand down my face. “There’s no other woman on this earth I’d rather have my children. Thank you for loving our son.”
“You don’t need to thank me,” I rasp as I turn my gaze down. It takes all my willpower to hold back my tears. “It’s my job to love our child.”
“Yeah, but plenty of mothers don’t love their kids.” He lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his soft gaze. “Nobody knows that better than you do.”
I place a hand over his heart and smile. Damn me, because a lone tear slip out of the corner of my eye. “James is the greatest gift you’ve ever given me. Thank you so much for him.”
“There’s still one other gift I’d like to give you,” he says as he wipes the tear with the pad of his thumb.
“What?”
He smiles. “A daughter.”
My heart is near to bursting with joy, and I cannot contain the smile that nearly cracks my face in two. “Well, then you’re in luck,” I say as I trail a finger beneath the collar of his stiff shirt. “Because I’m ovulating.”
His eyes widen before his lip hitches up in a devilishly sexy sideways grin. “We’ve got to meet the realtor in a half hour.” He cups my ass, squeezing hard enough I know he’s left marks on my skin. I know damn well he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the realtor. At the moment, neither do I.
“We can be a little late, right?” I ask in a mock girlish voice as I drag a hand down his abdomen and cup the nice bulge pressing against his jeans.
He hoists me up his hard body, hugging me close as I straddle his waist. “Fuck yeah, baby.”
Chapter Five
Christina
We are forty minutes late to the first showing. The realtor, Delilah, who refers to herself as a BOI (born on the island) is very understanding. Delilah app
ears to be about fifty, with a typical Texas blonde bouffant. I call it helmet hair. I don’t like her at first impression, mostly because my adoptive mother had helmet hair, too, but, luckily, that’s where their similarities end. Delilah isn’t haughty at all. In fact, her laid-back smile and casual attitude is somewhat contradictory to her three-inch heels and business suit.
She already has everything set up. It’s a spacious townhome with four bedrooms and an updated, contemporary interior. Andrés loves the boat dock, but, honestly, I’m a little nervous that there is no yard, just a dock with no railing, and a drop off into water so murky, I can’t see the bottom. I can’t escape the terrifying thought of one of my brothers forgetting to close the back door and James wandering outside by himself and falling into the water. I have to admit, it isn’t my ideal beach home.
Andrés senses my unease, and much to my relief, tells her this home probably won’t work for a young family. Next, we look at two condos on the beach. They are both very pretty with small yards and water-front access. The realtor tells us these homes have great rental opportunities. Even though Andrés loves both four bedroom getaways, they don’t have the charm I was hoping for. Maybe it’s their white walls and gleaming silver fixtures. They remind me too much of the home I grew up in, everything looking so pristine I couldn’t even relax. Nothing but a blank, sterile canvas, devoid of love and emotion.
Delilah tells us she has a property that just came on the market, at the bottom end of our budget, with plenty of charm. Andrés hesitates when she says it needs a little work, but I convince him to go look at it by reminding him we can afford a nice boat if we get a deal on a house.
Andrés gripes as we follow the realtor through the city. This house is nowhere near the beach or docks. In fact, it appears to be in the center of the island. As we pull up the steep drive beside the grassy knoll, I fall in love with the old Victorian style. It appears to be one of Galveston’s original homes.
“Mija,” Andrés says with a sigh as he unbuckles his seatbelt, “this looks like too much work.”
“Let’s just go inside, Andrés,” I beg, “Please.”
He rolls his eyes as he gets out of the cab and slams the door. I grab his hand, pulling him toward a wide staircase at the base of a wrap-around porch.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” I ask him. I can already envision white wicker furniture and a porch swing. All the exterior needs are a few new boards and a fresh coat of paint.
“This house was built in 1890 and survived the great hurricane,” Delilah tells us as she precedes us inside. I remember reading about the 1900 Galveston hurricane in school, the worst natural disaster in American history. My teacher told us the hurricane was most likely a category five and killed anywhere between six and twelve thousand people. I figure if a house can withstand such a calamity, it can easily last another century or two. It just needs a little TLC to restore it to its former glory.
Once we walk through the tall mahogany doors with stained glass windows overhead, Delilah motions to the foyer with a flourish. “Most of what you see here is original. The chandeliers, wallpaper and molding were imported from France. The doors were made in Italy.”
I’m completely blown away at the artistic rivets in the crown molding, and unless my eyes deceive me, it’s inlaid with gold flowers. That must have cost a small fortune. The chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling above our heads is covered in cobwebs and faded, but I know beneath the grime is another artistic creation. It’s huge, maybe as wide as my kitchen table, and must weigh several hundred pounds. The wallpaper in some parts is faded, and the hardwood floors need refinishing, but I hope it’s something my mom, who designs furniture for a living, can teach me to do.
As Delilah escorts us from room to room, I can’t help but ooh and ahh at the dormant beauty of the place. Unfortunately, while I’m gasping in amazement, Andrés is groaning with displeasure. He keeps going on about the cost and time that will need to go into restoring this house, and how he’d rather be enjoying the beach than playing carpenter.
The interior has a lot of what appears to be original furniture. I fall in love with the charm of the antique sofas in the parlor, even if the blue and green flowered upholstery needs to be redone.
Delilah flashes an apologetic smile before she checks her phone. “I’m sorry, but I’m late to my next showing.”
“Oh.” My shoulders fall.
“That’s okay. We won’t take up any more of your time,” Andrés says almost too eagerly.
“Nonsense.” Delilah waves him back. “There’s two more floors for you to see. Stay as long as you need. Just lock up on the way out.” She blows us both air kisses before she’s out the door, the clank of her high heels echoing off the walls.
I smile up at my husband and squeeze his hand. I can tell the smile he flashes back is forced, but I don’t care. He’s looking at this whole house whether he likes it or not.
“Three floors!” I squeal as I drag him up the staircase. Though it squeaks and is dusty, I can imagine polishing these beautiful mahogany banisters, maybe adding a plush red runner down the stairs.
Andrés releases my hand and groans as he looks into a room off the main hall. “The bathroom looks ancient, mija. I’m not paying a plumber.”
I cock a hand on my hip and eye him. I get the feeling he’s being overly dramatic because he doesn’t want to do any work. “Don’t you have an uncle who does plumbing?”
He rolls his eyes. “In Austin.”
“Invite him down for the weekend.”
“It’s going to take more than a weekend to fix this.” Andrés sweeps a hand at the darkened bathroom. “We haven’t seen the outside plumbing, either. This house is over a hundred years old. Who knows what needs to be fixed?”
I cross my arms and glare. “If it can survive a category five hurricane, it can survive plumbing repairs.”
I don’t get why Andrés refuses to see the beauty in this house. It’s old, not ugly, and with the right touches, I know we’ll want our second home to become our first home.
After perusing four spacious bedrooms, I’m floored by the mahogany poster bed in the master bedroom. It is massive, and so is the room, with a vaulted ceiling and window seats. The wallpaper in the bedroom is peeling, and when I examine one corner, I realize each peach and gold flower has been painted by hand. I wonder if there’s any way I can save the wallpaper, maybe touch up the paint on the flowers and reseal it. I know it would take a lot of time and money to restore this house, but who better to do it than an artist?
I think back to the days before I had James. I painted almost daily. Now I only get to do it when I’m on the job, and only for someone else. I never paint for pleasure anymore. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could immerse myself in a project like this? If I could rediscover my creative talents? I trace the outline of each delicate flower.
At the sound of Andrés impatiently tapping his foot behind me, I place my hand on the wall and speak loud enough that he can hear me. “It saddens me to see how someone could have let this work of art fall into such disrepair. This home needs an artist to restore it.” My throat tightens with emotion. “This home needs me.”
My voice cracks, and I hang my head. I don’t know what’s come over me all of a sudden. Why I’m so upset. I can’t explain it, but something about this house speaks to me on a deeply emotional level. I haven’t felt this passionate about any kind of art in a long time.
“Mija.” Andrés comes up behind me, cupping my shoulders in his strong grip. “It’s going to take too much time and money to fix up this place.”
I turn to him, trying my best to hold back the well of tears. “I know, baby, but won’t it be amazing when it’s finished? It’s got room for our growing family, plus our extended family, too. Imagine the memories we could make here.”
“We could make memories at the newer houses we looked at, too.”
“No,” I shake my head. “Those houses don’t have heart.”
&nb
sp; Andrés rakes his fingers through his hair, making a noise that sounds part grizzly bear as he heaves himself onto the bed. The mattress makes a loud creak, and for a moment, I think the springs are going to snap. Andrés’s eyes widen as he stills and clutches the side of the bed. His expression is so serious, it’s comical. I can’t help but bust up laughing.
“You think that’s funny, do you?” He jerks up and pulls me back with him.
I fall on his chest with a gasp as the springs screech in protest. I hold my breath for an interminable second, and the wild pounding of my heart drowns out the sounds of the grating mattress.
Andrés’s weight shifts beneath me as he bounces us up and down, the springs rocking to the rhythm.
“Stop!” I squeal.
“Get used to it, mija,” he growls in my ear. “Cause I’m going to fuck you every which way in this bed.” He presses his hands into my ass, grinding me against his growing erection.
Mmm. I can’t believe after all that sex yesterday and this morning, my center begins to swell with need.
But wait! Did he just tell me to get used to it?
Lust temporarily on hold, I pull back and look at him. “Does that mean we’re getting the house?”
His eyes are glazed over with desire as he flashes me a devilish grin. “Only if you say the magic word.”
I bite my lower lip before nuzzling his cheek. “Please?”
“I don’t know.” He grabs my hand and settles it on the bulge beneath his jeans. “I’m not convinced you mean it.”
