After he lubes up my already sweaty thighs, he closes them around his length. “I can’t fuck you, Leia, but I can do this,” he admits on a growl.
Sy holds my knees together while thrusting into them, and I moan louder than necessary. He slaps a palm over my mouth, thrusting harder and harder.
Flexing my thighs around him, he makes strangled noises from the back of his throat. He continues to pump forward, and I swear my pussy clenches with each thrust of his hips, imagining he's there instead. Sy must be close, he keeps getting jerkier as he continues propelling himself harder.
When the first hot spurts of his release hit my lower stomach and legs, pride swells in my chest. Without thought, I rub his seed all over me, coating and marking myself as his. Then, when he’s done, and every last drop is emptied, I stick my fingers in my mouth, sucking them repeatedly. The salty, manly flavor, makes me want more, makes me ache for all of him. Not just his body, but the solid organ that beats in his chest.
“You can’t do that, Leia,” he whispers hoarsely, his face going through so many emotions. His chest rises and falls in rapid succession, his eyes wild, as his softening cock stirs to life again. I do that to him. Me.
“Fuck.” Sy grips his head, his messy hair in disarray, but still sexy as hell.
“Sy—” I begin, but he chops the air, silencing me. I’ve never seen him so broken up, he appears incredibly distressed with what we did.
“¡Mierda!” he yells, sounding almost sickened. “That shouldn’t have happened.” Sy scoots back, a look full of disgust marrs his features, and I suddenly feel nauseated. Something so perfect shouldn’t be tainted by the wrongness of his expression. I won’t let it be.
“Don’t say it, Silas. Don’t you dare,” I nearly break with my words. He’s killing me with his revulsion. Do I disgust him? Am I that appalling?
“Fuck, I’m so sick. This is so fucking wrong, Leia. Fuck! You’re sixteen!” he whisper yells, punching the bed repeatedly, his back muscles flexing with each impact of his fist. Eventually, he gets up, slips back on his boxers, and leaves. No words, no second glance, and no cleanup. I’ve never in my life felt cheapened or used until now.
THREE
Present
LEIA
IT’S BEEN OVER A YEAR. I’m seventeen now, almost eighteen. And even with our intense sexual chemistry, Silas doesn’t pursue me. I think it’s a lost cause, but giving up also means not having him ever. That scares me more than pushing something that feels one-sided.
Today at school, all I could think about was Mamá and Sy coming home after being gone for several days. And the fact that Sy avoids me and probably won’t be here makes me sadder. At the same time though, I’ve been escaping awkward situations with him as well. We’re too hot and cold. One moment he wants me, the next, he’s stony and emotionless. He’s a walking Katy Perry song.
Getting out of my car, I make the short journey to my front door. Immediately, I’m hit with nostalgia of Mamá’s cooking. It smells delicious and homely, with pork, rice, and everything I miss when she’s gone.
“Hey, mija,” Mamá calls out to me, when I step into the kitchen. It’s the most of our heritage she ever gives me. After everything with her family, she doesn’t really speak much Spanish. Not to me at least. I’ve always been too scared to ask if it’s just their abandonment that keeps her from speaking in her native language. But Sy, he always speaks Spanish to me, he makes sure to pursue our heritage. Well, before my birthday at least.
“Hey, Mamá,” I return.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her in days. She and Sy went on some business trip for their strip club. I mean, gentleman’s club. Theirs’ now, since he only became a partner when he first moved here.
Yeah, Mamá had me at fourteen, and as a result, turned to making money at Cynosure. She faked her IDs somehow, as stripping wasn’t legal at her age. Pops might’ve paid her under the table, since she wasn’t taking off her clothes in the beginning.
When Pops—who owned the bar and practically raised Mamá—passed away, he left it to her in his will, and she’s been expanding it ever since. It went from a struggling club to a multi-million dollar business with locations across the country.
She’s made it her own establishment, and stood by as it grew into the best company possible. It’s a tough career to be tied to in my case. That’s why Brax is one of my only friends. People for the longest time called me a slut because my mom used to strip. They’re over it now, and instead, they ogle her whenever she visits my school. It’s disgusting and annoying how that works.
After hanging my coat, unlacing and slipping off my combat boots, I find her cooking arroz con gandules y cerdo. It’s a dish abuelita taught her. It’s also my favorite. Which means, she doesn’t know how I’ll take something—news possibly and is trying to butter me up.
Giving her a big hug, she kisses both of my cheeks and then fusses over how late I am.
I tell her I've been cramming for my Lit test, but really, the issue is Sy. I’ve been avoiding him, but at the same time, he’s avoiding me. If I arrive home late, I tend to miss an appearance. It’s less awkward for us this way. He seems to hate me, and his discomfort and dissatisfaction is like a shank to the gut.
Luckily, Sy isn’t here, which is unusual. He’s generally like an ornament these days. He’s constantly around, and I’m always suffering by seeing him when he can’t be mine.
He doesn’t want you.
I’m a walking contradiction. I want him, I don’t. I want to see him, I want to avoid him.
After our several dalliances together, he stopped texting me, taking me to school, and watching late night movies with me like he always used to do. In many ways, he was my closest friend besides Brax. It’s no wonder I fell for him.
“So, how was school?” she asks. Small talk, how nice.
“It was school, Mamá. I only have a couple months left until I'm out of here. I'll go to The University of Puerto Rico like planned, and maybe stay there.”
“Oh, baby. Don't say stuff like that. I don't ever want you to permanently move away.”
“America is just so…America,” I utter, and it seems to satisfy her, she doesn’t even bat an eye. Puerto Rico is still America, but it’s so much more, and I think she realizes that. Ever since visiting Puerto Rico when I was eight, and then again, my sophomore year, I've wanted to go back. Especially since that's where I escaped after that night with Sy.
“But, I'm here. And so is Silas.” Of course, she brings him up.
We have such a weird dynamic. There’s times where my mom is my best friend, and then there are times where I take care of her because she was forced to grow up too fast.
“I'm not happy here, Mamá. I want to explore the world, be something more than what I am. I want to help people, cure their addictions, help them stop their suffering.”
“Can't you just wait a few years? I know you’ll be and do amazing things, Leia, but you're my baby,” she pouts. She's never home anyway. It’s not like she’ll notice. I don't see why she cares and is making such a big deal. She and Sy could easily sit back while others run their business, but they don’t. They love working too much.
The front door opens, and I know what that means. He's here.
I hear him kicking off his boots and opening the hall closet. He only does that when he plans on staying the night. Fantastic.
“¡Ay, mami!” he whistles at us. It’s his normal flirty entrance. Kissing Ma on the cheek, then me on the forehead, he smiles—an actual unforced smile. He’s acting like this is an everyday thing—like nothing last year happened. That he hasn’t spent the last year fighting this connection, and me.
His brings me into a tight embrace I’m not expecting, then lips press into the flesh of my forehead, burning me with desire. My skin tingles where his mouth touches me. It's too intimate somehow. After those nights, it’s always too intimate. His lips linger on me too long for it to be normal, but Mamá doesn't seem to notice. W
hen he backs away, his eyes show so much remorse. For what? The kiss just now? Or taking my very first one? For leaving me without his support and encouragement? Or maybe it’s for making me believe love could exist for us.
His eyes apologize, his lips move in a silent, I'm sorry, mi corazón. My heart pitter patters and sweat forms on the forehead he just kissed. What's going on? Why do I suddenly feel trapped? Why would he smile...to confuse me?
“Baby.” She comes close to me, squeezing my wrist momentarily before turning to Sy. “Silas and I have some news for you!” Mamá suddenly squeals with several claps of her hands. I find Sy staring at me with a forlorn expression. I don’t understand.
The pain in his stiff jaw and stance tell me something bad is about to happen, so I brace myself in preparation.
“Well, out with it,” I clip, a little too harshly. My eyes search his for answers. If Mamá notices my worry, she doesn't comment.
She raises her left hand, and a big fucking rock sits on her finger. No! No. No. No. No. I can't accept this.
“We're married!” she announces with enthusiasm.
What the ever loving fuck?!
Why would he do this to me?
I hate him! I fucking hate him!
I may have braced myself, but nothing could have prepared me for my worst nightmare.
It takes everything in me to not burst into tears and scream at the unfairness of it all. Sy avoids my accusing eyes. The thick lump I have to choke back, along with the tears, burn me.
He married her. He chose her. Fuck him. Fuck them. Fuck everything.
I walk away without uttering a word.
Mamá's concerned tone floats behind me. “What's that about?” she asks worriedly. I don't hear his response as I climb the stairs and lock myself in my room.
Silas Esparza, the man I’m in love with—have been in love with since I was thirteen—is now my stepfather. Fuck me.
Not long after locking my door and laying on my bed, the tears come. They betray me, sliding down my cheeks, soaking my comforter. How could they do this to me? When did they start dating? I’ve never seen them kiss, let alone act like more than siblings.
What the actual fuck?
Did I miss something?
I didn’t even know Mamá was dating. I’ve never once seen a man over, and if she brought one other than Sy, she hid it well. Sy isn’t even over all that much. When did they have time to fall in love and decide to be together? Are they planning on procreating? Nausea overwhelms me, making my stomach ache with the force.
I cry loudly into my pillows, the barrage of questions flowing freely, choking me with uncertainty. He never loved me, I meant nothing to him. And now he’s proved it.
Pulling out my cell, I open Spotify, and blast Logic’s 44 Bars on repeat. It’s not nearly loud enough. Reluctantly, I get up and turn on my Bose. Connecting it to my phone, I make it as loud as it’s capable of. Logic’s voice calms me, soothing some cracked piece inside my soul.
I find myself looking around my room, staring at the pointless pictures, drawings, and notes taped all over my walls. On the main one, I have a collage of pictures with all the people I love, Sy included. Brax is there too, staring at me. It’s like he’s telling me, I told you so, Lele.
As much as I want a teenage moment with the pictures—to rip them like my heart has been shredded, I refuse to ruin precious memories that I’ll never get back. If I rip them to pieces like I want, I’ll regret it. He hurt me, and the remorse on his face earlier, proves that he knows it.
I don’t know how long I stare at the pictures, but when strong, warm arms wrap around my middle, I scream. Luckily, the music continues to play loudly, or Mamá would have heard. Flinging the arms away, I pick up my hairbrush. It’s the only thing handy, and it’ll do something, right? Turning to face my intruder, I see Sy.
Motherfucker.
My only wish, is that I cherished that tiny squeeze to my middle he gave me moments ago. Stop it. He’s your stepdad now. Fuck. I nearly slept with my stepdad. I still want to, and that’s even worse.
Reaching for my phone to turn down the music, his hand lands on my wrist, stopping me. Looking into those gray eyes, I search for something. Not entirely sure what that something is, I quirk an eyebrow. He shakes his head. His handsome, scruffy face distracts me from my anger.
Sy lifts his thumb to my eye, wiping a stray tear. And like the man he is, he steps closer, his tongue swipes across my cheek as he licks away the rest. If anyone other than Sy did this, it’d feel degrading and possessive—it does feel possessive. But I want him to possess me, to own me, and strip me bare for only him.
But this is real life, and he’s married...to my Mamá, no less.
I shouldn't want him, and even though I know that, I press closer. I’m not sure what’s going on in my addled teenage mind, but a good girl would walk away. A decent person would tell him he’s married now, and this closeness—this absolute cosmic tether between us needs to end. But, I’m not a decent person, and I sure as hell ain’t a good girl. Fuck the rules.
Guilt ebbs at my heart, but I can’t resist. In my eyes, he was mine first. She’s your mom. Don’t be selfish. My stomach churns from being stuck between being a good daughter, and being a selfish bitch. I mean, why did he marry her, anyway? His note claimed love for me, so how could he marry someone? Unless, she’s his first and true corazón, the one he truly loves. And I’m just his now corazón…an afterthought.
He must have felt the connection when we were together. Before now, there were moments. Ones that definitely made me feel he desired me. Even if it made no sense at all, since he never fights for me. My mind wanders back to that time after my sixteenth birthday about six months ago when it felt like he’d fight for me—for us.
Braxton and I put in Pitch Perfect, a movie he’s obsessed with. Can’t blame him, I’m fairly sure Anna Kendrick is my spirit animal. After it ends and we devour Pitch Perfect 2, he heads out.
When I’m sure Brax’s gone, I turn on Netflix, and select The Fosters. It’s so overly dramatic that I feel my life is normal. Brax swears that watching it makes me lame. He’s not into drama soap opera shows. But admittedly, Brandon Quinn is hot as fuck. That’s why I watch it. He’s my guilty pleasure, and damn, he reminds me of Sy. Especially because this episode has him making out with a girl half his age.
I turn it to the same episode I’ve re-watched a million times over. He’s shirtless, the graying in his beard and near his temples making me hotter for him. I can’t wait for Sy's hair to gray. He’ll be even more irresistible. He’s helping the Fosters, and he’s attracted to a young ex-girlfriend of Brandon’s. It’s how I fantasize of Sy without imagining Silas himself.
I’ve come to realize boys my age don’t attract me. They’re immature and annoying. Yeah, they want sex, but they're gross about it. I want passion, like on my sixteenth birthday with Sy. Plus, if there were any guy other than Sy, it’d be Brax. I’m not in love with him, or attracted to him, but he’s my best friend. And a lifetime with my best friend would be better than settling with a stranger.
I’ve been out with three boys since mine and Sy’s night of passion, and they don’t affect me the same way Sy did. When they kiss me it feels wrong. It hurts me and makes me physically ill. It’s like I’m cheating on him, yet, it’s not possible.
How do you cheat on a ghost? A man that isn’t yours to love and lust after?
You can’t, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling this way.
Shaking my head, I attempt to wipe Sy from my harried thoughts. When I finally check the screen again, I realize I missed my favorite part. Groaning, I rewind it back and watch intently, absorbing the scene I’m addicted to. I’ve come to recognize, older men and their demanding nature turns me on. Some people would call it daddy issues.
By the time the scene is nearly ending, I feel his presence behind me. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do. He takes up so much room. He’s not fat, far from it, he’s just all consuming
. He’s tall, strong, and chiseled, and I remember what his body feels like on top of mine. Remembering his broad chest on top of mine, I shiver.
He’s watching the TV with a scowl. I smile. Sy probably thinks I’m too young to be fantasizing about a man even older than himself. He can suck it up. For the time being, though, I soak up that anger, that biting lick of jealousy he lets slip through his eyes.
It’s mine, it’s tangible, and it’s all for me.
“Hey, Sy,” I murmur with an awkward wave. Since my birthday, he’s avoided me—this closeness. His eyes connect with mine, filled with so much heat. He doesn’t hide anything well. Silas wants me, it’s goddamn near written all over his face. How does he hide this from people. Because if I can see it, can’t everyone else?
“Leia,” he mutters, his voice filled with annoyance. Sy never uses my name unless he’s unhappy. After staring at me for a moment too long, he walks around the couch and sits next to me. His knee brushes mine and I can’t tell if it’s purposeful or not.
I’m in my night shorts, a tank top with no bra, and my hair is up in a sloppy bun. An evil thought comes to mind. I’m barely dressed and if I play my cards right, he might finally give me another taste of himself. Adjusting my top to lower it a bit, I grin. Then I move my hair away, exposing my throat to him.
He has a thing for my neck, and squeezing it.
“Are you mad?” I ask with a soft tone, playing with my bottom lip. He notices, watching my lip rather than answering me. His eyebrows are still pulled together, and I want to rub the tension away. “Don’t be mad at me, Sy. I can’t handle it.” It’s not untrue. Since that night, it feels like the longest nightmare.
Reaching out to him, I place my fingers on his forehead. I massage the wrinkles there, hoping he relaxes and stops this huge distance between us. He breathes heavily, his mouth parting in a silent plea. A plea for what? Does he want me to take control for once, or does he want me to stop and be the strong one?
Firsts Page 3
