Spanish Lessons (Study Abroad Book 1)

by Jessica Peterson

  We’re all sticky after this morning’s walking tour. Sweat prickles along my scalp as I watch a pair of professional flamenco dancers twirl and clap at the front of the room, their reflections following them in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The guitarists in the chairs behind them strum a throaty, thumping acoustic beat, voices trilled in haunting melody.

  I’ve never really seen flamenco before. It’s much more sensual than I thought it would be. Angsty, even. Maybe I’m projecting, but it’s like watching thwarted lovers dance around one another, daring a touch here, turning away there, faces taut with suppressed longing.

  I’m hypnotized. It cuts, their dancing; it cuts close, so close to home. Like Neruda’s sexy poem, and Goya’s Majas, flamenco grabs my heart and squeezes. It plucks at the strings inside me, making me vibrate with want, with hurt.

  The dancers finish with a dramatic flourish. We clap, smiling despite the heat and our aching legs. They tell us it’s our turn to learn the dance; we’re going to pick a couple, they say, to lead the rest of the class in a traditional flamenco routine.

  I turn my head, hoping they won’t choose me, and my gaze collides with Rafa’s. He’s on the other side of the room, his tan skin dewy with sweat; his hands are in the pockets of his jeans. The skin at the edges of his eyes crinkles as he smiles at me. I try not to smile back, I do, but I can’t help it. His cuteness is contagious.

  “Ahhh!” someone is saying. “Estos novios!”

  I look up and the flamenco dude is pointing at me and Rafa, a wide, knowing smile on his face. Yes, he says in Spanish. I’m pointing at you two!

  My stomach drops to the floor. I feel the eyes of the entire room turn to Rafa and me. My face flushes with a heat so violent I worry my skin is burning off.

  “Um,” I say. “No somos novios.” We are not together.

  Whatever you say, the man says in Spanish.

  No no no this can’t happen. My self-control is hanging by a thread. The last thing I need is to dirty flamenco dance with Rafa Montoya in front of our entire program.

  Rafa strides toward me, the rolled-up sleeve of his white button down sliding up his arm as he holds out his hand. “Venga, Vivian.” Come, Vee-vee-an.

  Saying no to that smile is like plucking my eyebrows. Painful. Futile. It’s gonna hurt, so why do it?

  I take his hand and he guides me to the front of the room. Around us our friends clap, whistle, call out lewd things that make me blush even harder.

  The dancers give us a few instructions, telling the rest of the class to follow along. We count out our steps, clapping out the beat. I sneak glances at Rafa; of course he’s a natural, a smile splitting his face as he moves. Even the female dance instructor is impressed with his dancing. Or maybe she’s impressed with his whole perfect person. It’s hard to tell.

  Vale, she says. Now let’s put it all together with the music. But oh, wait, the costumes, we forgot the costumes!

  Rafa steps forward to stand in front of me. His eyes flash with laughter, the light blue tinged with heat. His smile deepens as his fingers glide down his chest to his shirt. He unbuttons one button, then another.

  “Esto es mi disfraz,” he says. This is my costume.

  The room echoes with applause, some laughs. I look away, rolling my lips between my teeth to keep from smiling too hard. He’s so damn cute. Hot. Handsome. He is all the things, and he is killing me.

  The instructor helps me into a red and white polka dot dress with a flouncy skirt and flowy, lace-edged sleeves. It’s a little tight with my clothes underneath, but from the look in Rafa’s eyes I guess it fits okay.

  The guitars sound behind us, and we begin to move. I can’t look at Rafa or I’m sure I’ll combust. He grasps my hand, spins me around; his fingers glide through mine and a shiver darts down my spine. Inside my chest my heart flutters.

  I step on his foot and I curse. He laughs and so do I. The dress whirls around my ankles as Rafa turns me, and turns me again, clapping his hands while he sways his hips. He dances closer, closer, his body brushing against mine. Warmth spreads through me. I know we’re dancing in cheesy costumes in front of fifty people, but I am so, so tempted to grab Rafa by the shorthairs and tongue kiss him like the world is ending.

  He trails his fingertips up the length of my bare arm, and in the space of a single heartbeat the dance goes from sweet and fun to fun and hot. The music swirls to a screaming crescendo and then the song ends.

  I am on fire.

  The class erupts in applause, a few lewd whistles. Rafa smiles at our audience, slipping an arm around my waist easily, like we’ve been murdering Flamenco together for years. We make a silly little bow. But when he rises and we meet eyes, his are slick with heat, full of something that scares me.

  It scares me because I can see he’s on fire, too. I can feel it, my body arching into the magnetic pull of his. I am aware of the blood moving in the space between my skin and bones, pooling where my legs meet. The way he touches me—even now, pulses of warmth emanate from the place where his palm meets the small of my back—what I wouldn’t give for him to touch me like that all over.

  Rafa’s expression, soft with interest, makes my heart hurt. No one has ever looked at me the way he does, like I’m the only one in the room, in the world, and it makes me feel things I shouldn’t.

  I am glad Maddie isn’t here to see him looking at me like this.

  We’re both breathing hard; a fine sheen of sweat prickles on his forehead. I want to mop it up with my fingertips, taste it with my mouth. I want him, more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

  I want him, and I can’t have him.

  Elena makes her way to the middle of the studio, quieting everyone before giving us instructions for tomorrow’s schedule. We are dismissed; people bolt out the door, eager to get a nap in before heading out later tonight. The girls told me everyone is meeting for dinner at a tapas place across the river in Triana.

  I turn away from Rafa, trying to tug the dress back over my head. Somehow I get my head stuck in the collar.

  “Shit,” I murmur, sweat trickling down my temples.

  Through the bright red tunnel of my dress, I see Rafa’s scuffed suede boots step toward me. “Here,” he says. “Let me help you.”

  “Thanks,” I say. My skin burns where he touches me. I keep waiting for my response to him to cool, to fade.

  It’s only gotten hotter.

  Rafa tugs the dress over my head, grinning, and I let out a sigh of relief.

  “Whew.” I wipe my brow. I glance at his chest, peeking through the open lapels of his shirt. I swallow. “You should button that back up. You’re going to scare the villagers. And by scare, I mean seduce.”

  He looks down at said buttons. Looks back up, a smirk quirking the corner of his mouth. “I don’t think I will.”

  We step out into the late afternoon, bringing up the rear of our group as we walk the few blocks to our hotel. My heart is still beating hard, my body alive with the knowledge that Rafa is beside me. We are quiet, listening to the voices of our friends ahead. Our hands brush. I close my eyes and allow the warmth I feel to overwhelm me. The sun burns pink through my closed lids.

  I feel his hand on my back again, guiding me slightly to the right, and I open my eyes to see him grinning down at me, his sunglasses setting off the fullness of his lips.

  “You were about to walk into a pole,” he says.

  I look over my shoulder at the offending pole. “Yikes,” I say. “Thanks for saving me from breaking my face. Also from that dress. God, I’m a mess today.”

  “De nada,” he says. You’re welcome. “What were you thinking about?”

  I turn my head to look at him. You. Always, always you.

  His smile softens.

  His fingers find mine. His touch is achingly gentle as he entwines them. We keep walking. I should pull away. I should have the courage to pull away.

  But the joy I feel walking next to Rafa fills me from head to toe. I don’t want to feel
it. I shouldn’t feel it.

  But I do. And for the first time, I allow that feeling to swallow me whole.

  Maybe it’s not doing what I should do that requires courage.

  Maybe it’s doing what I want to do that is the courageous thing.

  And I want to hold hands with Rafa. I want to take the risk, and be with him.

  I want to be with the guy who feels like home. Thousands of miles from the house I grew up in, I found him. He’s with me here, and I have never felt safer or more alive than I do right now.

  I thought being with Rafa would break my already fragile heart, that it would ruin my friendship with Maddie. So I told him no, I kept fighting and denying what I felt for him. And it turns out not being with Rafa—not being honest about what I want—is just as toxic.

  By trying not to betray my friend, I have betrayed myself.

  I love her, and I love him, and I am going to figure it out.

  But today—tonight—I am going to be with Rafa.

  The sun slants between buildings, the heat oppressive on our shoulders. We’re trailing farther and farther behind the rest of the group. Our joined hands swing idly between us, and I think of our first night together; all that feeling and excitement that coursed from this place where palm met palm. It’s still there, that crushing, effervescent desire. I didn’t think it could get any bigger, any better. But it has.

  It hits me then—him walking beside me, me walking beside him.

  Somewhere along this twisty, sometimes terrible, sometimes amazing path that led us to this moment, I fell in love.

  Chapter 20

  We squeeze into the elevator at the hotel with a bunch of other Meryton in Madrid kids. I hear Laura giggling with Katie somewhere toward the back.

  Rafa hides our joined hands between our legs.

  We huddle close to let people off at each floor.

  At last we reach my floor—four. I move to get off the elevator but Rafa holds me tight. I meet his eyes. I can’t read his expression, but I know what he wants.

  He wants me to come up to his room. Doubtless as a chaperone he gets his own. The thought of being alone with him is delicious.

  I don’t move.

  We get off on the sixth floor. Rafa hangs a sharp right and pulls me after him. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to pull back. I’m so used to resisting him, to protesting, and it’s a hard habit to break. The reasons I resisted his advances are still there. I’m scared out of my mind and I’m so turned on and I can’t believe this is happening, I can’t believe I’m in love with this gorgeous man who is taking me to his room. I’ve been waiting forever for him. For this. It’s indescribably lovely, wanting and being wanted in return.

  His room is at the end of the hall. I follow him inside.

  Rafa turns on his heel to face me. He reaches behind me and palms the door shut, drawing close, oh, he’s so close. I fall back against the door, my body throbbing with need. I need him to touch me.

  “Vivian,” he says, his voice quiet. I suck in a breath as he slides a hand onto my face, his fingers tickling my hair. In this single, exquisite moment, my senses ignite, singing my fears in an instant. “Enough of this bullshit. I can’t stay away from you. I can’t be a friend to you. I want to be more than that. I want more than that, Vivian, and I think you do, too.”

  I nod my head. “I do, Rafa. I can’t stay away from you, either. I’ve tried, I thought it was the right thing to do—”

  “This”—he presses a lingering kiss onto the angle of my jaw—“is the right thing. I know you are scared. Be brave, Vivian. Open up for me. There is no one else. There is only you and me.”

  He looks me in the eye. His are wild, wet with desire. He’s waiting for me to tell him yes, to tell him I want this as badly as he does.

  I love you, I think.

  “I want you,” I say, fingering the buttons on his shirt. “I want you to teach me everything.”

  He cocks a brow, grin tugging at the edges of his mouth. “Everything?”

  “Everything.”

  “I will go slow—”

  “I don’t want to go slow,” I say.

  “You haven’t done this before,” he says, thumbing my chin so that I look up at him.

  “But I never told you—”

  “I guessed you were a virgin that night at Ático. I was right, wasn’t I?”

  I pause. “Yes.”

  “Then we go slow. Trust me, you do not want to just do it—just get it over with. I don’t want you to miss a thing.”

  I bite my lip. “Vale.”

  Rafa curls a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “I need to go downstairs very quick, yes? I don’t have any—”

  “Condoms,” I say. “You don’t carry any around with you?”

  His grin deepens, revealing a flash of white teeth. “No. I think it is rude to…how do you say? Assume?”

  “Yes,” I reply. “That’s kinda sweet of you.”

  He looks at me. “I don’t have anything—I got a clean bill of health from the doctor a few weeks ago. But I am not sure if you are using the contraception or not?”

  “I’m clean, too,” I say. “But I haven’t, um, you know, been with anyone, in a relationship or whatever, so…yeah, I’m not on the pill or anything.”

  “Even if you were, it is good to be safe.” He pecks my cheek. “Give me five minutes. Help yourself to whatever you want—there’s some bottled water in the fridge, I think.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  Rafa leaves. I step into the room. It’s warm, a pair of windows pushed open onto a tiny courtyard. The gauzy drapes bow out in a small, golden-hued breeze. I can hear the muted sounds of the street outside. The buzz of a muffler, people talking.

  And then, of course, there’s the bed, a delicious-looking affair with fluffy white linens and mounds of downy pillows. I’m tempted to launch myself into its crisp embrace, burying my face in the sheets Rafa and I will dance between in a few short minutes. A whole freaking bed, just for the two of us. Heat spikes through my center. I can’t wait.

  A long, languid stretch of afternoon is all that we have between us, Rafa and me.

  That, and our clothes.

  I look down at my tank top and skirt. Should I take them off? Or should I wait for Rafa to do it?

  I decide to wait. In the meantime, I head to the bathroom with a bottle of water from the fridge. It’s strange, seeing his toiletries lined up on the vanity. Razor, shaving cream, floss, a comb. It’s like a still life, a scene from everyday Rafa Montoya. I like being part of his everyday. I want to know him, his habits, the way he brushes his teeth.

  As his girlfriend, I will.

  I’m just about to reach for his aftershave—for a minute I think about stealing it, it smells so good—when I hear the door open and close.

  I duck my head out of the bathroom. “That was fast.”

  “I am impatient, knowing you wait for me.” Rafa smiles, tossing a plastic bag onto the nightstand. I can see the shape of the box through the bag. The box of condoms I’ve fantasized about—it’s here.

  It’s happening.

  Holy shit. I am going to have sex. Here. Today. Now.

  With Rafa.

  I bite the inside of my cheek, just to make sure this is real.

  Rafa reaches for me, pulling me against him in the middle of the room.

  “Be with me,” he murmurs in my ear. “Be mine, Vivian.”

  I press my body to his, reveling in the barely contained strength of his thighs, his flat belly, the rounded muscles in his chest. He’s more than a head taller than me. He’s huge and he’s strong and he is offering it all to me.

  “Be mine,” I say.

  There it is again, that devastating quirk of his lips. I’ve been yours since the night we met, he says in Spanish.

  He takes my face in his hands. I grasp his wrists; his pulse beats an uneven tattoo against the skin between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Estoy lista,” I say. I’
m ready.

  He smiles. I smile. A smile he captures with his lips, ducking his head as his mouth moves languorously over mine. I meet him stroke for stroke, kissing, kissing, has there ever in the history of the world been a more perfect kiss?

  I’ve been waiting for this kiss. Behind my closed lids I revel in the velvety darkness; velvety like the slick inside of Rafa’s mouth. He takes my bottom lip between his teeth, working slowly, patiently, just the right amount of tenderness, of bite. I drink him in, his scent, his erotic patience.

  He guides my head this way, that way, telling me where to go to deepen the kiss. Tiny explosions of light ignite in my chest, shooting stars of sensation that tickle my sides and land, smoldering, low in my belly.

  My fingers work at the few remaining buttons on his shirt that are still actually buttoned. I slide one through its hole, then another, my fingers trailing over the taut skin of his chest; the whirls of dark hair peeking through the v of his shirt.

  He kisses me harder. His lips demand more, always more, overwhelming in their need. I’m breathless from the effort of trying to keep up.

  I could kiss Rafa all.freaking.day. For the rest of my life.

  But there is sex to be had, nakedness to be explored.

  I begin to back Rafa toward the bed, nudging his hips with mine. I can feel his hard on through his jeans. I reach for his waistband—

  “Todavía no,” he says, grabbing my wrist. Not yet. “We go slow, remember?”

  “We’ve gone slow all semester,” I pant against his lips.

  “And we go slow today,” he says, capturing my reply in a kiss.

  The back of Rafa’s legs hit the bed. I pull away, looking down to tug the shirttails out of his jeans. My clit twitches at the sight of his happy trail, the veins that stand out against the planed muscles of his groin.

  Rafa rolls back his shoulders and I slide my hands up his torso to help him out of his shirt. His skin is hot to the touch. There is so much of him, too much to explore in one afternoon. I stare at his naked chest, my eyes flicking from his belly to his shoulders to his enormous arms, rippled with muscle.