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“Enemies with benefits,” he says. “Turn over.”
That’s not what I expect him to say and he must see my confusion.
“Go on. Turn over on your stomach.”
I do, looking back at him. He takes my hips, draws me toward the edge of the bed so the tips of my toes are on the floor and spreads my legs wider. I watch him watch me but when he kneels between my legs, I put my hands back to cover myself, alarmed.
“Stay,” he commands, taking my wrists and pushing them away. “You want to come so I’m going to make you come. But first,” he pauses, spreading my cheeks open. “I’m going to get a good, long look at you, Little Kitty.”
“Santos!”
I don’t get another word out. Instead, I suck in a breath as he licks me from behind, from my pussy to my ass and back. Within moments, I’m moaning as his tongue works, fingers coming to my clit as he licks me, not leaving any part of me untouched. I’m up on tip toe squeezing the muscles of my legs tight as he keeps me spread, seeing me, licking me, smelling me, tasting all of me, fucking me with his tongue. I’m gasping by the time I come, fisting handfuls of the thick duvet, burying my face in it to muffle my cry.
When it’s over, and he softens his hold on me, I draw in a shuddering breath. This wasn’t what I was expecting. It’s not how I meant it to go. What happened to sex as a weapon? My weapon?
Santos lifts me up to lay me properly on the bed, climbing in behind me, his cock hard at my ass.
“I like how you look and I like how you feel and how you taste,” he says, voice low. “And I especially like how you come.”
“Aren’t you…” I glance back at him thinking about how he just made me come, how he knows me so intimately. I feel my cheeks burn as I finish my question. “Don’t you want to…”
“Oh, believe me, I want to. But if I fuck you again tonight, I’ll hurt you. So I won’t. Go to sleep, sweetheart.”
He switches out the light and I lay my head down, watching out the windows to see the beacon of the lighthouse scanning the sea.
I remember where he went. I think about what he knows about me. I think about what we just did. How he is with me, so careful not to hurt me.
Things are going sideways.
What happened earlier was supposed to be him taking. It had been, until I’d begun to participate. Until I’d come. Then this, now, me thinking that I might somehow get the upper hand, well, I’m a fool. An inexperienced, stupid, drunk fool.
He tugs me closer, as if sensing this shift in my mood.
“Why did you go to the lighthouse?” I ask, my voice quiet. I’m glad he can’t see my face.
He doesn’t answer for a minute. He must be surprised that I know. “I wanted to see it.”
“Why?”
“Curious.”
At that, I turn to face him, just able to make out his expression by the light coming in from the window. “Curious for the spectacle? Spoiler alert. There isn’t one. It’s just one sad life that ended violently and another that was destroyed in the process. What’s there to be curious about?”
His eyes narrow, and he just watches me with an expression of exactly that: curiosity. There’s an abundance of patience in that gaze. I remember his question from earlier, why we had to be enemies.
Because we do. That’s all. That’s the only way this can be.
“It’s because of my mom they call it Suicide Rock. Did you know that?” I ask sharply. Because I don’t want his patience. I don’t want his gentleness. I don’t want his goddamned kindness. I throw the blankets off, stand, and snatch the robe from the floor.
“Madelena,” he starts, sitting up.
“What?” I snap, roughly pulling the robe on and tying it.
“Get back in bed.”
“This isn’t my bed.”
“Christ. What is this about?”
