I guess the cojones I had at the club have shriveled up and died.
Regret tightens at the back of my throat. I scramble to think of something to say to break the ice that has spontaneously formed between Rafa and me.
“Those guys who were bothering me, back at Ático,” I say. “What did you say to them?”
Rafa tucks his last churro into his mouth and crumples the wax paper in his hands. “I told them to leave you alone,” he grins, “in so many words.”
“What does ‘que te folle un pez’ mean? Am I saying it right?”
“Oh, you’re saying it right,” Rafa laughs, shaking his head. “If you translate it word for word, in English it means ‘I hope you go fuck a fish’. Basically our version of ‘go fuck yourself.’”
“Wow,” I say. I love hearing him say fuck. It’s face-meltingly sexy. “Wow, that is a lot worse than I thought it was. And way more awesome.”
“It is a good thing to remember, yes? For when people bother you. What do you say to guys in English? When they bother you like that, I mean.”
I make a sound of amused disbelief, something between “tssshh” and “ha!”
“What?” Rafa asks. “Is it very bad, what you say to them?”
“I don’t have to say anything. Guys back at Meryton—well. They definitely don’t bother me. They don’t know I exist.”
Rafa stares at me like I do have raccoon eyes. I swipe my fingers under my bottom lashes, just in case.
“I don’t believe it,” he says.
“Where I go to college, the girls are competitively perfect. Trust me, Rafa, I’ve never gotten so much as a second glance.”
“But that is impossible. I gave you a second glance. And a third. And more than that.” Rafa shrugs, holding his knees in the circle of his arms. “I hope you do not mind me telling you this. But I like to look at you.”
“I noticed,” I say, blushing. It’s on the tip of my tongue: I like to look at you, too. But I can’t bring myself to admit such a thing to such a handsome Madrileño. Everyone likes to look at him. What do I matter?
“I will stop, Vivian, if you don’t like it,” he says. “You know how to tell me to go fuck a fish now.”
There will be no fucking of fishes.
I like how he looks at me. A lot.
I really, really regret not going in for the kiss. It was the perfect, most romantic moment, and I ducked out of it like a coward.
I roll my wax paper into a ball; I am full, deliciously so. Rafa holds out his hand.
“Oh,” I say, placing the ball in his open palm. “Thanks. You can call me Viv, you know.”
Rafa tosses the paper in a trash can and swivels his head to look at me. “But I like Vivian. It is such a pretty name.”
“It’s pretty when you say it,” I reply. “I feel like that Vee-vee-an is my Spanish alter-ego. She chain smokes and dresses like Coco Chanel.”
He smiles. “She splits her time between her penthouse in Barcelona and a yacht off the coast of Cádiz.”
“I have no clue where that is,” I say, laughing. “But yes. That is Vee-vee-an to a T.”
“But this Vivian you are now, she is such a good dancer,” Rafa says. “And she defends herself very well.”
“I got that guy in the balls.”
“I noticed,” he says. “I like her. You. Just like you are, in this moment. And in that moment, too, when you got the guy in the cojones.”
If this was any other dude, on any other night, I’d think the things Rafa is saying are nothing more than cheesy lines to get in my pants. I’d think he was laying it on thick, so shameless in his agenda to get laid; a 6 a.m., last-ditch effort with the last girl standing.
But coming from Rafa—how he speaks them, how he looks at me when he says them—these words are sincere. Powerful in their simplicity. Like he has no agenda, other than to compliment me, and make sure I don’t have any chocolate on my face.
No agenda other than to have fun on a Saturday night in Madrid.
Herds of scantily-dressed people, heels clomping against the cobblestones, filter past us. They laugh and smoke, and a few couples even put on a show, fondling each other like they mean it. I look up; the sky has faded to grey, just light enough to make out wisps of cloud scudding overhead.
Rafa checks his watch. His skin glows in the soft light.
“It’s almost six.” He rises, brushing off his jeans. “We should get going if we want to catch the first Metro.”
I can’t remember the last time I witnessed 6 a.m. on this Earth. Back on campus, a late night usually meant 2 or 3 a.m.; we’d always try to schedule our classes so we didn’t have to wake up before nine. Six was no man’s land.
I feel badass, frankly, for making it out so late. Everyone else left hours ago.
And still it feels too early for the night to end.
Rafa reaches down and offers me his hand. I take it. He pulls me up beside him, my leg bumping against his. For a minute our eyes meet. I will never get used to how beautifully blue his are. They are the K.O. punch, every time.
I want to kiss him, badly. My heartbeat thrums through my body. Do I take a chance? Or do I let the night end on this heady, anticipatory, safe note? I already count tonight among my most favorite nights ever. Why risk a kiss that could ruin the memory of the wonderful hours I spent in Rafa’s company?
It’s a classic case of damned if you do, damned if you don’t. I’ll regret not kissing Rafa. But there’s a chance—a very good chance—that if I kiss him, I’ll regret that more. Maybe he never wanted to kiss me in the first place; maybe he pulls away, tries to be nice in a horrifically awkward way.
Maybe the kiss is so wonderful I’ll start falling for him on the spot. Rafa looks like he would be a lethal kisser, thorough and patient and intense, all at once.
But Lord knows I need to fall for another unattainable guy like I need a hole in my head. I’ve done the sorta-kinda-relationship hookup thing, and I ended up with a broken heart. I’m terrified of getting hurt like that again. If I’m going to get involved with someone, it’s gotta be real, and it’s gotta have forever potential.
Rafa, with his handsome smile and panty-dropper charm, doesn’t seem like the forever type.
He offers me a quirk of his lips. He hasn’t let go of my hand. In fact, his fingers, thick and calloused, slide between mine, locking my palm in place against his. He’s still looking at me, his eyes and his face soft.
Kiss him.
“So,” he says. We start to walk, hand in hand, down the street. “What did you think of your first night in Madrid? Was I a decent guide?”
I blink. I swallow. I can’t concentrate on anything but our hands swinging between us. His touch is gentle and sweet. Around us the air has finally cooled; my skirt ripples in a slight breeze.
I wish I could capture this moment and squeeze it into a bottle, uncorking it whenever I want to feel the way I feel right now.
Kiss him.
“The chocolate incident notwithstanding,” I reply, “I’d say it was pretty awesome. You were right about the sangria—it is magical. My white girl jammed out. I learned some amazing Spanish swear words – thank you for those.”
“Happy to be of service.”
“The churros were ridiculous. The music was sick.” I look at him. “But as for you…”
There it is again, that smirk at the corner of his lips. “Come on, Vivian, you must give me some credit here. Look at this!” He brushes the fingers of his free hand across his bare chest. “I am practically naked, all for you. I am no Justin Timberlake, but I worked very hard on my chest hair, and I think it deserves a little bit of appreciation, yes?”
I slow my pace and he slows, too. Kiss him.
I look down at said chest hair, peeking through his egregiously unbuttoned shirt. “It is very nice hair,” I say. “It’s no Austin Powers bath mat, but I like it.”
“He is a tough guy to beat,” Rafa says. “Maybe when I am older I will be so lucky.”
I don’t know how we arrived at this topic of conversation, but I’m over it, I’m over talking, I just want to kiss him. I remember what Katie told me at the beginning of the night. Talk to him. You have nothing to lose.
I’m holding hands with Rafa right now because I had the cojones to talk to him. Who knows what will happen if I kiss him.
Sure, it could bruise my ego, and my memories of tonight.
But he’s looking at me again and oh God those freckles and his shoulders and the dark messy waves of his hair and the way he smells and now he’s teasing me about my sweaty palm and running his thumb across the back of my hand and I can’t, I can’t, I just can’t not kiss him.
Rafa pauses at an intersection, looking both ways down a deserted lane. There’s a tiny little alcove, a quirk in the building’s architecture, just up ahead, obscured by a tree. The perfect place for a little late-night make-out sesh.
We cross the street—I’m on the outside—and when we step up on the curb I give Rafa’s hand a tug. He turns to face me, the laughter softening in his eyes. My heart is pounding so hard inside my head I think it might explode. I take a step closer.
“Are you okay, Vivian?” he asks.
Not okay. Definitely not okay. But I’m going to do it anyway.
I’ve never made the first move before—at least not when I was this sober— but I know if I don’t just go in for the kill, I’m going to mess it up.
I rise up, slowly, on my tip toes. Our faces inch closer. He keeps looking at me; I feel the heat of his gaze on the rise of my cheekbones. But I can’t meet his eyes, so I focus on his lips instead. The scent of his aftershave hits me and I know I’ve made the right decision.
Or maybe the worst decision ever.
My body slides up the tall length of his, our clasped hands trapped between us. I love the solid warmth of his body, the delightful shock of being this close to someone.
And then I kiss him.
I close my eyes and press my lips to Rafa’s mouth and I kiss him.
The second I do it, I think oh my God, what a fucking idiot fish I am, what in the world am I doing, stop now, stop while you’re ahead.
It’s excruciating, that first second.
But the second—er, second—is much better, because Rafa starts kissing me back.
His lips melt into mine, slightly parted, perfect for kissing. My heart flutters inside my chest. The kiss is slow and a little timid, like neither of us want to go too far or reveal too much. But I don’t mind it. I like slow, especially with Rafa. It allows me to savor every heartbeat, every feeling, every damn delicious thing about him.
Rafa pulls back. My stomach flips. I wait for him to bumble an excuse, to tell me he can’t because he has a girlfriend, he has to get home, he thinks I smell.
But when I open my eyes, he’s grinning. Relief, warm, spreads through me.
“For a minute, I believed you didn’t want to do that,” he murmurs. “Back there, after the chocolate incident…”
I shrug, bashfully. “I did. I do. I do, Rafa. I just…gah, I was just being an idiot.”
He brings our joined hands up between us, settling my hand on his chest. I can feel the pound pound pound of his heart. Something about its furious working makes my own skip a beat. I’m the one who is making him feel this way. I’m the one he feels this—whatever this is—for.
I look up, startled, a little scared. Rafa brings his hands up to my face, his fingers gliding with erotic ease to rest just beneath my earlobes, in my hair, on my cheeks. He angles his head, his lips hovering less than an inch above mine.
A current of desire rips through me. I have never felt anything like it.
Rafa holds me there, an inch from the kiss I want more than my next breath. His nose brushes mine as he looks at me and looks at me and keeps looking, his eyes glassy with heat. He’s making me wait.
“I didn’t know if you wanted to do that,” I say.
One side of his mouth curls into a grin. “Do you not remember? I kissed you first, Vivian.”
My cheeks burn with the memory of the quick, sweet kisses he gave me when we first met at the bar.
“But those were polite kisses,” I say. “Hello kisses.”
“But still kisses. I have been waiting to do it again all night.”
He bends his neck and presses his lips to mine. My eyes flutter shut, a poignant rush of sensation moving from where our mouths meet to where my legs do. His mouth moves over mine, opening me to his every stroke, every pull and nick and bite. In a handful of heartbeats Rafa makes the kiss his own, holding my head in the cradle of his hands as he moves over me. He tastes like chocolate, just a hint of sweet sangria.
Behind my closed lids, a confetti of sparks ignite and sparkle.
Whistles and catcalls erupt somewhere behind us. Rafa slows, but his lips never leave mine. He wedges my legs between his own, and in one swift, strong movement, he swivels me around, reversing our positions so that he is between me and the street. I sense him hunching his shoulders forward, blocking me from sight, pressing me into the little make-out alcove.
I don’t have time to think or catch my breath. Rafa keeps kissing me, and the kiss keeps getting better. Deeper. Our first kiss was timid; but this kiss—this kiss is anything but. My head spins as I try to keep up with him. He’s slow and fast and insistent and soft, all at once. I lose myself in him, my mind a blessed blank. He’s just as good a kisser as I thought he’d be.
Better, even. There is something incredibly sexy about the way he moves. He’s confident without being overbearing. Yes, the kiss is his, but that means I’m his focus. He lavishes me with attention and care, his tongue working to open me to him, and I open, willingly, wildly.
This is how everyone dreams of being kissed. With abandon. With feeling. I grasp his forearms, my fingers digging into his bare skin as I hold on for dear life.
There is nothing safe about Rafa. Not the way he looks at me or the way he dances or how I feel when he touches me. Definitely nothing safe about the way he kisses me.
But I feel safe with him anyway. Safe to be myself. Safe to kiss him back without worrying about what happens next.
I feel safe because we’ll probably never see—much less kiss—each other again. He’s way out of my league. And I don’t want to fall for a guy I’ll just have to leave in a few months. I don’t want to get hurt again. I can’t bear it.
This is just a kiss, I tell myself.
It’s just one kiss that he won’t remember, that I will try to forget.
Still. There’s this rush between my skin and bones that whispers to me, telling me this is no ordinary kiss.
That nothing will be the same after this kiss.
Chapter 5
Rafa and I sprint through the Metro station. Still delirious from that kiss, we giggle our way down an escalator that looks like it’s about a mile along. Down here the air is muggy and a touch too warm.
Or maybe it’s me that’s a touch too warm. I’m a little shaky, dizzy too, like I’ve had too much caffeine. My heart pops around in my chest.
I follow Rafa to a bank of turnstiles. Even in the blaring fluorescent lights, he is gorgeous. His shirt is somehow still crisp, the muscular roll of his shoulders straining against the starched white fabric. My dizziness spins to new heights. I wonder if I have vertigo.
I start to turn for the ticket machine, but Rafa grabs me by the elbow. “No,” he says. “You come with me.”
“Seriously?” I say. “You paid for everything tonight. Which was very sweet of you, Rafa, but really, I can buy my own Metro ticket.”
“Maybe next time.”
“You keep saying that.”
“It’s more fun this way. Trust me.”
He tucks me into the curve of his body, my back to his front, and with his hips (oh, sweet heaven) he nudges me into one of the turnstile stalls. He slips his arms underneath my own, trapping me against him. I understand, suddenly, what Rafa’s about to do.
> “But you can’t sneak me in,” I whisper, glancing around. “There’s gotta be cameras everywhere—they’ll see us! I don’t want to go to Spanish jail before the semester even begins.”
“We’ll be fine. It’s much quicker. Stay close.”
Rafa holds his pass to the scanner until it beeps. Together we push through the turnstile, my vision going blank at the sudden, searing contact of our bodies as we stumble out on the other side.
At the same time, it feels like the most natural thing in the world—his palm moving up the length of my spine, stopping to grasp the nape of my neck between his thumb and forefinger. He touches me easily, like we’ve been at this for a while; like we haven’t just met and made out on the street.
The ground rumbles beneath our feet.
“C’mon.” Rafa starts walking, hanging a right. “I think your train is about to arrive. It’s the red line, remember? It will take you right to the Retiro stop, and then all you have to do is cross the street and you will be at home.”
I nod. On the way to the station, Rafa helped me figure out the closest Metro stop to my señora’s apartment. Thankfully I don’t have to switch trains or make any complicated maneuvers—even with a super knowledgeable, and super hot, Madrileño at my side, I’m a little nervous about my first Metro ride.
We stop at the edge of the platform. A couple people mill about the quiet space; a guy in a suit, another in scrubs. Two girls, dressed for the club, doze off on a bench.
I am hyperaware of Rafa’s hand on my neck. I like the way he touches me. I like being held like this.
It’s six in the morning and I am stone cold sober and I do not want this night to end.
“You will ask for help if you get lost, yes?” Rafa asks. “Not everyone speaks English, but most young people like me will understand it.”
“Thanks,” I say, looking up at him. “For everything. I had a really, really fun time tonight. I think you’re right—I’m going to like it here.”
Spanish Lessons (Study Abroad Book 1) Page 5
