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So, I call upon a knowledge that I once was ashamed of—the handful of romance novels I used to read during my time with Diego to keep myself sane. I would compare our “love” to the relationships between those fictional characters, and I would lie to myself that it was the same thing. They were passionate. Respectful. Understanding of each other’s limitations.
Oh God, young Pita was such a damn fool. But those sad little fantasies may be all that can help me now.
“You’ve eaten enough,” Jaguar says, once I’ve swallowed my fourth cucumber sandwich. “As you like to point out, I am a busy man. I have other matters to attend to. Besides, this shouldn’t take long. I’m sure Braulio lasted what? Ten minutes on a good day?”
I let the barb slip past unchallenged. Slowly I rise to my feet and approach the bed. With hungry footsteps, he follows.
“You let me set the pace,” I say, to preface this demonstration. “I control it—”
“Enough talking Lupe,” he warns. “I want action.”
So, I step into him and press my mouth to his.
Our last kiss was a brief, thrilling display of his chaotic preference when it comes to intimacy. He likes it rough. Hard. Fast. No strings attached, and kissing isn’t high on his list.
But if I were to devise my ultimate lover, he would make me enjoy this act. He would go slow and savor me. He would stroke my tongue and palm my waist in his hands so that I felt safe. Protected. Needed.
Jaguar grunts in amusement as I attempt to forge such a scenario with him. It should be awkward to implement. Pathetic beyond belief.
Instead, it feels…
Almost real. If I close my eyes and pretend, another man could be in his place, carefully following my lead.
I let my mind run rampant and devise new aspects of this imaginary man.
He’s roughly the same size as Jaguar, with muscles that he would love for me to stroke and explore at my leisure. They’d feel like living stone beneath my fingertips, so hard it seems impossible for them to be capable of any kindness.
But he wouldonlyutilize kindness with me.
He’d like me to take the lead and push him back until he has no choice but to sit on the bed. Then he’d let me mount him.
A laugh trickles from Jaguar’s throat, to undercut the make-believe. To my utter shock, he complies anyway, lying back so I can straddle him. I push the real man from my head and replace him with his fictional counterpart.
Let’s call him… Bob.
Bob would love for me to undress him, hunched over his waist reverently. He’d be as beautiful as a certain narco is, large enough to fill the width of my hand. Pulsing and warm, and I’d relish the feel of him. Holding him. Pressing my lips to his tip.
He’d like that, and would issue a growl of approval in the base of his throat—the fact that I hear a very real one is merely my overactive imagination.
Yes.
Back to the fantasy…
Or not. Every time I try to erect a mental barrier in my mind, the real Julian Domingas does something to shatter it. Panicked, I switch gears. My dream man just happens to look like him. Sound like him. Feel the way he does.
I wouldn’t take him in my mouth, this perfect man. He wouldn’t want that. This moment would be for me alone. He’d understand my prior abuse and would endeavor to make sure I felt only safe with him. Needed. He would gladly relinquish the reins to me.
Naturally, that means he wouldn’t throw me down and climb on top of me like a brute. He would let me ride him instead.
I would do so boldly, armed with the confidence that comes from being truly loved. He would love me—this man would. God, how he would love me.
He’d hiss out praises as I slid onto his cock and rocked to take him deeper. He’d suck in a breath as my eyes rolled, and I threw my head back to adjust to the feel of him.
My perfect lover would let me take all the time I needed. He wouldn’t rush. He’d even let me grab his hands and explore them via touch for long, leisurely seconds. Christ, he would have such dangerous, rugged hands.
In real time, I run my fingers along the palms and individual knuckles. Then I bring one set of digits to my mouth and suck on one merely to gauge what he tastes like. Violence. Danger.
No—he tastes like perfection. Passion. Lust for me.
