Jasmine is quiet for a couple of minutes, and I hold my breath.
“Yes. I’ll go on a date with you.”
She’s giving me a chance. Now I just have to figure out how not to waste it.
I lean in and kiss her lips before she relaxes back into the pillows, turning her face forward again. I follow, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, then her neck, working my way up to her earlobes.
“Antonio,” she arches back against me, her ass pressing into my already hardening cock. She reaches back to grip my thigh, “I want you again.”
“I want you, too.” I hook her top leg over my hip to open her up before sliding into her from behind.
This time is slower. Longer. My hands roam between her slick pussy, the curve of her stomach, and her sensitive nipples. I whisper Portuguese endearments against her neck until she is clenching around me and moaning my name in surrender.
Afterward, she falls asleep first. I hold her close, my hand resting on her belly and my face tucked into the crook of her neck.
I fall asleep spent and satisfied, even though I’m terrified I’ll end up being another person who lets her down.
I wake to an empty bed, my arms wrapped around nothing but cool sheets.
After pulling on my discarded shorts, I pad down the hallway. Light spills from under the door of my office. The soft click of typing reaches my ears.
I pull out my phone and check the office camera. She’s hunched over her laptop, fingers flying across the keys, completely absorbed.
Best to leave her alone. I return to bed. Sleep doesn’t come easy with her scent still clinging to the sheets and the absence of her warmth beside me.
Three hours later, I wake up again and make my way to the kitchen. The clacking of keys tells me she’s still at it when I pass the office.
In the kitchen, I make her lemon water, toast some bread, and cut up fruit. She’s been awake all night, and as much as she wants to push through it, she’s still healing.
When I push open the office door, she hasn’t moved. She’s still typing and her neck is bent at an angle that’s going to hurt later.
“There you are,” I say.
She jumps, hand flying to her chest. “Jesus, Antonio. You scared me.”
“Sorry.” I cross the room and set the mug beside her laptop. “Drink.”
She takes a sip. “Thank you.”
“You’ve been up all night.”
“I wrote three chapters.”
“You did?”
“The characters are speaking again.” Her voice holds wonder. “I figured out what was wrong. It wasn’t the plot or the pacing, or any of the technical things I kept trying to fix. It was Celeste. She was afraid of being loved, and I couldn’t write past it because I couldn’t understand her. But now...” She trails off, fingers still hovering over the keyboard as if she might dive back in any second.
I pull a chair closer and sit beside her. “Can I hear some?”
She scrolls back and reads aloud. Something about walls and stones and keeping danger out while keeping joy from entering.Her voice is rough from disuse, but the words are beautiful. The kind of writing that makes you want to read more.
“Keep going,” I say.
“I am not easy to love,” Celeste says.“I am guarded and suspicious, and I will test you at every turn. I will push you away and then resent you for leaving. I will doubt your words even when your actions prove them true. I am a fortress with no door, and I don’t know how to build one.”
Qalingo takes her hand.“Then we will build one together. Brick by brick, if we must. I have time, Celeste. I have nothing but time for you.”
I wonder if she knows she’s describing herself.
