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‘I want you,’ she insisted again, lifting a hand to reach for him, but that wasn’t necessary. Graciano was already moving, his body nudging her backwards on the bed. She wriggled up into the centre and he chased her, his mouth finding hers and claiming it as his knee nudged her legs apart, and his body pressed down on hers, every soft curve of her against all his hard planes.
She trembled with the promise of what was to come, with the force of her need. His hands caught hers, lacing their fingers together, holding them to the side, and she squirmed beneath him, trying, needing, to feel him inside.
His throaty laugh sent goosebumps all over her.
She arched her back and he moved a hand to her thigh, lifting it this time, pushing it aside, before nudging his tip at her entrance, teasing her so she moaned and tried to take him deeper, but Graciano was in complete control. Or was he? When she peeked at his face, she saw the effort that control was taking, his features carved from steel, his skin ashen.
‘I want you,’ she repeated, like a prayer, then bit down on her lip as finally he thrust into her, once, hard, fast, and she exploded, his possession unique and perfect, barriers that only he had breached in the past, only once, broken again, her muscles so tight around him, squeezing him so she cried out as the beginning of an orgasm began to froth in her fingertips, to spread through every cell in her body.
‘Cristo,you’re so tight,’ he ground out, moving his mouth to her neck and sucking her flesh there, his stubble a delightful pleasure-pain offset by the sweetness of his lips and tongue, the warmth of his breath. Then he was dragging across her décolletage, moving harder, deeper, until she couldn’t see straight and thought she might pass out from pleasure.
She tilted off the edge of the earth, no longer human, no longer recognisable, grabbing hold of his shoulders as she spun away from any form of reality, and he whispered words in her ears, Spanish words that she couldn’t understand properly but adored nonetheless. A moment later, while she was still grappling with the waves of her pleasure, the turbulence rocking her, he began to move once more, and she realised how much of himself he’d been holding back the first time, because this wasallof him, everything, so much so that she bucked and twisted and cried out in delirium as new pleasures spread through her and she was barely human.
Again she felt the world slip away from her, mania driving her to the edge of reason and sense, and this time he was with her, his guttural cry as he exploded only adding to the intensity of her pleasure, the perfection of that moment.
She sobbed as he lay on top of her, their hearts racing, his arousal jerking inside of her as he rode his own wave of euphoria, his breath brushing her cheek.
A single tear rolled down her cheek, landing between them, so Graciano shifted, frowning as he lifted up to look at her. His eyes scanned hers, worry in their depths, but then he smiled, a smile that creased the corners of his eyes and made her heart do a strange twisty looping.Thiswas her Graciano as he’d been then, without all the cynicism and anger, without the boundaries he’d been forced to build around himself except when they were together.
He rolled away from her onto his back, separating them so her body reacted with a violent protest, not wanting him to be apart from her even when she knew, with every fibre of her being, that they would be together again. There was no way they could fight that. Not for the rest of this week. Beyond that, their futures were apart, but here, now, being together was imperative.
They lay side by side for a long time, rushed breathing eventually slowing, her eyes drying, sense returning. There were no regrets.
‘That was...’ She couldn’t think of an appropriate word.
‘Nice?’ he interjected, teasing a little.
‘I suppose it was,’ she agreed, grinning.
‘Nice?’he repeated, with mock outrage. ‘I really hope not.’
‘Is there something wrong withnice?’
‘It’s a little bland for what we just did.’
She laughed softly, then turned to face him. It was a mistake. Her heart lurched and the world tipped off its axis completely. Fresh tears filmed her eyes. She flipped onto her back once more, staring at the ceiling; it was far safer.
‘What is it?’
How could she answer that? How could she tell him how sad she felt for what they’d lost? The chance to be together, to be a family, the chance to know one another properly, beyond that night they’d shared?
She’d been bullied into giving him up. Her love for him had been manipulated by a father who couldn’t bear to lose control of his ‘good’ little daughter.
She ground her teeth together, the past a prickly patch to contemplate. ‘What does this mean?’ she asked, changing the subject as she ran her finger over the tattoo on his chest.
He hesitated, as though he wasn’t going to answer. ‘It means, “May every mast hold its own sail.”’
She pulled her lips to one side. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘On a ship, each mast holds a sail of its own. That sail fills with wind, and the wind directs it. We make choices, those choices have consequences.’
Her heart skipped a beat. ‘Every mast has its own sail,’ she repeated, thinking of her own choices, thinking of Annie, a lump in her throat.
‘When did you get it?’
‘Years ago.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Two years ago, five years ago, ten years ago?’ Her throat went dry as she offered the last suggestion.
