Page 78 of Fighting

“Shut up.” I give him a playful shove.

“I thought we were at the point where we could be honest.” His mouth splits into that stupid dimply grin that is my undoing.

“Good thing I have a solution. ” Smirking, I drag him toward the bathroom.

As we stumble in, I shush him. The house isn’t very large, and Delia could be home any minute now. The moment the door clicks shut, he has my back against the smooth surface. Pressing his hips harder into me, the strain of his cock against the fabric of his pants sends a shiver up my spine. Our mouths reconnect, his tongue parting my lips to deepen the kiss.

My fingers ache with the need to touch him, so I slip my hand beneath his shirt. His body is smooth and rippled, and I relish in the heat emanating from it. He’s been so patient with me. Even when he’s been able to chase his own release, his whole focus has been on me.My wants, my needs, my desire.

That desire is growing as the swarm of emotions from today leaves behind the urge to build. To connect. To try.

Stepping back, he removes his shirt in one swift motion, and I feel the cold air briefly before he’s returned. A dizzying speed takes hold, his lips on mine while his hands skim under my layers.

Pulling apart, he removes my top gently, leaving me in a sturdy beige bra. This is nothing like the sexy items I’ve come prepared with in the past. Pausing, he asks me gently, “Is everything okay?”

I nod, but the way my teeth worry my lip betrays my thoughts.

He licks a line up the column of my throat to my ear and says, “If I’m being honest, I like this better than the fancy sets.”

Pressing a hand into his powerful broad chest, I pull back and survey him. I look deep into his eyes and assess the lines that crinkle around them. The wide smile that causes that fucking dimple to pop. The soft and boyish way his face comes together around his smile.

“I don’t get you,” I admit, my throat tightening.

“I like that you’re being the real you,” he says so casually it takes me a moment to process his words.Real.

Zeroed in on my cleavage, he works the five-hook clasp of my least sexy bra.

When the clasp is undone and the support of the bra is removed, my breasts drop against the upper part of my ribs.

He tosses the bra behind him, then dives back in to continue his exploration of my naked body. We break apart here and there to wrestle free of our remaining clothing, leaving each piece in a pile on the floor.

I double- and triple-check that the door is locked as Mateo turns the knobs. The old pipes groan and clang, but the spray warms quickly. The steam begins to rise, but the mirror is notyet fogged as I catch sight of us, my head barely skimming his shoulders. Fully exposed and on bare feet, I take in how tiny my five-foot frame is next to his six-foot-two. I wrap my arms around him from behind and run my hands along every inch of his torso, diving into the details of the tattoo sleeve at my eye level.

He opens the curtain and steps in, then extends a hand to me. Taking it, I follow him into the warm spray. I continue to trace around the ink and examine with delicate touches as he tosses his head back, allowing the water to run through his silky strands.

“Can you tell me about this?” I ask, my tone sweet and sincere, the usual banter and agitation all but a distant memory. I’ve landed someplace curious and demure. I’m usually anything but demure—I’m far more demonic when it comes to him.

“That,” he points to the circular center, “is an eight-rayed sun. It’s a symbol from the Philippine flag and represents the original eight provinces that fought for freedom. The Spanish arrived and called us the painted ones because of the number of tattoos the indigenous people had. I don’t know as much about the history of my culture as I probably should, but my grandparents, who lived on the islands, passed stories down to my parents, who passed them on to me. I brought a bunch of old photos with me to the tattoo shop and asked the artist to design something that integrated several indigenous traditions. These lines look like the traditional patterns from far away, but if you look within, there are repeating courts and nets. The nets are my favorite because it ties basketball to the fishing history of the islands.”

I follow around the lines and find myself giggling a little. “What’s with the old-schoolSout of the ’90s?”

“There are a few letters mixed in, actually. The S, an M, and an E. For the family, but I really don’t want to think about myfamily when I have you naked like this.” He levels me with a carnal look, then pulls me to him so that his hard cock is resting against my upper stomach.

I lower slightly to reach for the soap behind him, and the shift in position causes him to slide between my breasts. I tease him like this a few times, relishing the effect I have on him as his cock stiffens further.

The groan he releases creates a fire in my belly, and I’m confronted by the desire to slide a bit farther and capture his head between my lips.

Am I about to surprise him and initiate the one thing I said I would never do? Will I break my rule?

Rules? Where we’re going, we don’t need rules.

I lower onto my knees, my face centimeters from his veiny, thick shaft.

Looking up through my lashes and drops of shower water, I say, “Fuck it.”

thirty-four

Mateo

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