Our Secret Summer(74)
Our eyes meet and I look away for a moment, overwhelmed. He pauses those perfect circles between my legs and thrusts into me hard enough that I gasp.
Understood.
I look at him again and see the wicked gleam in his eyes. Pure unadulterated possession. His look says, You’re mine, and in this moment, I feel like I am.
His pace picks up, and all at once—I see stars as waves of pleasure overtake me. I come with such force I know he won’t last much longer even as he tries to prolong it. Concentration furrows his brow and then he’s taking me even harder, faster. I wrap my legs around his hips and with a deep, guttural moan, he lets go. I hold him against me, absorbing every racked shiver.
Neither one of us moves, not at first. He stays inside me as we catch our breath. I kiss his cheek, and he turns to face me. Dark hooded eyes framed by darker lashes.
“Hi,” he says gently.
I smile at him. “Hi.”
We’re reacquainting ourselves with each other, and the sweetness of his smile could make my heart burst. In a moment, we’ll peel apart and clean up and then get ready for bed a second time, but for now, he brushes a few tendrils of hair off my face and I’m content to lie here, grappling with feelings that seem to be expanding every second I’m held in Cristiano’s arms.
In the morning, the view of the bay outside Cristiano’s window is as beautiful as I’d hoped it would be. Though it’s early, fishing boats and sailboats bob on the turquoise water. Old houses peek through the trees in the surrounding hills. Cristiano’s nearest neighbor is out watering her lemon trees while a scraggly brown dog runs circles around her feet, yapping playfully until the old woman lowers the garden hose so he can chomp at the spray.
I laugh and inhale, catching the same scents from last night. Carob, almond, and orange, Cristiano said, though the orange definitely wins out this morning.
When I feel a presence behind me, I know he has come out of the bathroom. I woke up a few minutes ago when I heard the shower turn on, and then I rolled over to find the balcony doors thrown open. I was up, scrambling to put on my T-shirt and boxers in my rush to see the view.
There’s a slight chill in the air, but that’s not the reason the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I let my gaze soften on a rickety blue fishing boat while concentrating on the sound of Cristiano’s footsteps as he approaches me. His fingertips touch my waist and then he smooths his hand along my lower back before tugging me against his side. He drops a kiss to my temple and I let my head fall against his chest.
He woke me up in the middle of the night, just like he promised, and again just before dawn. I’m deliciously sore from his lovemaking.
Lovemaking.
The word squeezes the air out of my chest.
Dear god. Am I insane?
“Do you want coffee?”
I’m about to answer, but then I catch the early-morning sun illuminating his usually dark eyes, lightening the depths until I can see all the variations of brown that live there. There are complexities and layers to this man that I’m only beginning to understand. His cheeks are still red from his warm shower. His hair is still damp and mussed, inky black. He hasn’t bothered to put on a shirt, and my throat feels tight. The urge to press a kiss to his lips is almost unbearable.
Everything could just keep going on and on if no one stops it. “I can grab some back at my apartment. You’d be surprised, but I’m a really good cook. My food barely tastes burnt,” I tease, trying to lighten the emotions swirling between us.
He frowns at me and I think a protest is on the tip of his tongue, but he only nods and drops his hand so he can head back to his closet to finish getting dressed.
“I’ll drive you home on my way into work,” Cristiano calls out to me. “Keep the shirt.”
I smile down at it. “You know, my dad would kill me if he saw me wearing this. He’s an LA Galaxy fan.”
“Well, we’ll have to get him to a Real Madrid game, then,” he says, walking out of his closet in a black button-down shirt and dark jeans. He’s buckling a silver Patek Philippe on his right wrist, and instead of backing out of the bathroom to give him privacy, I watch him step up to the sink and finish getting ready. He’s good with his hair, working a little pomade into it so it’s in place but not stiff. His jaw is smooth, so he must have already shaved—pity I missed it.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror, and I turn and march out of the bathroom. Cristiano’s quietness has made me feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome. I have every intention of quickly collecting my purse and phone, but then I look at the rumpled bed and last night comes back in a blinding rush. Cristiano’s teeth scraping down my thigh. My hands tangled in his thick hair. His low, satisfied groan as he buried his face in my neck.
Cristiano walks out of the bathroom and finds me standing there frozen. When I look back at him, tension marks his brow.
“Isabel—”
I shake my head, panicked. Every ounce of self-preservation screams at me to cut him off.
“Just realized I’m seriously running late for meeting up with Simone.”
The lie slips out in my panic, which is a shame because deep down, I’m curious about what he was going to tell me. There’s the chance everything is starting to feel real for him, too. Last night might have been markedly different for him in the ways it was for me. I know it would be better to tell him the truth, but we have to leave these feelings alone, cut off their air supply, seal them away somewhere they can’t grow.