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“Sí.” Then she waffles her hand. “Sort of. It’s like my English. I moved at a young age. It’s still there,” she points at her head, “but here, I’m Colombian.”
“What language do you dream in?” Languages have always fascinated me. An instructor once told us that once we dream in a language, we’ve mastered it.
“Spanish. Always Spanish. Do you knowEspañol?”
“Sort of.Asi asi.” I waffle my hand back and forth, lying through my teeth. I studied Spanish in high school and college, but I mastered it when I was in the FBI.
The sliding door glides open and Rafael and Damian exit, each holding two drinks. The other men are gone.
“Ladies. What’s going on out here?” Rafael’s loud voice carries. He’s so boisterous it has me wondering if he’s been drinking, and if yes, how much he’s had.
Damian steps down onto the bench, hands me a champagne flute with raspberries floating on the top with a sprig of mint, then he slowly sinks into the water beside me. Our thighs touch on the bench, and an air bubble pushes his swim trunks higher.
Rafael jumps into the middle, feet first, sending hot splashes of water every which away. Gemma squeals.
“Tops off, girls! What the hell?” He sits down beside his wife then reaches behind him to set his beer down. She squirms, and with a dramatic flair, he raises her top and tosses it behind him.
Gemma’s breasts are enormous compared to mine. They’re so full they spill over on her sides, wider than her rib cage. They are perfectly shaped, and her nipples are round, the darker skin tantalizing.
She glances up at me with a timidity in her expression, and it hits me that I'm staring. Total social faux pas. So I lean into Damian, snuggling against him, and press a kiss below his ear. He wraps an arm possessively around me.
“Did you make it out skiing today?”
Rafael’s face twists. “No.”
His disappointment is evident, and Gemma shifts, awash in sympathy.
“But we’re going to have a great afternoon. And you’ve got the rest of the week.”
He grumbles. She proceeds to chatter away, telling him about our morning out in ski school. She wraps up a rather long, convoluted summary of us practicing snowplows with a cheerful summation. “It’s gonna be a few years before we’re ready to go skiing with the boys.”
Rafael pulls Gemma up onto his lap, lifting her up so her breasts are no longer partially submerged. He then motorboats his wife, slapping his face against her breasts, shaking his head back and forth, and she howls with laughter. The man has most definitely been drinking.
Gemma warned me. This scenario isn’t unexpected. But suddenly I’m awash in nerves. I should play into that. What I’m feeling is exactly what my American character would feel. And my American character would follow her husband’s lead. I’m much younger than he is, and he’s the breadwinner.
But I also feel awkward tucked against Fisher’s side, watching Gemma and Rafael. I should do something other than stare. So, I move onto Fisher’s lap, placing a knee on each side of his thighs and rest one hand on his shoulder. My thong rides up my center, and the steaming hot water coats my newly exposed walls. In this position, I’m slightly higher than Fisher, and I bend to press my lips softly to his, then teasingly bite his lower lip.
When I pull back, Fisher’s chest lies still, as if he’s ceased breathing, and those dark blue eyes narrow speculatively. His features remain unreadable, but those deep pools of blue smolder and light a tingling in the pit of my stomach. I breathe through the unruly, inexplicable nerves. This is role-play.
Climbing on his lap isn’t particularly considerate of his only human warning, but his ‘grow up’ words are fresh in my mind. Behind me, Gemma’s giggles continue.
“What do you say? Top off?” I raise one questioning eyebrow and wait.
CHAPTER14
FISHER
Decision is a sharp knife that cuts clean and straight. Indecision is an unwieldy blade that leaves jagged edges. I train for decisiveness. It’s the difference between life and death. Yet here I sit, struck with indecisiveness.
I’ve got a hot, sexy, twenty-something on my lap in a string bikini, and she’s asking about untying those strings. But the light blue, questioning eyes tempting me belong to Sophia Sullivan.
Rafael’s wife removed her top. There’s no way to walk out of this without offending Rafael. Plus, refusing to have my wife go topless isn’t exactly an approachable quality. Rafael gravitates to rough and tumble, live-out-loud guys.
A buddy of mine once worked a UC gig in Colombia. He shared that Colombians were notorious for wanting to work with fellow Colombians in the US, because they’d likely have family members back in Colombia, and that gave them leverage.
A sex tape, or even nude photos, are hardly leverage on a married couple. This could be Rafael’s personality. How he likes to play. Or he could be sizing us up. We’ve already had two CIA officers fail at attempting to get close to him. Maybe he’s wising up to intelligence agencies around the world wanting to infiltrate his circle.
Sophia inches forward, her thighs pressing down on mine. Her movement sends a rush of water brushing over my dick, which is getting harder by the nanosecond. Her thumb caresses the side of my cheek, but her speculative gaze tells me she’s following my lead.
