Page 36 of Sombra
“I like those, too.” I leave the bathroom, sit next to her, and put on my boots. She watches me.
When I finish,I grab her hand. “Come. This way.” The bells of the distant cathedral ring out for morning prayer. Her fingers feel soft in my hand. She stares at the connection between us. “Primera cosa.” And I pull her toward the main house.
Her brows knit together. “I thought we were going on a tour?”
“We are. But first I needun café. You do, too.”
“I don’t normally drink coffee. Unlessyou count the blended drinks at Starbucks.”
I recoil and shake my head slightly. “Those don’t count at all.” When we step into the house, I show her to the kitchen. “Sit there.”
She obeys, taking a seat at the table off to the side, and I make her a coffee with thick milk in the percolator. I slice our rough bread and toast it on the stove top with a griddle. Her eyes follow my backas I work.
“Do you prefer olive oil?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “Olive oil for breakfast?”
“Our olive oil.” I select a small bottle of our best olive oil from last year. I pour a drop on my finger and hold it in front of her lips. Those succulent lips. “Try it.”
Her eyes open wide, and she sticks out her tongue. I dab the oil on it. She closes her mouth aroundmy finger. Hot, wet, sensual.
So wrong. So right.
I shouldn’t have done that. Because now I have to repress my thoughts.
Closing her eyes, she gets a dreamy expression on her face, matching how I feel about her sucking on my finger. “It’s … it’s … like nothing I’ve ever tasted. Thick and fruity and kind of bitter and kind of not. Almost peppery. Earthy.”
Joder.
I can’t think of how good her mouth felt around my finger, because that would mean she’d feel good in other places.
Why has she hijacked my brain? I reach for something, anything to say, so I’m not just gawking at my finger in astonishment. Finally, I mumble, “It’s good onpan tostada.”
Again, Kim-enthusiasm comes forward. “I’ll try it!”
I drizzle olive oil on the bread,holding the finger she licked to the side. I don’t want to wash her off me. After sprinkling flaky sea salt on top, I slide the toast on a plate and put it in front of her. “Here you go.” Taking a bite, she grins around the pan tostada.
“It’s so good! I’m just used to butter. Jam. Not olive oil. I like it.”
“We have that, too. Try the café.”
Her finger slips around the coffeecup. “Okay.” She doesn’t move. She’s not convinced. “I don’t usually drink it without sugar.”
Gesturing to the coffee, I say, “Come on, Kim.”
Inhaling the steamy aroma of the coffee, she tilts her head, as if thinking about it, and drinks. Her eyes widen. “It’s amazing.”
I’m inordinately pleased that she likes it. I pour myself a cup and make pan tostada and sit down acrossfrom Kim, trying not to fixate on the way her tongue felt around my finger.
After we eat, I take her through the house, the parts she missed yesterday while unpacking and taking a nap. “My ancestors built this house several hundred years ago. Over the years there have been additions. Now it houses all of us. It should last a long time.”
But I don’t want to think about that rightnow or how it’s my responsibility to keep it in the family. So I hustle her past my siblings’ rooms, the main dining room and living rooms, and the parlor, to outside where I can breathe without the pressure overtaking me.
We meander past our other buildings: a barn, garage, shop, equipment storage, sheds. The laundry yard and wash house, pump house. We walk along the remnants of a Romanroad, which I point out to her.
Her mouth drops open, and she points to the ground. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
