by Alexis Daria
Except they weren’t Victor and Carmen now. It was just the two of them, alone. He shut everything else out and lost himself in her. In her touch, sure and confident as she stroked his chest. In her taste, so sweet and with faint fruity notes from the wine when her tongue teased his.
He tugged at her clothing, needing to be closer, to touch more of her. She helped him strip away her pajamas before tossing them to the floor. Then he stretched her out on the sofa, taking a moment to gaze down at her body, cataloging her curves in his memory and feeling a deep sense of contentment. How lucky he was, that this amazing woman let him be close to her, let him touch her, let him—
He cut off the thought before it could go too deep and bent to kiss her breasts. She let out a long sigh, holding his head closer to her, but he had another destination in mind. Shifting lower, he spread her legs, draping one over the back of the couch. When her hips rocked toward him in invitation, he lowered his mouth to her and worshipped her.
Her response delighted him. She gripped his head, pulling his hair and urging him on as he licked her. When he stroked her and tongued her clit, a litany of “yes, yes, yes” fell from her lips. She writhed and shook beneath his touch, kneading and pinching her own breasts, the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. And when she climaxed against his mouth, around his fingers, he knew bliss.
As he eased back, to take in the sight of her naked body reclined in sated pleasure, a smile curved his lips. His dick was rock hard, and he was still fully dressed, but her pleasure was everything to him. Absently, he caressed her thigh, just happy to touch her after so many days apart. But she surprised him by rearing up and scrambling into a position at his feet.
After tucking a throw pillow under her knees, she yanked at the fastenings on his jeans with hurried moves.
“Jasmine, you—”
“Shh.” She reached into his boxers and gently withdrew his cock. At her touch, he groaned and dropped his head back. In a smooth move, she took him in her mouth. Her hot, wet mouth.
This is it, he thought. This is how I die.
It was too good. Too absolute. No one could feel this good and survive, could they? Maybe not, but he was willing to test it.
She worked him with her mouth and hand, getting him slick with her lips and tongue, squeezing his hardness within her fist. He sank his hands into her hair and rocked his hips, panting her name as she took him for a ride.
He was almost there, so close, but he didn’t know if—
“Jasmine, por favor,” he ground out, not knowing what he was even begging for. Stop? Keep going? He didn’t know. She was in total control.
She must have guessed he was close, because she pulled her mouth off him with a smacking kiss, then climbed up to straddle his lap.
He filled his hands with her as she kissed his mouth. Her lips wet and soft, and his still carrying the lingering taste of her. He couldn’t get enough. All the reasons why this could never be fled from his mind, or seemed inconsequential in the light of his burning need for her. She’d gotten under his skin, so quickly and easily, it should have been impossible. And yet here she was. Here they were.
Her busy fingers undid the buttons of his shirt and she pulled back enough to whisper against his mouth, “Dime qué quieres.”
The words sent shivers through his body. Her utter confidence, the latent sensuality, the fact that she now felt comfortable enough with him to try dirty talk en español. This woman was already everything he could ever want. How was he supposed to put it into words?
“I want”—I need—“you.”
She let out a husky chuckle and kept undressing him. “Which part of me?”
All of you.
He couldn’t say that. Some shred of self-preservation remained. Instead, he reached between them and stroked her, finding her wet and open. She let out a sigh as he slipped his fingers into her, pumping back and forth. She rocked her hips, riding his hand, looking so fucking beautiful he could barely stand it, but after a moment she eased back.
“Condom,” she whispered, getting to her feet and yanking at his jeans to pull them off. “I want you inside me.”
“Fuck yeah,” he ground out. He grabbed his wallet out of his back pocket before she could toss the pants away and took out the foil condom packet. While she opened it, he went to the bedroom and came back with the bottle of lube, because he knew she liked it. Squirting some into his hand, he waited while she rolled the condom down his cock, which was exquisite torture in and of itself. Then he greased himself up, resumed his seat on the sofa, and leaned back.
He didn’t know what the hell they were doing here, but as she sank down and sheathed him in her heat, he didn’t fucking care. Everything felt different—no, better—with her. He was better, just for being in her presence. Her patience and emotional responsiveness allowed him to explore how it felt to let someone in and be truly seen—something he’d forgotten how to do. It was a gift he could never repay.
The lamp in the corner was turned on low, the light caressing her skin and gilding her curves with gold as she rocked on top of him. He followed the light with his hands, touching her, memorizing the shape of her. This couldn’t last—good things never did—but for right now, he would live in the moment with her while he could. Her full breasts swayed in front of him, and he leaned forward to suck her nipple into his mouth, rolling it with his tongue and loving the way she cried out in immediate response. He wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her close, then reached his other hand between them to slide his fingertips over her clit. She shivered at the touch, her thrusts becoming shorter and more insistent.
“Ashton,” she said on a gasp. “Oh god. Don’t—don’t stop.”
He wouldn’t have dared. While he couldn’t give her much, this he could give her. He pumped his hips, grinding against her as he urged her to climax.
He knew she was close when her nails sank into his shoulders, and he grinned against her breast and increased the pace, thrusting up and into her soft, wet sheath.
“Ashton!” He rolled his eyes up to look at her, soaking in the ecstasy etched on her gorgeous face, the urgency in her voice, and the way her mouth fell open when she came. Pleasure wrung broken, staccato gasps from her throat, and he loved the sound of them. God, he was falling for this woman so hard, and he couldn’t even lie to himself about it. He held her through her orgasm, squeezing his eyes shut to hold back his own as her pussy squeezed his dick in an almost irresistible rhythm.
She sighed and melted against his chest, her arms twining around his back as she pressed her face to his neck.
“More,” she whispered.
The soft command unleashed something in him. Keeping their pelvises locked tight, he shifted them so she lay on her back, propped up by throw pillows, the blanket bunched underneath them. Ashton braced himself on his forearms, gave her a quick kiss, and surrendered to hot and fast fucking.
Their bodies grew slick with sweat as he pounded into her, their skin slapping together as she met each thrust with one of her own. He ground out curses in English and Spanish, and she panted what would have been benedictions in any other setting.
He didn’t want it to end, but it was too good to last forever.
As Jasmine came apart in his arms again, Ashton lost the battle. With his face pressed into the curve of her neck, breathing in the sweet citrus scent of her hair, he drove into her one last time. The orgasm ripped through him. He shuddered hard, heart pounding, breath heaving.
In the aftermath, his mind emptied and his body went numb. They were a joined tangle of sweaty limbs, and he couldn’t even begin to figure out how to separate himself, so he didn’t. He just listened to the sound of her breathing, counting the rise and fall of her chest under his cheek.
And in the pure clarity following a climax, he knew, finally, what he wanted.
This. He wanted this. To come home to this woman, to be with her, to love her, and to let her love him back.
But the world returned t
o him in bits and pieces, along with all the reminders of why this would never work between them.
His career.
Her fame.
His son.
He didn’t want to move from this sofa. If he didn’t move, he didn’t have to face the consequences of his actions, and he could pretend, for just a little longer, that this was possible.
But it wasn’t. And he was softening inside her. In a second he was going to have to dispose of the condom and—
She shifted, breaking the spell. He climbed off her and grabbed the box of tissues on the end table. As he was cleaning up, she pulled the blanket off the cushions and wrapped it around herself.
It pained him to see her cover herself, as if shielding herself from him, the way she had their first night together before she’d asked him to stay. He shouldn’t have come here. He was just getting in deeper, starting something he couldn’t finish.
“I didn’t think I’d see you tonight,” she said softly.
The postcoital quiet called for truth. “I was trying to stay away.”
She sighed. “And I was trying to let you.”
He blinked in surprise. “You were?”
She nodded and gave him a little smile. “I was doing a pretty good job of it, too, but then you came to my trailer tonight looking ten kinds of delicious, and it took all my self-control not to run after you.”
“You—really?”
This pleased him to no end, even though it shouldn’t.
He’d told Jasmine about the Incident, and she’d understood. What would happen if he told her about Yadiel? She valued family as much as he did. He thought—hoped—she’d understand about that too.
The full truth burned on the tip of his tongue, but by now he was so used to keeping secrets, it was easy to swallow it down.
There was still time.
Jasmine picked up the wineglass and drained it. Then she turned off the TV and stood.
“Are you . . . going to stay?” she asked.
He caught the slight, hopeful lilt in her voice, the way she chewed at her bottom lip, like she expected him to leave.
He should leave. But he didn’t want to.
“I’ll stay.”
She nodded, then reached out her hand to him. “Good.”
He took her hand and let her lead him into the bedroom.
Chapter 31
“Cut!”
Ashton stood in the middle of the Serrano PR office set with Jasmine and Nino, shooting a brainstorming session about Victor’s career. When Ofelia, the first AD, let them know the scene was good, they trooped off the set, ready to hit catering for lunch.
Marquita approached before they’d even gone ten paces.
“Ashton, can we . . . talk?”
The hesitation in her voice and posture made him instantly wary. But she was the showrunner, so he nodded and gestured to Jasmine and Nino that they should go on without him. Jasmine shot him a worried look, but then Marquita drew him over to a quiet corner—or as quiet as the corner of a sound stage at lunchtime could be. She stared at him, her eyes round and uncertain, holding her phone to her chest, like she wanted to show him something, but was worried about his reaction.
Immediately, Ashton assumed the worst. Was it another picture of him and Jasmine? Had they been discovered? Or shit, was he being fired again? He’d thought he was doing well as Victor, but maybe—
“Do you . . .” Marquita shook her head, like she wasn’t sure what to say, then blurted out the rest of the question in a rush. “¿Tienes un hijo?”
Ice flushed through his veins, chilling him from the inside out as he tried to keep his expression bland.
Do you have a son?
If she was asking, it meant she already knew.
Ashton swallowed hard and continued. “¿Qué están diciendo?”
“They’re saying that you have a child.” Marquita glanced down at her phone, then faced it toward him. “There’s a picture.”
The sight of Yadiel’s innocent and unsuspecting face on Marquita’s phone screen had Ashton curling his hands into fists. Rage swept through him, burning away the ice. How. Dare. They.
He took the phone carefully and zoomed in to see the details. The first photo had been taken two days earlier at the Yankees game Ashton had brought Yadiel to, but there were others, including one of Ashton at the airport as he returned from his latest trip to Puerto Rico. He hadn’t seen anyone who looked obviously like a paparazzo, but someone had seen him. Seen him and recognized him, despite the baseball cap and sunglasses.
What the hell? Did Buzz Weekly have spies everywhere?
The headline read: TELENOVELA STAR’S SECRETS REVEALED! SEX, STALKERS, AND A SECRET CHILD!
It was certainly comprehensive, he thought bitterly. The writer, Kitty Sanchez—why did that name sound familiar?—must have been researching him for some time to uncover everything.
Ashton wasn’t violent or prone to fits of anger, but now, terror mixed with fury within him. These people—these paparazzi and gossip columnists—had dug into his past, tracked down his family, and spied on him. All because they thought he was screwing his costar.
Which he was. Pero carajo, why couldn’t that remain his own business?
The spotlight focused on Jasmine had now trained itself on him and uncovered a story too juicy to ignore. The “just friends” campaign had failed. As careful as he’d been, he’d made mistakes—like bringing his family to New York because he missed them.
He should have known this would happen. Indeed, it was a low-grade fear he carried daily. But he’d hoped, naively, that he’d done enough to keep his family safe from all this.
Now everything was ruined.
Even worse, Yadiel’s mother was bound to see this. His stomach dropped as he recalled how she’d handed their infant son over to Ashton. In exchange for full custody, she’d made it clear she didn’t ever want to deal with the media fallout over a “secret lovechild,” as she’d put it. What would she do if the tabloids traced Yadiel back to her?
He scrolled farther. Somehow, this Kitty Sanchez bruja had also found out about the stalker, the attempted break-in, and—coño, carajo, there was even a picture of him kissing Jasmine from the exterior scene they’d shot in Spanish Harlem the other night. Presented without context, of course.
As he stared at the photos, the words accompanying them blurred. His chest and throat grew tight, and he got a hot, claustrophobic feeling, like the walls were closing in on him. His worst nightmare was coming true. Every single one of his secrets was being revealed for public consumption.
“Ashton?” Marquita’s brow creased with worry.
He’d been holding her phone for too long. Passing it back to her, he grated out, “Sí. Él es mi hijo.”
He would not deny Yadiel’s existence outright. He had never been ashamed of his son—he just wanted to protect him.
Marquita sucked in a breath, but Ashton’s attention was drawn to movement across the sound stage.
Jasmine stood, staring at him with hurt in her dark eyes.
He recalled Carmen’s words from the scene on the steps. Opening up, letting people in, even if it’s just to carry the burden of the knowledge.
“I have to call my lawyer,” he said. If there was any possibility of getting the photos pulled—for Yadiel’s safety—he had to try.
As for Jasmine, he didn’t know how to make this right. Didn’t know if he could. But he had more important things to deal with at the moment.
She found him in his dressing room just as he was hanging up with his agent.
He froze when he saw her at the door, all the things he wanted to say backing up in his throat.
He knew her well enough now to know her moods, and she was furious. Her eyes blazed, and she stormed past him into the room.
He quickly shut the door behind her. “Jasmine, I—”
“First step: context.” She cut him off and held up one finger, as if counting. “You had sex with me. You told
me something that made me think you trusted me, and then I had to find out yet again from a fucking magazine”—she shook a copy of Buzz Weekly at him so violently the cover tore—“that a guy I was screwing had lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie to you.” The words tasted sour in his mouth. All the times he’d omitted Yadiel from their conversations flashed in his mind. Fuck, he hated that she was right. Hated that he’d done the same thing to her as that pendejo McIntyre.
“Well, you sure didn’t tell me the whole truth, did you?” Her tone dripped with sarcasm and she held up a second finger. “Step two: communication. Your turn.”
She tossed the magazine at him and he caught it by reflex. The cheap paper crumpled in his hand. If he hadn’t already ripped up a copy earlier, he would have done so now.
She wanted communication? He didn’t even know where to begin, and he was too stressed out from the calls with his lawyer, his agent, his former boss in Miami, and his father to figure it out.
He’d kept everything related to Yadiel locked inside him for so long. The revelation should have been like opening a dam. Instead it was like pulling teeth.
Then, before he could think of what to tell her, she gasped. Her jaw dropped and she said, in a hushed voice, “Oh my god. This is why.”
“Why what?” he repeated irritably. Unable to stand holding it any longer, he tossed the magazine into the garbage can under his desk.
“This is why you don’t fuck your costars.” Jasmine’s eyes widened as she put it all together. “You worked with her, didn’t you? On a telenovela.”
The reference to Yadiel’s mother had his stomach dropping like he’d just fallen ten stories on a roller coaster. Panic made his voice tight. “I’m not telling you who—”
“Did I ask?” Her voice was sharp with anger. “No, I didn’t. And while I do respect your privacy, I also think someone who is allowing you to enter their body deserves a modicum of respect and trust as well. We got close, and you hid a major aspect of your life from me. And don’t even try to tell me this was just sex because you and I both know goddamn well it was more than that.”