Page 73 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Then he smiled, because if he didn’t, he might beg her to let him stay. “Goodnight, Princesa.”

He picked up his plate, the wine bottle, and walked to the door.

At the threshold, he looked back. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but nothing came. He made himself leave before he couldn’t anymore. Estás jodido. Hopelessly fucked.

ERIKA

His hands were in her hair, tilting her head back as his mouth traced a pulse point below her ear.

“¿Aquí?” A murmur against her skin, barely a question. His fingers skimmed down her ribs, her hip, the inside of her thigh. The tile was cool against her back—the pool? No, his shower, water streaming over both of them.

Now his hand was between her thighs, two fingers sliding inside her, and she was gasping his name as he curled them in a way that made her hips buck⁠—

“You’re soaked, Princesa. And not from the shower.” His breath hot against her ear, a smirk pressed into her skin. “Tell me what you need. Use your words.”

“I want⁠—”

He slowed his fingers, thumb circling just shy of where she needed it. “You want what? Be specific. I want to hear every filthy thing running through that beautiful head.”

She arched, frustrated and desperate. “I want you inside me. I want you so deep I forget where I end and you start. I want you to fuck me against this wall until my legs give out and I’m ruined for anyone else.”

“Dios mío.” His voice dropped. “You have no idea what that mouth does to me.” He replaced his fingers with one hard thrust, burying deep enough to steal the air from her lungs. “Hold on to me, corazón. I’m not stopping until the neighbors know my name.”

Erika’s eyes snapped open.

Sheets tangled around her ankles, tank top twisted beneath her breasts, and between her thighs—a pulse that had no business existing at 2:53 in the morning.

She grabbed her phone. Her last message to Anneliese still hadn't sent. Just a little red exclamation point, mocking her. She dropped it. The responsible thing would be to close her eyes. Go back to sleep.

The ache between her thighs disagreed.

I’ve never done anything just because I wanted to.

She’d meant it. And then she’d let him walk out the door anyway.

She was on her feet before the thought finished. Shorts yanked up, tank top still twisted, no bra. The villa door clicked shut behind her, and the night air hit her skin.

She picked her way along the stones, bare feet cool against damp concrete. The pool came into view first, moonlight fracturing. She’d expected wreckage, but it was pristine.

Then she saw him. Chest-deep in the water, his back to her, perfectly still. Moonlight traced the line of his spine, and for a moment she was back on that beach, hiding while he emerged from the surf. She wasn’t hiding now.

“You cleaned the pool,” she said.

He didn’t startle, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed more productive than lying in bed thinking about you.”

Her stomach flipped. “That’s disarmingly honest for a man standing in a pool at three a.m.”

“It’s three in the morning. I’m too tired to be charming.” Now he turned, water rippling outward, and his eyes moved over her face. Reading her the way he always did. “Let me guess. Couldn’t sleep either?”

“I had space. Several hours of it.” She crossed her arms, realized that only pushed her breasts up, and uncrossed them. “It was terrible.”

Something warm bled through his voice. “You showed up at my pool in the middle of the night to tell me your space was terrible. This is the best thing that’s happened to me all week.”

“It’s the resort pool. It’s communal.”

“It’s twenty feet from my villa.”

“Geography is not the point.” She opened her mouth. Closed it. “I didn’t really think this through.”