I sputter and shout. Rhys bolts to his feet and covers my mouth with his hand, holding me against him. His abs contract against my back as he breathes, hard, his mouth on my shoulder, biting, teasing.
I finally relax against him. I’m breathing harder than he is.
Is it always like this?, I wonder. Coming with a guy. Will it always be so obliteratingly good? Or is it only this good because it’s with Rhys?
We stand there for several beats, our bodies smushed together, our hearts beating in wild tandem. Being held like this, touched like this, known like this—it’s making the place just beneath my breastbone glow with a warmth, a certainty, that wasn’t there before.
“Rhys,” I whisper against his hand. “Rhys, what’s happening?”
“I think you know, love,” he says, lips fluttering across my skin.
He turns me around in his arms to face him. He thumbs my chin, tilting my head up so I have no choice but to look him in the eye. Meeting those baby blues of his head on after the world’s most intense orgasm—God, it really is a miracle I don’t melt.
He thumbs my lip. “It’s a good thing, what we feel for each other. A bucket list thing, even though you may not have written this one down.”
He bends his neck, his Prince Charming hair falling in our faces, and swallows my mouth with his. His hands are on my face. I smell the salty tang of my arousal on his fingers. It only arouses me more.
I tear at his jeans, ripping open the button, throwing what is probably a thousand-dollar belt to the floor and stepping on it. The lightness coming to life inside me won’t be thwarted.
Rhys doesn’t seem to mind.
“I’ll take care of the jeans,” he breathes. “Wrap your arms around my neck. Hold on.”
I do as I’m told. He grasps the back of my thighs and lifts me onto the edge of the vanity. He ducks his head to suck on one of my nipples as he drops his jeans and shucks off his briefs. My pussy throbs, my heart working double at the sight of his dick.
I reach for him, wrapping my fingers around his swollen length. He winces when I squeeze, giving him a long, solid stroke. I’m glad we did the whole STD-test/get-on-birth-control thing at the beginning of the semester. I love being so close to him, not having to worry about condoms or pulling out or any of that stuff. We can actually enjoy bare sex because we’re not idiots about it.
“Fuck me, Rhys,” I say, softly. “It’s my turn to give.”
He looks at me from under his long, dark lashes. My stomach flips at the defenselessness, the care, in his eyes. No one’s ever looked at me like this before. But I know—somehow I know—it’s the look. The look. The one we all crave from the moment we’re aware romantic love exists.
The glow inside my chest burns brighter. This man. This funny, talented, hot-as-hell man is looking at me like that. My throat tightens.
Rhys steps closer, trailing his lips over my neck. Sensation ricochets across my skin, making me pant. He guides his arm underneath my leg, placing his palm on the vanity just beside my hip. He leans forward and spreads my legs further apart so that my knees are almost bunched up against his chest. The bulbous, slick head of his dick presses into my inner thigh. Using my hand, I guide it to my center, circling it against my clit. The first tight stirrings of another orgasm have me drawing a sharp breath.
I settle him in the cleft of my pussy, shaking with need. He’s enormous, and enormously hard. Wrapping his other arm around my waist, his fingers clamped to the soft spot just beneath my ribcage, he pulls me toward him at the same time he bucks his hips. In that one swift, almost lewd movement, he sinks to the hilt inside me. Rhys curses; I cry out, tucking my hands around his neck.
I feel full to the point of stinging pain. But it’s a good pain, a satisfying one.He lifts his head and meets my eyes. His nostrils flare. The muscle along his jaw jumps against his stubbly skin.
“Tell me how you want me to fuck you,” he grinds out.
I feel myself stretching around him as he struggles to stay still. A light sheen of sweat covers his forehead and chest. I dig my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and give it a tug.
“Hard. Good.”
He crushes his mouth against mine and rolls back his hips, slowly easing out of me. My clit pulses at the friction. I arch my back, pressing my nipples into his bare chest.
And then Rhys surges back inside me with a thorough, lingering thrust. It is so sweet and so shocking that the tightness in my throat seeps to my heart. His tongue is in my mouth and he holds me, helpless, against him as he swivels his hips, thrusts again and again and again, deep thrusts that make my tits bounce and my pulse thud. The slick sound of skin meeting skin echoes across the bathroom.
I cry out when he grinds his hips in a circle, his pubic bone pressing against the top of my sex. Mother of God, am I really going to come again?
I cling to him, worried I’ll shatter into a million pieces if I don’t. He’s never been so deep before. It’s never felt this good. I can’t breathe I can’t move I can’t I can’t I can’t. He moves in and out of me with ferocious care and concentration. He grips my waist tightly, guiding my movements in time to his.
I feel wild and adored and possessed.
I feel like I’m going to cry.
“Please,” I beg, even thought I don’t know what I’m begging for. “Rhys, please.”
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m yours.”
He nuzzles his nose to my cheek, urging my head into the crook of his neck. His skin is hot to the touch; the musky, salty scent of it fills my head. It drives me insane.
“Love,” he murmurs, kissing my temple. “Love.” He kisses my forehead. “Love.”
He thrusts and I hold onto him and he holds me, our bodies writhing harder and harder with increasing need.
“Come for me,” he whispers in my ear. “One more time. For real.”
He pulls back a little, straightening in front of me. He’s still inside me, but now we’re looking at each other, and the hand he was leaning on is now free.
He rolls his hips again, moving slowly, oh, God, so slowly in and out of me as he watches my face. He reaches between us with his free hand to where our bodies are joined. His eyes on my face, he presses his thumb to my clit, sending a lightning strike of white-hot sensation through me.
I try to jump from his grasp but he holds me firmly in his arms. The way he’s looking at me—the way he’s making me feel—
Tears fill my eyes so I close them and I let him take what he wants. He’s still moving inside me, great, gasping thrusts, working his thumb over the tip of my sex like he knows exactly what he is doing.
And he does. He cared enough about me to learn.
It’s his turn to cry out when I contract around him.
The orgasm rises through me, squeezing my heart, making my body shake. It’s so intense that the tears I tried to hold back spill past my closed eyelids and drip down my face. Rhys lets out a strangled cry as he spears me with one final, achingly deep thrust. The hot pulse of his cum fills me as I milk him to devastating completeness.
His arm locks around me, so tight I can’t breathe, but I don’t care. He muffles his cries in my shoulder as our orgasms overtake us, my body huddled into his.
Only when the rush of blood in my ears begins to dim do I realize that Rhys is shaking.
“My turn to ask,” I pant. “Are you all right?”
He scoffs, wiping a tear from my eye with the flat of his palm. “No. Definitely not all right. And I’ve never been better.”
He searches my eyes. By now my throat is so tight I can’t speak.
“This has nothing to do with the good luck charm bullshit,” he says. “I’m asking you to stay because I want to be with you. I know the deadline to apply for the spring semester in Madrid has passed, but we’ll work something out. I’ll pull whatever strings I can to make it happen. Stay. Please. These past couple weeks—they’ve changed everything. You. Me. Us. We’re having the time of our lives
together, and that means something to me. I hope it means something to you, too.”
I look away. I’m going to start crying again.
Chapter 25
Laura
Friday
The joyful screams and shouts of the kids echo throughout the playground at Santa Caterina. The winter sun feels warm on my face as I watch them scurry from the slide to the monkey bars and back again, breathless with laughter. I wrap my arms around my torso and let out a sigh. What a beautiful day.
What a fucking beautiful life I get to live.
I’ve been walking around in a happy daze lately. The fullness inside me is so big and so delicious it almost makes me ache. The same vino tinto de la casa I’ve been drinking all semester is suddenly tastier; Madrid is more beautiful and interesting than ever; sleep is more satisfying, and sex—well. The sex is fucking unbelievable. So is coming for real. That’s also pretty sweet.
Rhys and I still haven’t figured out what to do about my schedule next semester; I do want to stay in Spain, but things are still up in the air. I’ve spoken with my advisor back at Meryton, and while he’s cautiously optimistic, we’re still waiting on the university here in Madrid to approve my paperwork. I’m three weeks past the deadline, which doesn’t bode well for my prospects. But I figure if Rhys Maddox can’t make something happen in Spain, no one can. I’m keeping my fingers crossed. I think I can still make it happen. I hope.
I blink, the playground materializing around me. I’ve been doing that lately—blissing out to the point of unconsciousness. I’ll be in class, or on this playground, but my mind will be in Rhys’s bedroom, reliving a kiss or caress that was especially toe-curling. It’s driving the Madrileñas nuts.
“Earth to Laura,” Vivian said earlier today in Art History. “Dude, I’m starting to think Rhys literally fucked your brains out. You’ve been a total space cadet this week.”
I shrugged, a secret smile tugging at the corners of my lips. If only Viv knew.
I scan the little knots of kids scattered across the space, counting them off as I go. I’m in charge of twenty-three children, who, for the most part, are pretty well behaved. I count twelve, thirteen, twenty-two—
My heart skips a beat.
Twenty-two kids. That’s it. I take a couple steps forward and count again, quickly, a chill seizing my gut as I come up with twenty-two again. There were twenty-three earlier this afternoon; I always double check to make sure everyone is there.
We’re missing one.
Shit.
“Chicos!” I call in Spanish. Chicos, please line up and count off.
The kids complain that they counted off at the beginning of recess, but I ignore them. I swallow the panic fluttering around inside my chest and palm each kid’s head as they count themselves off.
It’s never a good thing when a kid goes missing from school. But it’s really not a good thing when kids from Santa Caterina go missing. We’re smack dab in the middle of a pretty dangerous neighborhood. I don’t feel safe walking around as an adult capable of self-defense; it’s definitely not safe for a six-year-old kid to be wandering around, especially now that it’s getting dark so early.
I reach the last little girl at the end of the line. Veintidós, she says in a shy, quiet voice.
Twenty-two.
I swallow, hard. Oh Jesus. I’m definitely missing one. I scan the playground again, making sure no one’s hiding behind the swings or climbing the rickety tree in the far corner. Nothing. It’s empty.
Everybody look around, I say, my voice trembling despite my best effort to keep calm, make sure all your friends are here. If you are missing a friend, you need to tell me right away.
Pilar raises her hand. Excuse me, Miss Bennet, but Miguel is not here.
Miguel, the kid who followed Rhys around like a lapdog after he helped him score the first goal in our game of pick-up soccer last week. He’s a total cutie, but also a total handful. Nuria, our program director, told me he’s back at his grandparents’ house after a failed stay at his mother’s. Poor kid is struggling with the transition, understandably, and he’s been acting out a lot at school.
“Where did he go?” I blurt in English.
As far as I know, Pilar only speaks Spanish, but she must hear the panic in my voice and know what I’m getting at, because she points a finger to the gate that leads out onto the street.
He said he was going to find his mom, she says, starting to cry. He said he misses her a lot. I’m sorry, Miss Bennet, but he told me not to tell on him!
I feel like I’m going to throw up. How stupid and irresponsible I was to space out on the job—now a kid’s gone missing in a bad neighborhood, and it’s about to get dark.
Don’t move, I shout, dashing inside the school. I quickly check the bathrooms, and then I grab the first teacher I find and send him out onto the playground to watch my kids; I grab someone else and order her to inform Nuria we’re missing a kid. There’s a bunch of protocol around an incident like this—contacting the police, the child’s parents, all that stuff—but in my panic I can’t really remember what order I should be following the steps. Nuria will know, thank God.
Then I take off at a sprint, moving through the playground and out the gate. It slams shut behind me.
“Miguel!” I shout, glancing both ways down the street.
A few cars pass, people staring at me through their windshields. I probably look like a lunatic, but I don’t care. I gotta find this kid. I should’ve picked up on the fact that he was quiet today, I should’ve paid him extra attention, I should’ve been a responsible adult and kept an eye on the kids. Shit shit shit, I suck.
I don’t see him anywhere. I don’t know which way to go—where would Miguel think his mom would be?—left, right, nearby, far away?—and for several agonizing heartbeats I just stand there, my eyes blurring.
Excuse me, I say in Spanish when I see someone approaching. Excuse me, but have you seen a little boy? This tall, short hair, his name is Migu—no? Thank you, if you see him, please bring him back here to Santa Caterina.
I keep trotting in that direction. There are so many places Miguel could be. I pass houses, bars, tobacco shops, newspaper stands. Cars dart past. He could’ve been run over. He could be in a hospital, or picked up by the police…
My eyes burn. My heart has expanded to fill my whole body, and it throbs in time to my panicked thoughts. I’m going to pass out. A missing child is just as huge a deal in Spain as it is the states. What the hell am I going to do?
I stop and bend over, gulping uselessly at the air like a fish out of water.
I almost jump when my phone starts to vibrate. Oh my God. Oh my God, maybe it’s Nuria, maybe they found him…please let him be okay…
I dig my phone out of the front pocket of my jacket. It’s Rhys. I have no idea why he’d be calling—he usually never calls this time of day—but considering so much has changed with him, and with us, in the past couple weeks, I can’t say I’m surprised.
I’m relieved. I need to hear his voice. Maybe that will help me clear my head a bit so I can think.
I need to find Miguel.
***
Rhys
I’m just about to walk into the gym at the physio’s office when I ring up Laura.
William Wallace, who’s come to chat with the physio about my progress, cocks a brow.
“Who ya callin’, ya boaby?” he says, running a hand down his stubble.
I have no idea what a boaby is—knowing coach, it’s some sort of special Scottish penis reference—but I’m pretty sure it’s not a good thing.
“My girlfriend,” I say. “Give me a few moments?”
“I haven’t got all day.”
“I promise it will be quick,” I reply. I just want to say hello. Laura and I haven’t spoken since this morning, and like the sad, hopelessly chap that I am, I want to hear her voice. I want to know how her day is going. I am beyond excited that she’s agreed to stay in Madrid for another semester;
I’m so excited, in fact, I hardly slept at all last night.
Waiting for her to pick up, I smile. I feel like I’ve been smiling for a week straight. My face and, weirdly enough, my ears hurt from so much smiling, but I don’t give a fuck. This smile makes me feel invincible.
With Laura at my side, I am. And it’s the best feeling in the world.“Rhys,” Laura says when she picks up. “Thank God. I need your help. I’m at Santa Caterina, and he’s gone. He ran away. Miguel, that little ki—”
“What?” I blink, my smile fading at the breathless panic in her voice. “Laura, slow down, love. Tell me what happened. Miguel is missing?”
“Yes,” she says. My stomach clenches. I can tell she’s trying not to cry. “He had to move out of his mom’s house, and we think he snuck off to go find her. I don’t know what to do. One minute he was on the playground, the next he’s gone. I wasn’t watching, I should’ve been watching—I just. Rhys, I have no idea what to do. I don’t know this neighborhood, I can barely speak the language.”
“Take a deep breath,” I say, firmly. “You’re not going to get anywhere if you’re panicking. You had the school call the police?”
“Yes.”
“And you asked the other kids if they saw anything?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good girl,” I say. “Now tell me what you know about this little guy.”
I drag a hand through my hair and close my eyes as Laura talks. Apparently Miguel took off through the playground gate—the same one I used when I visited Santa Caterina last week—about five minutes ago. I close my eyes and try to remember the neighborhood there. The squat little off-licenses on corners, the shady looking characters on the sidewalks, the loud music blaring from cars as they passed. It reminds me a lot of the neighborhood I grew up in, actually. Dense, seedy, dangerous. People came and went, kids especially. Someone was always running away from his mum or dad. I was no exception; dad would get drunk, and I’d get beaten. I learned pretty fast to disappear when my father took the bottle of gin off the shelf.
Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3) Page 21
