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“For a start?”
She licked her lips. “No promises. I might become distracted at your ankles.”
His deep laugh echoed through the small apartment. “I don’t care what anyone says about American girls. I like them.” He rolled her panties down her legs and dropped them on the floor.
She twisted her finger in his navel to tickle him. “You have a wonderful laugh.”
“Only with you.”
She rose to kiss him and forgot all about his toes. His kisses held the heat of flamenco and left her melted into a languid pool. She’d dated men who could kiss, but Rafael raised it to an art form. All she had to do was hang on. She slid her hand down his belly, and he pushed it lower. She draped her leg over his hip and nudged his cock along her cleft. The smooth tip made the perfect wand, and she stroked him as she stroked herself.
He broke away. “I’m going to lose it.”
She drew in a deep breath. “Shall we count to ten?”
He opened a condom. “I might make it to three.”
“One, two.” He eased into her, and she ceased counting. He lay still within her, and she ran her hands down his back, then rolled her hips.
He kissed her and pulled her down into his bliss where she could have rested forever. It was a glorious hammock of love, she thought to herself, then giggled. “I’m sorry, I just thought of a title for a truly awful country and western song.”
He lay poised above her. “I refuse to be in an awful song. Make it a good one.”
“I won’t write lyrics, just music we can dance to.”
“That’s better.” He tickled her ear with his tongue. “I didn’t know you wrote music.”
“I never had an inspiration before you.”
He kissed her to renew the magic, and she wished it might never end.
Saturday morning, Maggie could barely keep her eyes open when she joined her father for breakfast. He caught her hiding her third yawn and laughed.
“Is Rafael that good in bed?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered before realizing it was an inappropriate question from her father.
“I hope you haven’t become too fond of him.”
She couldn’t deny it. “How would it be a problem?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I may have been overly generous in my assessment of his talents.”
Instantly wide awake, she nearly ripped her napkin in half. “You mean Santos was right, and he isn’t ready?”
Miguel shrugged. “He may give an inspired performance tomorrow. We’ll have to wait and see. I told him not to come by today. Bullfighting is as much mental as physical, and he needs the time to himself.”
Rafael had told her the same thing, only he’d been confident things would go well for him. “Is Santos here?”
“Probably, but don’t ask him to watch out for Rafael. The men all naturally rush to each other’s aid, and it isn’t necessary. Plus, it would infuriate Rafael if he learned you’d had such little faith in him, and Santos would be sure to tell him.”
“That’s true.” She felt sick, and when Dr. Moreno came to the door, she was relieved to leave. She made it back to her room and into the bathroom to puke in the toilet, then, exhausted in mind and spirit, lay down on her bed and slept until afternoon. Once awake, she remained seated on her bed and hugged herself tightly. She’d already been horribly apprehensive, but her father’s off-hand remark about Rafael’s ability had disintegrated what little strength she’d had.
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Rafael was no fool, but it was difficult to believe in him when her father’s opinion wavered. He was ill, so perhaps his judgment wasn’t what it should be. She got up to walk as far as the chair on her balcony, and feeling lost, stared out at the sea. When Fox came to her door, she didn’t know where the hours had gone.
“Aren’t you coming to dinner?” he asked. He looked pained by the ghastly possibility he might be forced to dine with his grandmother and aunt without an ally.
