by Orton, D. L.
Goddamn, he’s gorgeous.
His eyes pop open.
I shift my head back a bit and raise my eyebrows.
“Um,” he says, “you’re waiting for me to confirm that I want to kiss you? I thought I just did that, so I’m confused.”
I brush my fingertips over his eyelids, closing them, and with one hand, turn his head away. “Nope, you’re wrong. I’m just taking my time, savoring the moment. You’re right about the wanting to kiss you part. Be patient. Enjoy the anticipation.”
“Okay.” He relaxes his shoulders.
I stroke the smooth skin in front of his ear and then run my fingertips along the edge of his jaw.
This is going to be sweet torture.
Keeping one arm around his neck, I take his chin and pull his mouth up to mine, breathing in the seductive scent of him. His grasp tightens around my waist, and I can feel his pulse quicken. I move my lips slowly across his, teasing him with playful nips and soft kisses.
When he presses his mouth against mine, I turn away, refusing to let him lead. He smiles, enjoying the game now. I hold onto his chin and slide my lips across his face, searching for the soft edge of his facial hair.
He lifts his head and pulls one of my fingers into his mouth, sucking gently and making me very wet.
I move my mouth over his ear and gently exhale, letting my tongue brush the soft inner ridges. He bites onto my finger, his whole body tense. I breathe in and push my tongue into the center of his ear, turning the warm wetness to sudden cold.
He moans and pulls me against him.
I slide my finger out of his mouth, running it over his teeth and across his soft lips. He reluctantly lets go. I straighten my leg and slide down, rubbing my breasts against his chest and my hip against his cock.
He’s very hard.
“Mmm.” I slip my leg in between his thighs and pull his mouth down to mine, kissing him with my whole body.
He grabs my hips, forcing me to hold still.
I pull my mouth away. “Is that the good kind of stop, or the bad kind of stop?”
He opens his eyes, frowning.
“You stopped me from kissing you, so I’m wondering why.”
“Oh.” He glances down. “I guess that would be the good kind. How do you say it in English?” He twists his mouth to one side. “If you keep touching me like that, you will unman me.”
“Unman you, indeed.”
He looks up, his expression injured. “Don’t make fun of me. We’re in Costa Rica. You should be speaking Spanish.”
Ouch.
I feel my face flush. “Touché.”
He shuts his eyes, replacing his hands on the small of my back and pulling me against his hips. He’s still very hard. “That’s French, by the way, not Spanish.”
“Very funny, Tego. And the phrase you’re looking for is ‘make me come.’”
“Ah, yes. If you keep touching me like that, you’ll make me come. Got it.”
I slide my fingers into his hair, a bit rougher than necessary.
He lifts his chin. “I like that phrase: ‘make you come.’”
“Uh huh.” I kiss him on the edge of his mouth, holding onto his head, and then slip my tongue between his lips. He tries to kiss me, but I refuse to let him. “Sorry. No French kissing.”
The corner of his mouth curves up, but he keeps his eyes shut.
I let go of his hair and drape my arms around his neck, resting my lips against his ear. “Yes?” I whisper, drawing out the S sound.
Faster than I can react, he grabs my head and then turns to look at me, his lips twitching. My breath catches in my throat, and he leans in, and then stops abruptly, his eyes on my lips. “No. I don’t think I will.”
I gape at him, still recovering from the unexpected change of control.
“Although you need kissing.” He slides his thumb across my lips, still holding my head. “And badly. That’s what’s wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.”
I laugh but turn it into a pout and then place the back of my hand on my forehead. “Where shall I go? What shall I do?”
He gives me the eyebrow. “Frankly, my dear—”
I stare at his mouth.
“Ah, what the hell.” He lifts up my chin and kisses me, softly at first, and when I don’t pull away, he slides his hands down my back and, holding me in his arms, kisses me more deeply, our bodies fitting together like lovers in a Rodin sculpture. I close my eyes and breathe from his mouth, letting his passion fill me with strength.
He breaks the kiss, but keeps his lips touching mine, breathing in my exhalations, and smiling. “Damn, you’re hard to please.”
“Oh, I knew you’d be up for it.” I rub my hip against his erection. “Even though you thought I was all wet.” I run my tongue lightly across his mouth. “Sometimes you just have to rise to the challenge.”
He mimes licking his finger and giving me a tally in the air. “Tego one, Isabel ten thousand nine hundred and eighty-seven.” He bows his head and sweeps his hand out to the side, letting me slip down into the water. “I surrender to your greatness.”
I shiver and reach out to him, missing his touch.
He lifts me up, catching my thighs in his hands and placing my legs back around his waist in a single movement. “Don’t worry, mi amor, I don’t plan to let go of you any time soon.”
I stroke his face, surprised by how easily he reads me. When I was in my twenties, I was surrounded by guys who refused to take no for an answer, but with Diego, it was never like that: He knew what I was thinking and always beat me to the punch. He backed off before I ever said no, and his sudden withdrawals always left me feeling abandoned. I was constantly trying to second-guess him: What was he really thinking? How did he really feel? Although I found that infuriating at times, it was also very compelling.
I bite my lip and peer into his dark brown eyes, already in way over my head.
Is that why it’s fire or ice with us? Because we’re trying to execute a difficult pas de deux, and if either hesitates, we both fall?
I slide my hands across his bare chest, certain that I’ve stumbled onto something important.
So how do I make him more bulletproof? How do I teach him to withstand a late grab or a missed cue and still make the catch?
The same way you get to Carnegie Hall: practice, practice, practice.
An idea begins to form in the back of my mind.
He traces the hollow along my left shoulder with his fingertip, his eyes following his touch. “I hope you’re thinking about me.”
I look down at where he’s touching me. “Oh, I am. Pretty much all the time.”
He chuckles and pushes a droplet of water across my collarbone, nudging it until it joins another, and they roll down between my breasts.
I shiver and run my fingers roughly through his hair, across his shoulders, and to his face, unable to get enough of him.
He looks up. “I am definitely developing an affinity for cats.”
I roll my eyes.
“Now if I could just figure out how to make you come—when I call.”
I stare at him.
“Mierda, Iz. You’ve been teasing me non-stop since we met yesterday. And mind you, I’m not complaining, but I’d have to be a corpse not to be hoping it might lead to something more.”
I swallow hard, unable to let go of the word “corpse.”
He puts his mouth against the hollow of my shoulder and slides his tongue along my collarbone, pushing droplets of seawater toward the center of my chest.
Another large, cold drop rolls down between my breasts and disappears. He traces its path with his mouth, kissing me as he moves his lips against my skin.
I press my body against him, lost in his touch.
He moans soft
ly, filling me with strength and need, and when he pulls away and kisses me lightly on the lips, I am undone.
I grab onto his shoulders and hide my face, tears streaming down my cheeks. He wraps his arms around me, and I can’t hold back any longer. I cry, great heaving sobs shaking my chest and shoulders.
Because he lives. Because I’m here in his arms. Because nothing else matters.
“Hey.” He takes my head in his hands and looks into my eyes. “Are you okay?”
I swallow hard, unable to speak, my eyes resting on his full lips.
He kisses me deep and hard, and I fall into him, becoming lost in the way I feel when he is with me, knowing that I would rather die than lose him again.
And I’m going to get my wish.
Chapter 42
Tego: Rip Your Heart Out
We sit in the sand watching the sun tease the surface of the glittering Pacific. It’s the longest amount of time she’s gone without asking me a question since I met her, and I’m enjoying the reprieve.
She shakes the sand out of her T-shirt and pulls it on over her head.
I reach over and pull her ponytail out from under her collar. “May I?” She nods and I release her hair, watching the loose curls dance around her shoulders.
She slides her knees up to her chin, wraps her arms around her legs, and leans against my shoulder.
I stare at her profile, mesmerized. The breeze has picked up, and it flutters dark strands of hair across her enigmatic face. Something deep in my core stirs. She has definitely gotten under my skin.
Beto will be happy to hear that I have been cured of my infatuation with blonds.
She seems lost in thought, in another world, and I allow my gaze to fall across her long, silky legs. The scene is perfect until I notice that her hands are shaking. I still don’t have any idea what’s wrong with her, but clearly something is.
The afternoon has been a roller coaster ride of questions and warnings and pithy sayings mixed with electric caresses and sexual innuendo. Unfortunately, I can’t say that I’ve learned anything profound or life changing, despite her earlier entreaty.
But it certainly hasn’t been boring.
She glances over at me. “Thanks for spending the day with me. Even though you think I’m mental.”
“Con mucho gusto. It has been my pleasure. You are, by far, my favorite lunatic.”
“Hah.” She peers out into the darkening sky. I draw lazy circles in the sand and try to decide if I believe anything she’s said, but come up empty-handed.
It can’t possibly be true. Why am I even considering it?
She doesn’t seem the least bit flaky, quite the contrary, and that doesn’t make any sense. Maybe she’s hiding something. Something so awkward that she can’t tell me?
Something more bizarre than what she’s already said? That’s a laugh.
She’s both beautiful and dangerous, and I have no hope of dragging the truth out of her if she doesn’t want to tell me. It’s frustrating to admit, but it is what it is.
She snuggles closer to me and slides her fingertips up the inside of my leg. Despite my emotional, mental, and physical exhaustion, my body responds to her touch, begging for more—and I’m disappointed when she stops.
She looks frazzled, in need of a hot shower and a little down time.
You and me, both.
I watch the waves break and exhaust themselves on the sand. I imagine myself crawling into bed with her, kissing her hair and stroking her smooth white skin until she falls asleep with her head on my chest. I see myself wake up next to her and take a fresh look at everything.
The thought is very appealing.
We sit in silence, gazing out to sea, until she removes her hand from my thigh, crosses her arms, and gives me a glowering look.
“What?” I glance over at her, feeling slightly hurt. “You’re annoyed at me, but I don’t have any idea why.”
And I’m too tired for this shit.
When she becomes convinced that I am at a total loss, she snaps up my hand and plunks it down on the inside of her thigh. “Talk.” She says it flatly, her eyes pinned on me like a firing squad.
“Um. About what?”
She makes an annoyed huff.
“I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what you want.”
She glares at me and tosses her hair. “How long were you planning to wait before touching me back?”
Mierda. Damned if I do and damned if I don’t.
This is not turning out like I expected, and the erratic fluctuations between dysfunction and rapture are wearing on my nerves—and my confidence. I feel as if I’m stuck in a bell jar of her creation, on trial for some transgression I have yet to commit.
“Well?”
“Ay, Iz! I don’t know.” Annoyance spills from my voice. “I guess I didn’t want to push you.” My hand on her thigh feels severed from my body. “I was enjoying being close to you. It was enough for me.” The words don’t come out the way I intend. It sounds like I don’t want to touch her, which is totally wrong.
“Damn it, Tego, you’re killing me.” She looks like she’s going to cry again. “Last night you were begging me to let you stay, and now you can’t summon the strength to rest your hand on my leg?” She turns away, and I think she is crying.
Anything I say will be wrong, but I can’t keep my mouth shut. “Am I your minion or something? Do you even care what I want? Mierda, Isabel, does everything have to be about you?”
The question hangs between us, frozen in time.
She uncrosses her arms, a very deliberate act, and leans back on her elbows in the sand. She speaks to the clouds, her hair cascading down onto the sand. “If I touch you and you don’t respond, you’re telling me you don’t want to be touched and that you don’t want to touch me. You’re pushing me away.”
She’s lecturing now. “So, I’ll give you space, and that will make you step back, which will completely crush the intimacy I’ve worked so hard to build. In no time, it will be over between us.” She sits up and looks at me, her face miserable. “God, it’s so obvious now.”
I have no idea what she’s taking about.
“I’m not saying you have to rip my clothes off every time I brush your arm, but if I touch you and you like it, you have to respond.” For a moment, she looks ill. “Assuming you do want to touch me.”
“Iz.” I reach out to her.
She pushes me away and draws her thighs up to her chest.
I pull my hand back.
Yeah, well, same to you.
She sits with her arms wrapped around her legs and her chin on her knees. “I’m too old for this shit.”
I close my eyes, resisting the urge to get up and walk away.
Minutes pass.
She wiggles her toes in the sand. “We have to communicate better. I know that for a fact. Both of us have to try harder.” She looks at me for confirmation, and I nod because she wants me to. “Tego, we have to learn how to get what we need without hurting each other.”
“What do you need, Iz? Why don’t you just tell me?”
She gazes out at some hopeful surfer trying to catch his last wave of the day. “My god, this is hopeless. There’s not a snowflake’s chance in hell you’re going to be able to put up with her, no matter what I tell you.”
I have no idea how she expects me to respond to that, and I’m too tired to care. She’s trying to cram too much into too small a space.
But amazingly—annoyingly—she doesn’t give up.
“When you first get to know someone, there are lots of uncertainties flying about. The trick is to match them up so that both people are engaged and challenged, but not overwhelmed or lost. Set and meet expectations so that the other person has a balancing point. Don’t give too much; don’t ask for too much.”
Given what’s been going on all afternoon, I find that last bit too much to take, and I laugh—and then attempt to turn it into a cough.”
“Are you even listening?”
“Yes, Isabel. Relationships require balance, and we’re in sorry need of that right now.” My tone is harsh, but I’m too annoyed to care. “But go ahead and finish with the lecture. I know you’re going to anyway.”
Anger flares in her eyes. “And don’t say things that are only meant to hurt.”
“Okay, I’m sorry.” I put my hand on her leg, wanting to reconnect.
“The chemistry is important, but I know it will be there in spades. So you have to pay attention to the other things. Take risks, make sacrifices, learn when to push and when to let go. None of it is easy, and some of it is downright painful, but all of it is essential.” She glances down at my hand on her thigh. “Does that make any sense?”
“Um, I think so.” I tell her that, but I have no idea what she’s talking about.
She looks away, and I return my hand to my lap.
Silence descends like heavy fog, chilling me and making me want to bolt.
I don’t think this is coming off the way she intended. I know she wants me to step up, say something to make her feel better, but I’m working on only a couple hours of sleep, and I don’t know what to tell her. I’ve been hard—painfully so—for almost twenty-four hours, and I’m annoyed that it doesn’t seem to count in the positive feedback column of her spreadsheet.
And anyway, the point is moot now.
I can’t deny the way I feel about her, but she’s trying to mold me into someone I’m not, some ideal man she’s dreamt up after reading too many vampire books. I feel overwhelmed, exhausted, even threatened, like a kid in trouble for something he didn’t do and doesn’t understand. I like her and all—and maybe it’s more than that—but I feel like she’s pressing me for a long-term commitment when I don’t even know her last name.
I’m startled by her voice. “It’s not just you taking a risk here. It’s both of us. I have my own set of insecurities.” She picks up a fistful of damp sand and flings it at the surf. “God, is that an understatement.”
She rests her temple against her knee, peering over at me. “Try to see it from both sides, and don’t be so quick to assume the worst. I know you see me as confident and controlling, but sometimes it’s just an act. You need to be persistent and assertive, and it won’t work if you drop the ball every time I make you uncomfortable.” She glances away. “The things worth having are worth fighting for.”
