by Tamara Lush
“Ah, ah, ah. Don’t be impatient. Not yet.”
I look up. His shirt is off, which makes my stomach flutter. He quickly removes his pants and underwear. While standing there naked, Rafa casually takes a sip of my red wine. His gaze makes my skin feel like I’m being licked by fire.
Slowly, he unhooks his watch and sets it on a nearby shelf, then picks up a hand towel.
God, his ass.
My skin prickles with desire at the sight of his rippling back muscles. When he turns to face me, I stare at the V of muscles that wrap around his hips. His cock is already half-hard, and I grin.
He sets the towel near the bag, then eases his masculine frame into the big tub, encircling my arms and legs from behind. I lean back into him, and goosebumps spread across my skin when his hand fans out over my stomach.
“Hi, baby,” he whispers in my ear.
All I can do is smile from ear-to-ear, I’m so happy.
He slides his hand over the slick skin of my breasts, which are covered in bubbles. My nipples instantly tighten under his touch. I sigh, a small pleasurable exhale, when he lightly skims the side of my neck with his lips. Rafa scoops bubbles onto his fingertip and gently touches my nose.
I let out a little hum when he again presses his lips to my neck. With a devastatingly soft touch, he brushes a strand of damp hair away from my jaw and kisses there, too.
“Did you miss me?” he murmurs, one hand sliding in between my legs. When he slips a finger into me, I suck in a breath and he chuckles. “Oh, yeah. You missed me.”
“I wasn’t going to admit it, but yeah, I did. And you? Did you miss me?”
“Last night when I got back from the club, I thought all sorts of filthy things about you. I couldn’t get my mind off you the entire time I was gone.”
“Really?” I wonder about the woman I’d heard on the phone. Had he taken her home? I don’t want to know.
“Yes. And you know what I did?”
“What?”
His lips are an inch from my ear, and he speaks low while dipping his fingers inside of me. “I took off my clothes and got in bed, and I thought about you while I jerked off. I thought about touching you exactly like I’m doing now. Driving you crazy by teasing your clit, sliding my fingers into your pussy, fucking you for hours. Spanking you a little. Not letting you come until I say so.” He fills me with three of his thick fingers, and I gasp.
I squirm against his hand, my wetness mingling with the water in the tub, dissolving under his touch. I open my legs wide so my feet are propped on either side of the tub.
“Rafa, I’m already about to come. God.”
“That’s why I had to come back early. I wanted you so bad. I couldn’t wait. Didn’t want to be without you for another second.”
I giggle and squeeze his hair-roughened thigh. “And you also bought me a present?”
“My fingers aren’t enough?” He rubs my clit harder and my toes curl. When I tip my head back onto his shoulder and open my mouth because I’m near orgasm, he stops and kisses my ear.
“Your present. Right.” He takes his hands out of the water, gently guiding my legs closed, then scooting me forward so he has enough room to freely wipe his fingers with the towel and open the bag.
I whimper. “Why are you stopping? You’re teasing me.” I shift carefully in the water so I face him, stroking his muscular legs. My hand snakes up and cups his balls, and I give them a satisfying squeeze.
“Shush. Stop whining, woman.”
I laugh. My whole body throbs, and I reach for his cock. He’s hard.
“This is the only gift I want right now.” I twirl my thumb over his smooth head and stroke, which causes little ripples in the water.
“Amor. Patience.” He grins a big, loopy smile.
He opens the bag and extracts a knife and then a mango that glows vibrant yellow in the candlelight.
My eyes grow large, and I let go of him. This might be the one thing that could distract me from sex. “No! A Miami mango? You remembered.”
He nods and slices into the fruit’s flesh. “I got you more than one. I know how much you love them.”
With precise cuts, he expertly scores the fruit, setting the rind on the edge of the tub. “I also remember how beautiful you are when you eat them. Open that sexy mouth.”
I part my lips, and he lays the sweet fruit onto my tongue. My eyes roll back in my head, and I make little happy noises as I chew.
“This mango might be the one thing that’s better than an orgasm.” I slurp some pulp off a mango peel.
He laughs and slices another piece. “We’ll see about that. I think I’m better than fruit, but maybe not.”
He feeds me a fat slice, and a stream of juice dribbles on my chin. I lean forward, trying not to make the water slosh everywhere.
“Maybe not. It’s a toss-up,” I whisper.
In one greedy motion, he licks the mango nectar off my chin. I kiss him, hard. Sitting on my heels, half in the water, I brush a mound of bubbles off my chest.
Taking the towel, I scrub my breasts dry and take a mango slice out of Rafa’s fingers. Slowly, I circle each nipple with the slice, squeezing the juice out of the fruit so it drizzles down my skin and into the water. I feed him the slice and smear a little mango juice on his lips.
He calls me preciosa and tesoro, then pulls me to him and takes my breast in his mouth. My sticky hands go in his hair, and he flicks his tongue around my nipple. Water sloshes onto the tile floor, and neither of us cares one bit.
We’re in bed, relaxing post-bath, post-mango, post-sex, and Rafa asks me, “Do you want to know what I was really doing today in Miami?”
My body tenses, and I think about all the what-ifs of models and yachts and women far more successful than I am. I prop myself against a pillow and draw the sheet around my body.
“I…guess.”
“I had a meeting with a private investigator.”
My brow furrows. I hadn’t expected this answer. “Why?”
“I wanted to find out the truth about my mother. I’m thinking about going to Cuba at some point, now that Fidel’s dead.”
I gasp. “Wait. You? Cuba? And is that a good idea? I mean, dredging up—”
He interrupts. “You always suggested I look into my childhood. Well, you were right. I should’ve done this years ago.”
I nod and gape. The idea that Rafa would even consider going to the island after years of hatred toward the Castro regime makes my mind reel. “Hold on. You want to go to Cuba?”
He hums and shifts next to me. “It’s not that I want to go. I feel drawn there. I’ve been thinking about this a lot in the past couple of months. I want to know more about my roots. When Raoul Castro finally dies and releases that family’s grip on the island, I’ll go. Which should be soon, he’s old. I don’t think I can stomach it while a Castro is still alive and in power.”
Tears well in my eyes, because my heart’s breaking for Rafael.
“And now I’ll have someone to go with who will understand my feelings about the whole situation.”
I frown. “You do?”
He touches my nose with his and moves his head back and forth. “Yes. You, silly.”
I’m still slack-jawed when he starts to talk about the private investigator. “So I found more about how my mom was a dissident against the Castro government in the eighties. She met my father, a Spaniard, at an anti-communist meeting. When I was five, she got word she was about to be arrested, and that’s when she put me on the boat with my aunt and uncle. They’d always wanted to come to Florida, so they all cobbled together money to pay a smuggler to come here.”
“So why didn’t she just go with you and your aunt and uncle on the boat?”
He frowned. “The private investigator talked to some of my mom’s old neighbors and some cousins I didn’t know I had. Apparently my mom wanted me to be safe more than anything. Turns out she was pretty instrumental in the movement against Castro. She figured she’d m
eet up with me in America. She didn’t want to jeopardize my future if we were all caught on the boat and returned to Cuba. She knew she’d be punished worse than anyone if she was caught trying to leave. She wanted to spare me. Distance me from her world.”
His voice cracks and he pauses. “But she never got the chance to come to Florida because she died of an infection in prison. She went down fighting for what she believed in.”
This is almost too much to process. I wrap myself around him. “I’m sorry, baby. I wish you hadn’t found out about your mom this way. I wish it was different.”
He shrugs, and I know he’s trying to put on a brave front. “At least I have some answers. Better than nothing.”
“I still don’t see why your aunt and uncle didn’t tell you all this. I don’t get it.”
Rafa opens his eyes. “You knew my uncle. He wasn’t exactly an emotional or sentimental person. He wanted to forget what happened in Cuba. He loved his job, his wife, and his life in Miami.”
“He was a bit distant. You know, I called you when he died two years ago.”
Rafa’s mouth forms a hard line. “Don’t lie to me, Justine. You did not.”
I huff out an indignant noise. “Please. Let’s not fight. We’re doing so well. Yeah, I did call.”
“How’d you even know he died?”
“Google search.”
Rafa screwed up his face. “Why were you searching for my uncle?”
“Silly.” I kissed his arm. “I was looking at articles about you. And I left a message with your secretary. Her name was Christina.”
Rafa flips over onto his back and stares at the ceiling.
“What? Why are you tensing up?”
He licks his lips. “Do you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be mad. It has to do with you.” He turns to face me. “Right around the time my uncle died, I needed comfort. Christina was the only woman I asked to sleep over, the only one since you.”
The crater is back in my stomach. “Why are you telling me this? I don’t know if I want to hear more. Why do you have to confess everything to me? Why do you want to hurt me? Can’t you keep anything to yourself?”
He strokes my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “She said I talked in my sleep. About you. I didn’t have any feelings for Christina, and what I said about you when I was asleep must have hurt her. It’s probably why she didn’t give me the message that you called. And probably why she quit soon after.”
“Oh, Rafa.” I sigh and rest my forehead against his fever-hot chest. He rolls onto his back, hoisting me on top of him. I lift up on my elbows and study him, my mouth twisting in frustration. Slowly, tenderly, almost with hesitation, he brushes the hair away from my face.
“What did she hear you say?” I whisper.
“She said I kept repeating your name. And three words.”
“What? What did you say, baby?”
“You know,” he says in a gravelly voice.
“No. I don’t.” Tears are threatening to spill over my bottom lids, and I blink several times. He’s so complicated and tortured and tightly wound.
He stares at me.
“You know, Justine. You’ve always known.”
I lower myself so that my entire body lays on top of his and my face burrows into his neck. He strokes my bare back with his fingertips.
“I don’t even know what to feel, Justine. About anything. You. My mother. All my life, I’ve been telling myself that she gave me away, that she abandoned me, that she didn’t want me. For the past eleven years, I’ve told myself that you left me because you wanted a career and not me. It’s not quite like that. Nothing is how it seems or how it was supposed to be.”
I pick up my head. Maybe he’s beginning to understand some things from our past. Just like I am.
“Rafa, sometimes the stories we tell ourselves our whole lives turn out to be lies.”
32
Daylight Chasing the Night
I flopped on my back in the park, the warm grass tickling my arms as I stretched. It was a lazy late afternoon in Miami. Rafael and I were on a blanket in the shade, and the tang of salt was in the warm breeze coming off Biscayne Bay. Everything seemed in vivid Technicolor, from the green of the tall palm trees to the blue of the sky.
My internship at the Herald was amazing, and while I suspected Rafa still wasn’t thrilled about my assignments covering crime, he’d stopped worrying aloud.
Plus, he was busy with his job at a real estate agency and, with some money he’d saved, bought his first, pre-sale condo to flip.
I stretched out, smiling. It was the best summer ever—working as a reporter during the days and spending every night with Rafa. Since I was getting paid at The Herald, I’d told my father that I’d support myself.
I didn’t tell him that Rafael had moved in and was splitting expenses.
What my dad didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. If he surprised us in-person again, Rafa and I would tell him the truth. Until that day, we were going to do what we wanted. Like adults.
I was twenty-one, after all.
“By the time school starts for you in September, I should be making enough money to pay all the rent anyway,” Rafa told me.
It had been my idea to live together. There was no way I’d let Rafa live in that hovel in Wynwood, although our place wasn’t much better.
I felt Rafa slide next to me on the blanket. Even after years of dating, I still got a charge every time he was near. He kissed my shoulder and placed a perspiring bottle of water next to me on the grass. I thanked him and snuggled next to him, his body giving off the heat of a thousand Miami suns.
“Justi, I put money in our bank account today. Buy groceries with it, okay? Don’t use your dad’s money for household stuff anymore. I don’t want him supporting us at all. And I’m paying for tonight, when we go out to that art show you wanted to see.”
I nodded. He was so weird about my father’s money.
He picked up his book and began to read. I shifted a few inches so I was closer to him. Sleepy from the heat, I put my book down and sat up, taking a long sip of the water. I lay back down on my side, my face toward Rafa. He sighed and did the same.
“When am I going to stop wanting you so much?” he whispered. “What have you done to me? It’s like you put a spell on me, Justine.”
“Maybe I did,” I giggled.
“Well, I hope you never break that spell. Okay, Justine?”
I shook my head and kissed him, tracing his sharp cheekbone. “Never.”
A few hours later, Rafa and I stared at the people around us, all black-clad artsy types and people who were into BDSM. At least that’s what I’d read in the show brochure. The words “bondage furniture art show” made Rafael laugh.
We both watched a tall, bald man strut around the room. He wore black boots, black jeans, and was shirtless. He moved like a sexy cat around the art warehouse, which was nearly empty and painted with blood-red walls.
Rafael thought the guy was a bit of a douchebag. He’d already told me that, several times that night. “Justine, what is this crap?” he whispered to me.
“Shh. It’s a bondage art exhibit. That’s what it says on the flyer. Don’t roll your eyes. Stop laughing. We’ll only stay a few minutes. There’s free beers at the next gallery.”
We were at the monthly art walk in Miami’s Design District, and Rafa thought a lot of the exhibits were silly and pretentious. He was kind of right. But he’d agreed to go because I had been begging him for a couple of months now. Plus, it was a rare Saturday night off, and there were free drinks. We both liked that.
I was feeling sexy in tight jeans and a black tank top. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bald guy giving my body the once-over. Rafael saw, too, and raised an eyebrow.
“Would you like to try it out?” the guy asked me, pointing to a large, wooden X near a wall.
I tilted my head and crinkled my nose. “What is it?”
“It’s a St. Andrew’s Cross. I made it. It’s meant to restrain someone by the ankles, wrists, and waist. If you’d like to step up, I can strap you in and show you how it works. Of course, I won’t whip you like I do with my submissives, but you can get the idea.”
Rafa emitted a low grunt that only I could hear and clamped his arm tight around my waist. I suspected what he really wanted to do was punch the guy for even looking at me, but he knew I’d freak if he did that.
“Thanks, bro, but no,” Rafa said. “The only one who gets to see her on something like that is me.”
The bald guy laughed and shrugged. “Fine. I get it. I’ll leave you two alone.” He walked out of the room.
I turned to Rafael. “You handled that surprisingly well.”
Rafael hugged me from behind. “I don’t blame men for trying to flirt—you’re gorgeous. I don’t like to watch it, though. Or know about it.”
We stared for a few moments at the wooden cross. I laughed when we both tilted our heads in one direction, then another, simultaneously, like puppies. A dark, industrial song came on that sounded like it was from the nineties.
“What band is this?” Rafa asked. “You should know. You were a Goth girl in high school.”
I laughed. “I was a lame Goth. I hated the eyeliner. It’s too difficult to be a Goth in Florida because it’s hot. But I think this is a band called Athamay. They sing about torture and stuff.”
He kissed my neck and grinned into my skin. That’s what we admired about each other. Nothing was sacred; everything was fair game for skewering. We both constantly questioned everything. I even questioned him, which I knew sometimes annoyed him, but he loved me for it anyway.
I pointed to the cross.
“What do you think of that? Would you want to see me tied to that? And what would you do to me?”
He stood back and stared at the contraption, stroking his full bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger. “I would tease you. Kiss you. Lick you.”