Our Secret Summer(72)

His mouth drops to my neck and still, he toys with me. I fidget and shift, trying to adjust my hips to alleviate the growing ache. I press back into him.

He gathers the soft cotton of my T-shirt, inch by inch, and I hear his sharp inhale as the material finally rises enough to reveal my nakedness. He barely hisses a low curse, as if it hurts to look at me.

It’s not enough. This suffering is not enough.

I turn and separate us—cool air replaces warm hands. My shirt falls back into place. My gaze wars with his, but there is no battle there. His dark hooded eyes tell me he’s intent on making peace. To prove it, he reaches out to fist my shirt, and he draws me back toward him with a smile that feels like a knife wound.

Fire erupts inside me as his hand finds the center of my legs and he rubs lightly over the soft material of the boxers. He keeps one hand fisted on my shirt so I couldn’t get away even if I tried.

I don’t speak. Already, my boxers are slightly askew, so when he slides his fingers back and forth, he touches the barest hint of my skin and he knows it. He watches me like a hungry predator, and when his fingers accidentally nudge the material aside even more and my lips fall open on a silent moan, his expression is downright victorious.

“I told you I would find out for myself…”

His fingers tease me, then slip away, only to return, edging closer until he finally, slowly, sinks a finger inside me. The sound of it is enough to make my cheeks burn. He withdraws and presses his finger in again.

“This is all the proof I need.”

Hatred flares again, though maybe that’s not the right emotion. What I’m feeling burns like hate, yes, but it’s more twisted. The feeling of addiction and lust, a heart bursting free.

One touch and I’m his.

One summer on Ibiza and I’ll never be the same.

I reach out for him and my hands land on the waistband of his pants. I slip my hand into his boxer briefs and take hold of him. Impatience has me desperate for more. I know if he continues with his hands, I’ll come apart in a few moments, but I don’t want that.

I release him so I can grip the waistband of his pants and start shifting them down. He gets the message, and soon we’re both undressing. He yanks my T-shirt over my head. Oh god, yes. Warm skin against warm skin. His chest crushing mine. Our mouths fit together again and it feels like it’s been a decade since we last kissed. Why did we wait so long? Why would I ever need to come up for air again?

I feel myself rising up on my toes, trying to get higher at the same moment his hands come around to my thighs. He lifts me up and my legs circle his waist as his pants and boxer briefs hit the floor.

“Fuck.”

The word slips past his lips the moment my boxers come in contact with his hard length. I wiggle my hips and he takes ahold of my backside, keeping me in place, rocking against me.

I look down and my eyes go wide at the sight of us.

“Oh my god.”

He laughs and grips the back of my hair so he can capture my lips. The relief is overwhelming. Our mouths connect and our heads tilt in sync. His lips work over mine, his tongue finding the seam of my mouth and then sliding past it. All the while, he holds me with unyielding strength.

He rocks his hips and butterflies take flight in my stomach. I chase the feeling, wanting more.

He adjusts and almost presses inside me. If not for my boxers, I would be riding him this very second, and I cry out in frustration.

“Let me get a condom.”

Oh.

How could I be so careless? So forgetful?

I hate that he has to set me down to walk over to his side of the bed, though I don’t mind the view one bit. I turn on wobbly legs, watching him. Olive skin encasing lean muscles, sculpted shoulders, a butt I could kiss. I smile at the thought as Cristiano gets a condom and looks over at me from across the bed.

We might as well be an ocean apart. He can’t get to me, but he can look, and he takes his time, getting his fill. His hungry gaze rakes over my breasts and stomach, and the skin exposed by my shifted boxers. I want them gone, but I want him to do it, and already he’s rounding the bed, coming back for me.

I feel like prey caught in his web, immobilized by my desire and my eagerness to give him exactly what he wants. I can’t imagine the women Cristiano has been with before, the beauties of Ibiza who’ve frequented his bed, and while I don’t feel lacking compared to these imagined women, I do feel competitive.

I want him to remember me after this summer, remember this night.

He circles the bed and comes up behind me, and I hold my breath. I have no idea where he’ll touch me, and when his hands gather my damp hair and twist it, I shiver.

“Are you cold?” he asks, rubbing his thumb over the goose bumps on my upper arm.

“No,” I promise, turning to kiss his hand.

He pushes the strands of my hair off my shoulder, then grips the back of my neck, pushing me slowly forward so I’m forced to bend at the waist, catching my weight with my hands as my upper body stretches out over the bed. He’s not forcing me to do it, but he’s also not asking.

His hand slips off my neck. Then…

I’m left waiting. Bent at the waist, enjoying the thrill of this new position.

I know he’s looking at me, seeing every vulnerable dip, every secret valley. My underwear serves absolutely no purpose at this point.

I close my eyes and breathe, trying to calm my nerves. I want him to say something, to give me some indication of his feelings, but his silence is somehow better. It taunts me like dark shadows, fraying the fragile edges of my patience.