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I did mail Santiago a bouquet, by the way. Three, actually. All of them were roses and included cards with my handwritten apology. When I returned to the flower shop for the third time, the elderly lady running the joint said, and I quote, “You’re in hot water with this one, aren’t you?”
I don’t think Santiago ever forgave me, but then I’m accustomed to that. Beth forgave me but shortly after she’d inevitably bring up the shit I did “wrong” in our relationship, and then we were back to yelling at each other again.
I like women. I appreciate women. They don’t always like and appreciate me. I may seem like an asshole, but there’s a guy buried beneath the tabloid fodder who loves kids and wants forever like any heart-eyed sap with a gold band on his finger.
I like Catarina a hell of a lot. I’m not saying it’s the mother-of-my-future-Foxes or put-a-ring-on-it kind of like, but who’s to say a few years later things won’t turn out that way?
Conversely, it could turn out a different way. A yelling match that precedes a breakup that leads to a hopeful reunion that ultimately crashes and burns.
Wow. That was depressing.
“Catarina.” Her eyes widen when I say her actual name. “You sure about this? One hundred percent?”
“No. Are you?”
“No,” I admit.
“We’re going on an adventure. That’s from The Hobbit.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you act dorky when you’re turned on?”
Her smile widens.
Total knockout.
I catch her hand and she stands with me, keeping her eyes glued to mine the entire time.
“Why not, right?” she asks.
“A million reasons why not,” I confess. “But I can think of a few great reasons why.” I weave her fingers with mine and, holding her arms wide, pull her close until our bodies touch.
“A few really great reasons why.” Her smile’s back and I know I don’t have to ask again if she’s sure. I feel it in the weight of her stare and in the way she squeezes my interlocking fingers with hers.
I kiss her. Deeply. Then soft. Then firm.
Sweet mercy.
I’m rock-hard and ready after less than a minute of exploring her incredible mouth. I disentangle my hands and push them into her hair, and then tilt her head to kiss her more thoroughly than before. As our tongues slide, the stress of the day melts away, leaving nothing but the heady sensation of being lost in her mouth.
And, oh yeah, there’s that whimper again. It’s a tiny, pleading sound that causes my muscles to go taut. I pull my hands from her hair, my lips from hers, and reach for the zipper of her jeans. She wriggles free of them while I wrestle with my own belt and zipper. Next, I clumsily pull at my T-shirt with her help.
We’re frantic, hands everywhere. We strip each other naked in record time.
My mouth slams into hers. I back her into the kitchen rather than throw her on the sofa. I can’t deal with her the way I want to on that narrow strip of leather. I’m vibrating with tension and need a release more than my next breath. When her ass bumps the counter, I hastily apologize.
She grabs my ears and yanks my face to hers. We resume kissing. Touching. Her hands slide from my face to my chest, from my ass and then around to cup my cock. Her touch elicits a guttural plea from me—and I don’t tend to be a beggar.
“I like this part of you,” she whispers against my mouth. She massages my cock and I hover over her, teeth bared.
“It’s yours, Kitty Cat. Knock yourself out.”
That brings forth a saucy smile before she places an openmouthed kiss on my chest. Her teeth scrape my nipple. I buck against her palm. Her tongue lashes across my chest as she continues to stroke me below. The closer her mouth gets to my throbbing erection, the more my mind blanks.
Seriously.
I got nothin’.
By the time she covers the tip of my dick with her plush lips, I’m gripping the counter behind me so hard I might crack it. I use my other hand to scoop aside her hair, holding it away from her face so that I can watch her take my length into her eager mouth.
