Spanish Lessons (Study Abroad Book 1)

by Jessica Peterson

  Really good.

  I draw my knees up, deepening each thrust. We sweat and stick and suck, his body making small slapping noises each time it meets mine.

  “Open your eyes, Vivian,” he says. “I know you like the watching. Look.”

  He lifts his hips, allowing me to see where our bodies are joined. His dick, glistening with my arousal, slides in and out of me, in and out, the veins in his groin throbbing against his skin. Heat pulses between my legs as I watch him move.

  It’s lewd.

  It’s awesome.

  “Touch yourself,” he says. “You’re close—I feel it.”

  I reach down and do as I’m told. I gasp. My clit is stretched around the great mass of Rafa’s dick, soft and swollen and ready to burst. I glide my fingers over it, the memory of pain evaporating as pleasure rises in its place.

  Pleasure unlike anything I have ever felt before. Pleasure that spirals deep inside me. Pleasure that I can’t hold back.

  Rafa is gliding in and out of me, smooth, strong strokes now, his body gorgeous as it moves over me. His butt is perfection. Like, true, he-should-be-a-butt-double perfection.

  I keep touching myself, and Rafa keeps moving, and now I understand, now I am open, now I am ready.

  I come hard, a blinding orgasm that has me shouting Rafa’s name. He cries out at the same moment; I feel myself clenching around him as he thrusts one last time, the two of us lost to the manic rush inside and between our bodies. It’s eviscerating, experiencing this with him. I feel full, so damn full, full of love and satiation, full of fear and longing and contentment.

  I close my eyes.

  Rafa presses a sweet, lingering kiss onto my lips. He’s on top of me, crushing me in the best possible way. My heart is racing.

  “Vivian,” he whispers. He touches his forehead to mine.

  “Is it always this good?” I breathe.

  “No,” he says. “No, Vivian, it’s never this good. Especially not the first time.”

  He pulls out of me, gently, but I still wince; I’m already sore. He reaches down for the condom.

  “Shit,” he says, feathering his fingers over my raw flesh. “You’re bleeding. Do you hurt?”

  I look down. “I mean, it hurts a little—”

  “I don’t want it to hurt at all,” he says, meeting my eyes.

  Something about the softness in his eyes—how easily, how lovingly he is touching me—I don’t know what it is, exactly, that makes me burst into tears, but I do.

  Damn it.

  “Vivian—”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “They are happy tears. I think.”

  Through a film of tears I see Rafa smiling, the handsome lines around his mouth deepening as he shifts his weight to the other elbow and wipes away my tears with his thumb.

  “Sorry. I’m sorry—I didn’t want to be the girl who cried, you know?”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s all right. I love the girl you are. Whether she cries or not. I love everything about you.”

  The tears come in earnest then. I love the girl you are. I love everything about you.

  “I,” he kisses my cheek, “love,” he kisses the other cheek, my nose, “you,” and finally my mouth. “Te amo, Vivian. I know it has not been a very long time between us, but it happened for me so fast. I knew. Right away, I knew. I waited so long to find someone as brilliant and passionate as you are. D’you really think I’d let an ocean keep us apart?”

  Tears roll down my temples, soaking my hair as I smile up at Rafa and he smiles down at me and the intensity of our connection, of the overwhelming sweetness of this moment, hits me full force.

  “I love you too, Rafa,” I whisper.

  “So is that a yes? Will you finally be my girlfriend?”

  “Yes,” I laugh. “Por supuesto.” Of course.

  And just like that, I am no longer a virgin, and Rafa and I are novios.

  There is no going back now.

  I am in bloom.

  ***

  Later that night

  I wake up slowly, my eyes heavy with sleep. It’s dark outside; the windows are still open, the curtains still dancing in the breeze. I listen to the clack of high heels against the pavement beneath our window; I smell the slightest trace of cigarette smoke; someone laughs. People are heading out for a night in Seville.

  I glance at the clock beside the bed. Nine twenty-nine. We fell asleep sometime around seven, exhausted from a day spent on our feet and an afternoon spent…well, you know.

  That was one hell of a nap.

  The room is warm. Or maybe it’s the body wrapped around mine, the burn of his skin on my skin, that is to blame for the fine sheen of sweat that covers me from head to toe.

  I’m the naked little spoon to Rafa’s naked big spoon; I can feel the beating of his heart through my back; his legs, long, powerful legs, are tangled in mine; his penis is nestled just above my butt.

  A penis that moves, suddenly, tickling my skin.

  “Buenas noches,” Rafa murmurs sleepily in my ear, trailing a long, lazy kiss down the slope of my throat. His breath is warm on my skin. “How are you feeling?”

  “Good. Wonderful,” I say. A shiver darts down my spine and lands in a pool of slick, sticky warmth between my legs. “Turned on.”

  My pussy pulses; it stings a little, but I don’t care. In the space of a single heartbeat I’m soft and wet and ready.

  We’re supposed to meet our friends for dinner.

  I don’t think that’s going to happen.

  “A condom,” I say, reaching back to dig my hand into the hair at the nape of Rafa’s neck. It’s wet with sweat. “Put on a condom. Now.”

  “Vivian.” He slides a hand up my belly and cups my breast, softly working the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Ah, God that feels delicious. “You bled before. Aren’t you sore?”

  “I don’t care,” I pant. “It’s not that bad. I want to. Please.”

  Rafa reaches between my legs and slides his middle finger between my folds. He lets out a guttural sound. “Always so wet. This doesn’t hurt?”

  “No,” I lie, rolling my hips against his hand. “Please, Rafa.”

  “You sure?”

  “How many times”—I gasp when his finger finds my clit—“do I have to tell you? Yes. A million times yes.”

  He pulls his finger gently from my pussy. A minute later I hear a familiar tear; his knuckles brush the small of my back as he rolls the condom onto his dick.

  I press my ass against him. “Can we try it this way? On our side?”

  Rafa is already there, lifting my leg, using his other hand to find my pussy and hold it open so he can guide himself inside me from behind. I bite my lip at the pinch of pain when he first enters me. I am going to be sore tomorrow. Really sore. But as he slides into me the pain is subsumed, bit by bit, by desire. This feels so good. Rafa feels so good.

  Sex, my friends, feels so fucking good.

  It’s a little different, doing it from behind. I feel fuller. The angle is more direct. Rafa guides my top leg over his, opening me to him; he’s reaching around again and his fingers are on the tip of my pussy again and I feel like I’m going to come—again and again and again.

  He moans as he pumps into me for the first time. He goes so deep—I feel so safe in the warm cradle of his body—I whimper. He kisses my neck. I pull his hair.

  Te amo, he breathes. Dios mío, Vivian, te amo.

  He’s holding me against him, our bodies working in time to each other, my legs starting to shake from the force of my impending orgasm. He thrusts deeper, harder, slow, thorough strokes, biting my shoulder, and I’m muffling my cries in the mussed sheets. It hurts.

  It feels so, so good. Sweet.

  ***

  Early the next morning

  My eyes flutter open, flutter shut.

  The blackness behind my closed lids is complete. It must be early, very early, in the morning.

  Something warm is moving ove
r my breast, warm and familiar. The woodsy scent of aftershave tickles my nostrils. A weight, a delicious, shapely weight, settles itself over me, parting my thighs.

  I moan, a small, quiet sound, at the sudden pressure between my legs as he enters me.

  “Rafa,” I whisper, my hips rising to meet his thrust.

  I’m still half asleep, aware only of the tightening low in my belly, the rasping sounds of our labored breathing between us.

  He tangles his fingers in mine above my head. There’s that warmth again on my breast, a stab of pleasurable pain as he takes my nipple in his teeth.

  I come and he comes and when we are done he pulls the covers up over our heads and curls me into shapely nook of his torso.

  Chapter 22

  Later that Morning

  Rafa holds a Styrofoam cup in one hand and two ibuprofen pills in the other. I perk up instantly at the smell of strong, fragrant coffee.

  “Buenos días, Vivian,” he says. His voice is still rough with sleep.

  “Buenos días, Rafa,” I say, shyly.

  I sit up in bed, remembering I’m naked only when the sheet falls from my shoulders and reveals my bare breasts.

  “Oh—” I say, pulling the sheet back up.

  Rafa grins, the lines around his mouth carved handsomely into day-old stubble. He sits on the edge of the bed and with his first finger tugs the sheet down.

  “I have to say good morning to them, too,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss onto my mouth. Before I know what he’s doing he ducks his head and kisses one breast, then the other.

  My pussy clenches. I’m beginning to think being in love with Rafa means living in a constant state of arousal.

  “Not fair,” I breathe, running a hand through his hair.

  This motion—me running my fingers through his bed-head waves— it’s playful and possessive and I love that I get to do it. To my boyfriend, no less. My super guapo, totally amazing-in-bed boyfriend.

  “How are you feeling?” he says softly, raising his face to me.

  “Really great,” I say. “Tired. But great. And you?”

  He thinks a moment before he responds. “Happy. I’m happy, Vivian, to be with you. I hope I make you happy, too.”

  “You do.” I grin. “Doesn’t hurt that you’re a solid lay.”

  He laughs. “Here,” he says, passing me the coffee and the ibuprofen. “There is a little café downstairs I found. We have a long day head—thought you could use some help.”

  “Thanks,” I say, curling my hands around the coffee. “What’s the ibuprofen for?”

  His cheeks turn pink as he offers me a shy smile. “It will help you with the soreness, yes? Last night, I get carried away. We should have done one time only, but I could not keep my hands from you.” His gaze falls to my chest, and his blue eyes darken. “You’re beautiful, Vivian.”

  I bite my lip. “You’re face-meltingly hot. Like, it’s ridiculous how hot you are.”

  “I am actually very hot in this moment,” he says, cupping my breast. He thumbs the nipple to a hard point. “I need a shower. I think you should come with me.”

  “We’re actually pretty awesome at coming together,” I say, breathless.

  Rafa tears me from the bed. He backs me, laughing, into the bathroom, his hands on my face as he kisses me.

  ***

  While Rafa finishes up in the bathroom, I check my phone. I have a text from Maddie. She’s feeling better, she says; she can finally breathe through one of her nostrils, and Chiquitin is staying at the vet for a couple days to get his balls removed, so that is nice. I miss you woman, she says.

  Truth be told, I miss her, too. So much has happened in the past twenty-four hours, and if this were any other guy, in any other city, I’d be sneaking a phone call to Maddie, telling her everything, listening intently to her thoughts, her always on-point analysis. I miss being able to talk to her like the vagina soul sisters we used to be.

  The soul sisters I hope we still are after I explain everything to her.

  I miss you, I type back. Glad ur feeling better. Cant wait 2 snuggle in bed with u when I get home.

  ***

  Later that morning

  Real Alcázar, Seville

  Our tour group shuffles dutifully through the Moorish royal palace. It’s hot as hell, and we’re all hungover. Rafa and I are hungover from a night spent smushing instead of sleeping. Everyone else is hungover from drinking and dancing until the wee hours (Katie drunk texted me this morning at six thirty).

  Which is a shame, because the Alcázar is a really spectacular place. Once upon a time it was home to the Moorish princes of Al Andalus, or Muslim Spain, and the Arabic influence shows. Pointed arches, delicately carved into a series of rainbow-like indentations, are covered in colorful mosaic; endless geometric designs are chiseled into every wall, every panel, every gilded ceiling. The gentle gurgle of the fountains in the courtyard echoes throughout the empty, cavernous rooms.

  As I stroll along the open air loggia bordering the courtyard, resisting the urge to jump the rope and dive headfirst into those inviting fountains that glitter and wink under a fiery sun, I imagine what life was like in the palace. Who lived here, what they ate, who they loved.

  Who they boned in the airy royal chambers.

  I glance up and catch Rafa looking at me. He’s at the head of our group, “aiding” one of our professors with her rambling discourse about Moorish architecture and the medieval period. Instead he’s looking at me, really looking, the kind of look that even after all this time, all we’ve been through and done to each other, still makes my stomach flip. As always he is rakishly handsome in his button down—I helped him pick out a light blue one this morning, a perfect foil to his eyes—and slightly messy hair. When I meet his gaze he offers me a gorgeous, lopsided grin that fills me with tingly, squidgy delight. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over how handsome he is.

  If I’ll ever get past the fact that he belongs to me. That we belong to each other.

  Laura, wavering on her feet beside me, elbows me in the ribs. “Where did you two lovebirds disappear to last night?” she murmurs.

  My face flushes with heat. I fight back a smile.

  “Oh,” she says. “Oh. You did it, didn’t you?”

  I’m really starting to love this girl.

  “Yes,” I say proudly. “We did indeed.”

  She cuffs me on the shoulder, a look of happy disbelief on her face. “Fucking finally. The angst was killing me. Like, I was literally going to strangle you if you didn’t let Rafa swipe that v-card. How was it? Sometimes it’s a little awkward at first.”

  I meet Rafa’s eyes across the loggia. He puts his hands in his pockets.

  “It was awesome,” I say. “I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging—”

  “Great sex is definitely something to brag about.”

  “Are you having great sex?” I ask. “What’s up with the man-bunned footballer?”

  Laura sighs, runs a hand through her long, lustrous curls—unperturbed, of course, by the hundred-degree heat. “The sex is freaking unbelievable, Viv. It has been since the beginning. And that was great, because it was all about about sex—he was just supposed to be a one-night stand, you know? I’m not a cleat-chaser or anything...”

  “What,” I grin. “Did he fall in love with you?”

  She sighs again. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Chicas, chicas!” Elena snaps her fingers at us, her way of telling us to shut the hell up. Which sucks, because I’m dying to find out what this delicious little tidbit of Laura’s means. She’s always so confident, so funny, so assured in everything she does. Even a super famous footballer couldn’t catch her off guard.

  Could he?

  My ears perk up when our professor mentions the Alcázar gardens are temporarily closed because Tournament of Kings, a popular—and awesomely boobalicious—fantasy series is filming there for its upcoming third season. I’m not a rabid TOK fan, but I did watch a few seaso
ns with the stoner guys down the hall my sophomore year. It’s got a medieval bodice ripper-meets-Lord of the Rings kind of vibe.

  The professor conveniently points down the hall, now roped off, that leads to the gardens.

  Laura and I look at each other.

  And then, loitering toward the back of our group, we duck underneath the rope and scurry down the hall. We cruise past a guard typing furiously on his cell phone and dart past a knot of people arguing over their clipboards.

  We spill out onto a covered porch several floors up that looks out over the huge green expanse of the gardens. It is a beehive of activity; people dot the landscape like so many ants. A camera guy navigates his way around a boxwood maze; an actress, an intricate wig of black hair sitting on her head like an oversized bird of prey, practices her lines beneath a palm tree while a makeup artist pokes at her face with a brush.

  But what really catches my attention are the racks and racks of costumes, swarming with people, directly below us. My heart begins to pound as I watch a woman adjust the sleeve of a guy in a dirty peasant costume, pulling a needle from between her teeth to sew it into place. Another woman is poring over the detail on an ornate velvet tunic on a rack, the thread of its golden embroidery glinting in the sun. It reminds me of the embroidery on the sleeves of Goya’s Maja Vestida. Still another is fitting a very handsome actor in tight leather pants with a worn, waxy finish that does wonders for said actor’s ass. In a far corner, a wiry woman digs through a chest of costume jewelry, looping bejeweled necklaces around her neck as she finds them; jewels that are as ridiculously large as those sewn into the clergy’s vestments in El Greco’s The Burial of Count Orgaz. It’s obvious the costumes are historically inspired—a mix of medieval, Tudor, and even Japanese court dress.

  Laura is saying we should go, they’re going to notice we’re gone, but I stand rooted to the spot, transfixed by the costumers (Is that what they’re called? Costume designers, maybe?) as they work their magic below. One of them laughs at something the dirty peasant says; another apologizes for lacing a corset so tight; a guy with a clipboard sits cross-legged on the ground and sketches an Elizabethan-style dress, complete with a wasp-waisted bodice and voluminous sleeves. Someone is shouting for an iron.