Page 17 of Spark
With the heat of his breath on my neck and the squeeze of my hand as he says,come, my twitching dick has advanced from a semi to a full-blown—pun not intended—erection. Thoughts of being pinned down, a powerful thigh on either side of me, and rough palms caressing each inch of my body while being told to come, siphons every last milliliter of moisture from my mouth.
When he drops my hand and curls his thumb through his belt loop, I bite back the urge to push him against the mosaicked wall and kiss him.
“Ready?” He bumps my arm with his, and I follow. “You said you haven’t been here before, right?”
A hint of lemon and musk rides the breeze, settling under my nose and making my date even more drool-worthy. “I can’t believe it, but no, I haven’t been here. I’ve always wanted to, but…” I scratch my cheek. “I’m not sure why I’ve never made time to visit.”
“I’m happy to be your first.” He smirks, those coffee-colored eyes gyrating like they’re in a g-string, hustling for tips.
I bark out a laugh. “If you keep up with the innuendos, I’ll end up pulling you into a dark corner and humping you.”
His smirk transforms into a toothy smile, and his gyrating eyes fling their g-string into the crowd and start twerking. “Anytime, anywhere.” I snort, and he takes my hand. “Let’s go. There’s a lot to see.” We walk past groups and couples who are pointing and taking pictures, and make a right into a narrower passageway. “We can go back later. This way we’ll have a chance to view some of the areas without interruption.”
“I take it you’ve been here more than once.” Every surface of the walls and floors are covered with mirror, glass, and ceramic.
“I have a membership.” He tugs on my hand, and I quicken my pace.
My head jerks from one side to the other, trying to take in the words, faces, and body parts on the surfaces as we wander through the gardens. Finally, we come to a stop in front of a carved wooden structure that looks like it could be a chuppah. Mateo’s thumb skims over my knuckles, and a trill of excitement zings through me.
“This is my favorite.” His words are quiet, almost reverent as he traces a carving with his finger. “It’s Balinese.” He drops my hand, circling one of the poles while he inspects it. “Look at the intricacy, the detail.” He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. Instead, his attention is on the carvings in front of him. Like he’s in awe. It may be the sexiest thing I’ve ever witnessed.
Not sure what to do with my hands because all I want is to free my date from his clothes, I push them into the front pockets of my pants. “It’s beautiful.”
His gaze darts to mine, his smile soft and hazy, reminding me of the Monet that hangs in my mother’s sitting room. “Every time I come here; I notice something different.”
I follow him to the next pole and listen as he tells me about traditional Hindu-Javanese wood carving and how it was originally intended to be used in ceremonies and temples. He talks of the tools used and the artistry of the process. With every new fact, I’m drawn deeper and deeper into what, I don’t know, but I like it. So do the other visitors who are lingering and listening as Mateo continues his dissertation. It’s not until one of them asks him a question that Mateo comes out of his wood-carving fog. He answers the question thoroughly, yet succinctly, before taking my hand and leading us away from the group of people.
Biting his bottom lip, he shakes his head. “I’m sorry for getting carried away. I probably bored you.”
“You are far from boring.” I press my arm to his. “And anytime you want to get carried away, I’m all for it.” I wink.
Yes, I, Finlay Davidson, winked. I’m not a winker. Aileene, maybe, Cam, definitely, but me? Nope. Yet here I am, quickly closing and opening one eye and being all flirty with a guy I like way more than I should.
On a groan, his head falls back. After a beat, he jerks it upright and glances around. Before I can say a word, he has me pressed against the glass and tile wall of the narrow walkway. His body is hard and strong. His lips, soft and hungry. A hand grips my hip, holding me in place—not that I planned on going anywhere. His tongue touches mine, and an explosion of want combusts. He tastes of coffee and cinnamon, and his musky citrus scent wraps around me like a silky scarf. My hips buck, and I groan into his mouth at the feel of his stiff shaft against mine. But before I get a chance to reach into his pants, he’s gone.
Discombobulated, I open my eyes. Mateo’s breaths are shallow and jerky, his chest heaving like mine. His attention darts to nearby voices. Taking my hand, he pulls me forward and we descend the short stairs into an alcove. The mosaicked ceiling is low, forcing us to bend. Mateo sits on a ledge that is big enough to act as a window seat if there were a window. Legs extended, he pulls me between them, and I rest my hands on his powerful shoulders. Whispering, he says, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you walked out of the club two weeks ago.”
“Me too.” Apparently, the ability to be articulate was sucked out of me the minute he swept his tongue into my mouth.
His fingers squeeze my waist, and he plants a quick kiss on my lips. “Good.” He gets up. “Let’s go check out some more art.”
Mateo leads me around, pointing out items I would have missed, sharing Isaiah Zagar’s history, and how the Magic Gardens came to be. It’s like having my own private tour guide. We talk about nothing and everything. Every brush of his hand, every smile, every piece of himself he shares, draws me in further and further. Time flashes by faster than a summer weekend at the shore, and I find myself hoping the date doesn’t end with the tour.
“I know we didn’t make plans beyond this.” Mateo lifts his chin toward a wall covered in bottles of differing sizes and colors, a bicycle wheel, and broken pieces of ceramic and mirror. “But I’d love to take you to lunch.” Both of his brows raise, reminding me of Olive when she invites me to join her and her menagerie of stuffed animals for a tea party.
How can anyone say no?
Warmth radiates throughout my body. I take a deliberate step toward him and lay my hand on his chest. “Since you paid for this, why don’tItakeyouto lunch?”
His brows drop to a droop, then quickly return to their normal position, a sliver of a scar slashes through the bottom right. I want to know how he got the scar. I want to know what his favorite food is, what kind of movies he likes, where he grew up… I want to know everything about this man.
“There’s a great Mexican place about ten blocks from here. You feel like a walk?” He holds out his hand. “We can check out the public mosaics along the way if you want.”
Gladly, I take his hand. “I want.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up, and we begin walking. He dips his head toward mine, the pitch of his voice low and laced with amusement. “What do you want, Finlay?”
My dick—which has a mind of its own—thickens with Mateo’s nearness. What I want is to settle down with a man who likes to read or maybe play golf. Heck, I’d even take someone who played softball. I want a quiet life, not one spent worrying about the person I care about sustaining a life-altering injury.
