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He smiles crookedly, his eyes twinkling. “I have some plans in store for tomorrow, too. Don’t think I’m just going to let you sit on your cute ass by the pool all day and bake for your birthday. I’m going to put you through the ringer, boy. I’m going to make you earn every bit of your birthday gift.”
I know he’s teasing me, but the dominant vigor in his words really turns me on. “Oh, is that so?” I challenge him, swallowing my racing heart. “All of this doesn’t come for free, huh?”
“Far from,” he teases back, a devilish quirk to his eyebrows as he goes for another sip of wine.
After dinner, we casually explore the resort with the stars above our heads and in our eyes. We stroll past kiosks of jewelry and precious stones and gold. We find boutiques selling handmade pieces of art, clothing, and household items. There’s even a tequila tasting station, which Ben insists I try, as the legal age for drinking alcohol is just 18 in Mexico. “Consider it a trial run,” he teases.
There is an unprecedented amount of sexual tension pulsing between us which is made worse every time he does the subtlest of things, like putting a hand at the small of my back (the fingers of which lightly graze my tight, material-clad ass), or leaning close to my sensitive ear to tell me something with his words shooting chills of delight down my neck and arms. He even has the nerve to full-on cup my ass with his big hand when we’re walking up a set of stairs, playing it off like he’s guiding me, but I know he’s just wanting to touch me and turn me on. He must be holding back as much as I am. Doesn’t he know that if I pop any wood in these tight shorts, there will be no way in hell to hide it?
It’s like a sexual game of chicken, seeing how long either of us can endure the tension before one of us explodes.
I’m just about at the brink of exploding point, by the way. And it’s a game at which I’m not likely to mind losing, since we both win in the end.
We pick up some churros and stroll along the wooden paths, eating them. They are notably and by far the sweetest, softest, richest churros I have ever tasted, like long fried donuts from the heavens sprinkled with cinnamon and love and Mexican magic. We end up at the end of a pier that stretches across the public beach, just barely kissed by the sea which crashes in soft, hypnotic waves below. The stars shower over the two of us from above like a dark, glittery sea all on its own.
And against all of that sweetness, Ben turns his face to mine with a look that’s up to no good. “There’s cinnamon on your lips.”
Just when I go to wipe my mouth, he catches my wrist. Then, ever so gently, he leans in and licks the corner of my lips once, pulls away, then kisses, pulls away, then goes for another—deeper and hungrier. When Ben finishes, he licks his lips as he draws back to stare into my eyes. “Tasty,” he murmurs.
I’m hard right away. If we don’t do something really soon … “You drive me crazy. You’ve been touching me all night.”
“I can’t help myself.”
“My skin is literally … like … prickling with anticipation when I’m near you. I’m … Ben, I’m crazy for you.” My heart is pounding suddenly. I have never quite voiced this before, regardless of the story my body language has clearly been telling him for weeks.
“The feelings are returned.”
I fidget with my fingers, tiny granules of cinnamon and sugar still dusting them. “Sorry for being snappy. Or jumpy. Or whatever I am. I think the mini shots of tequila are messing with my head.”
He reaches out and brushes his knuckles softly down my arm, coming to rest at my hand, which he grips tightly.
“I think you’re messing with my head,” I amend.
A twinkle of amusement enters his eyes. “Is that so?”
“That’s so,” I confirm. “That’s very so.”
“Come,” he says suddenly. “We’ve got a show to catch.”
I blink. “A show …?”
He tugs on my hand, guiding me away from the end of the pier. It isn’t until we’re halfway back to the resort that I realize he hasn’t let go.
We’re holding hands. Like boyfriends.
Don’t make a big deal out of it, Trevor. It’s only the most intimate he’s ever been with you in public, ever, and he’s not freaking out at all.
My heart warms more with every step we take. After a while, I walk even closer to him, my side pressed against his as we stroll along the water past extravagant boutiques, hot springs, and even a mariachi band, which we stop and stand among a small crowd to listen to. The crowd consists of two other couples, a family of four, and a loner teen who’s probably here with his family but “totally over it”—yet even he seems momentarily pulled out of his head, hypnotized by the rhythm of the band as they strum their guitars and toot their trumpets. There’s even a violinist among them, who takes center stage when the mariachi tune turns sweet, making us swoon with their singing in the moonlight that now bathes us.
