by Ophelia Bell
“Honestly, I doubt it. Knowing his biggest disappointment of a kid was at least getting laid probably would have made him proud. But when he was home was when Elle would get spooked. And I didn’t exactly want Monica to know how bad it was, so I didn’t let her come over.”
I’ve heard stories about the elder Santos thirdhand through Celeste. But it never occurred to me how terrifying it might have been to live with him. My dad was a soldier in a sense too, though in a different battle to help Arturo Flores hold dominion over the streets of LA. But when he was home, he was a big, gentle, good-humored guy who treated his wife and kids with respect and love. I can’t imagine my dad ever lifting a hand to hurt one of us.
“He didn’t . . . hurt her, did he?” I whisper.
Sam takes a slow breath and exhales, the warm air tickling across my scalp. “No, it wasn’t like that with him. He and Mom tended to fight late at night. Which was usually just him yelling at her about everything she did wrong while he was deployed. Elle’s room was closer to theirs, so she came to mine to escape. Once or twice I tried to interrupt Dad’s diatribes, but only got a fist to the jaw for my trouble. After that, Mom made me promise not to get in between them. She said seeing me hurt was worse than anything he could do to her on his own. I knew it was a lie, but I wasn’t going to disobey her. He never laid a finger on Elle though.”
I wince, recalling the recent weeks he spent driving back and forth to LA after his mother’s stroke, something the family believes was a result of her husband’s periodic beatings. Sam showed up to work sullen and exhausted for a few days until I finally had to tell him to just go, that his job wasn’t going anywhere, and his family needed him. That was before he found out his brother wasn’t really dead, so he was carrying a lot more grief than most.
“Your brothers couldn’t help run interference with your dad?”
“Not from across the world. From about junior high on, it was just me and Elle. Mad, J.J.—I mean Mason—and Marco were all overseas. Mad didn’t get discharged until I was eighteen.”
“Right. Sometimes I forget how young you are.”
He’s quiet and still for several breaths, then says, “I’m old enough to understand what you’re going through. Maybe not every detail, but fear and grief go hand in hand. I’ve seen my sister go through it all too. Hell, I’ve been there. The inside of the door frame in our bathroom at home has all the marks from all five of us growing up. I couldn’t walk through that door after J.J. died without seeing his name etched in the wood and worrying about losing my shit. Moving to San Diego was a relief, but I still feel guilty for leaving Mom alone. Elle does too.”
“She isn’t alone anymore. You know that, right? She has Mad and Mason, and baby Zoe, and Callie, and I know Celeste spends time with her at her dance studio. I’d say you’re off the hook. You can let go of the burden—be twenty-two.”
His chest expands against my back as he heaves an enormous sigh. “I don’t know if I know what that even means. I am what my world made me, Toni. I want things I doubt normal twenty-two-year-olds want.”
“Like the partnership? Should I not have offered it to you?”
He makes a disgruntled sound and I feel him shake his head. “Don’t you dare take it back. There are very few things in the world I want more than that.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
His chuckle hits the back of my neck and a pleasant shiver courses down my spine. “Right now, sleep. You need me to sing you a lullaby, or are you feeling better?”
“No, I’m good. What you’re doing is perfect,” I say, threading my fingers through his where they span my belly. But he starts to hum anyway, then breaks into a low song in a perfect, smooth baritone that would put Axl Rose himself to shame. The song “Don’t Cry” is meant to be a lullaby, but it’s so much more.
I sigh and let my body settle, cocooned so perfectly within his embrace it’s like he was made to fit around me. It’s an absurd thought, but it’s the last thing that crosses my mind before I fall asleep.
11
Toni
I’ve rarely managed a good night’s sleep since Manny died, so I feel like I’m still dreaming when I open my eyes. The luxurious hotel room is awash in hazy morning light filtering through sheer curtains, the downy white covers like clouds around my body, and the warm weight of the man next to me a perfect reminder of what I’ve missed.
The pang of loss that finally comes when I remember who isn’t there is dulled by the thrum of awareness of who is.
Sam’s arm is still draped across my hip, his knees curled in against the backs of my legs. He’s warm and solid, and everything a lover should feel like first thing in the morning. Except that’s the one thing he isn’t, and probably shouldn’t be, even though my errant mind seems to want to lead me down the path to that fantasy.
I extract myself with surgical precision to avoid waking him and pad to the bathroom to empty my bladder. After I flush, I give myself a cursory look in the mirror, satisfied by the lack of any evidence of the crying I did yesterday, though the braid I usually sleep in hasn’t fared so well and escaped strands of my red stripe feather around my cheeks.
But I’m not here to seduce the boy, so I’m not worried about him seeing me at my worst. I look my age at the very least, so perhaps it’ll help maintain a safe distance between us.
The age difference is the last thing on my mind when I step back into the room, though. Sam is sprawled on his back, still asleep, with one arm tucked beneath the pillow behind his head and the other hand splayed across his toned stomach.
My nostrils flare and I have to swallow a mouthful of saliva. Christ, what a sight to wake up to. His painted arms still hold their designs, which is a testament to the markers that made them, and the koi fish Mako painted is a brilliant red against the white sheets. However, without his shirt, the complete lack of tattoos on his torso is pretty startling.
All that virgin skin is just begging to be covered in ink, and after his confession the night before about collaborating, and the alterations he made to my tattoos, I can actually envision a design to cover at least half his chest.
Biting my lip, I slip back to the bed as quietly as I can and climb on. He doesn’t stir, and I watch him for a moment, head tilted as I enjoy the vision of youthful beauty he cuts in the morning light. His dark hair and tan skin stand out against the white of the bed, and he’s halfway to a full beard, the shadow of his stubble even more apparent in the sunlight.
I never realized how long his eyelashes are until now, or noticed the slight scar he has just above his left eyebrow. My observation is completely indulgent, and is definitely a healthier impulse than the darker ones I usually fall prey to. But I enjoy taking the time to absorb how delectable a man I’ve had working under my nose all this time, because the last thing on my mind is the urge to feel pain. It’s wrong, but this trip is supposed to be about healing old wounds, recalibrating, and finding a way to move forward with my life.
When he still doesn’t wake, I reach for the pair of markers he left on the nightstand and pull the top off the black one. Then I lean over and begin to make my mark on his body for the second time.
As I draw, the design grows in my mind, until I can picture it fully formed on his right side. I slide into the zone I always wind up in when in my creative groove. The image unfolds beneath my fingers, a rendering of the Hermit tarot card in my own style, but featuring a woman in a long, clingy robe instead of a bearded man. Her body takes up the length of Sam’s ribcage and the lantern she holds aloft spans his pectoral, with the signature halo behind her head, but rather than inscribe vines as the frame around the image, I instead draw a symmetrical halo of tube-like tendrils. By the time the figure herself is finished, she resembles a Gorgon with glowing silver eyes.
I’m about to add her staff down the center of his belly when he inhales, and I glance up to see cool gray eyes blinking drowsily back at me.
“Hey, sleepy head,” I say, smiling up at him.
His eyebrows arch and his lips quirk to one side as he peers down his chest. “You enjoying yourself?”
“Just getting warmed up for a full day of tattooing. You should know by now that my mind goes into design mode the second I see a patch of empty skin.”
“I do know this, actually. I guess this is what I get for sleeping without a shirt. At least you aren’t my brothers . . . they’d have drawn dicks all over my face.”
I snicker at that and sit back on my heels. “I can stop.”
“Hell no. You need to finish this thing. It’s only six a.m., so we don’t need to be anywhere for a while yet.”
He raises both arms and twines his fingers behind his head. The movement makes every muscle in his torso flex, and the effect is mouth-watering.
I steel myself and bend over his belly again, neck prickling with awareness of his eyes on me now. I don’t think I’ve ever been so self-conscious while inking another person before, but it hasn’t hit me until now that all I’m wearing is a snug black tank top and bright red boy shorts. I don’t even have on a bra, which is likely super evident considering my nipples are rock-hard.
The best part is that I’m genuinely having fun, and my self-consciousness over being such a wreck that I begged him to hold me in the middle of the night is the last thing on my mind.
I drag the tip of the marker down over the ridges of muscle near his navel and he chuckles, his belly quivering.
“Tickles a little,” he says.
“Almost done. I just need to do the bottom.” I reach for the puffy white pile of comforter draped across his hips so I can get to the last few inches of skin beneath his navel.
“Toni, wait . . .” Sam starts to sit up, but stops cold when I toss the covers aside and am faced with an erection so epic it casts a shadow long enough to tell time by. His shorts still cover it, but they’re so taut they leave virtually nothing to the imagination.
My cheeks heat and Sam slowly sits up, reaching for the covers. “You were not supposed to see that.” To his dick, he mutters, “Down, Hugo.”
I recover my senses and grab his wrist, staring into his eyes. “Now hold on, I think we need to have a little talk. This seems to be a recurring theme with you, getting worked up around me.” I swallow and drop my gaze to his hard-on again. “This isn’t like Leo the other night, is it? I mean, sometimes the vibrations of the tattoo machine cause a reaction, so it’s not unusual for a guy to get aroused from that, especially since I was tattooing that idiot’s pelvis. I get that. But this is the second time this has happened to you, and I wasn’t close to touching, um . . . Hugo.” I smirk and return my gaze to his.
Sam rolls his eyes and pulls his arm away from my grip, falling back onto his pillow. His cheeks are a deep pink, but he doesn’t avert his gaze. “It’s not a one-off, if that’s what you’re asking. You are pretty much the sexiest, most beautiful woman in the fucking world. It’s hard . . . um, difficult not to get turned on around you. Add actual contact, and all bets are off. I’m sorry.”
I widen my eyes and stare for a second, then realize my mouth has fallen open. My entire body heats with awareness of the implications of his confession. He’s turned on because of me. Me the morning after a breakdown with zero makeup and not a hairbrush in sight.
I know where the conversation should go right now. I should give him a lecture about maintaining the boundaries of a professional relationship. We fucking work together, after all. Hell, I just offered him a business partnership. Our friendship is one thing, but sex shouldn’t happen. I’m barely one step away from being his boss, so the power dynamic is far from ideal, not to mention the age difference.
But we’re also both adults, and my God, I’m so curious about what’s under his shorts I can taste it. I’ve had one glimpse of his assets while he wasn’t aroused, and so far two while he was, but he’s been concealed both times.
“Toni, just let me go take care of this. You can forget it happened,” he says in a defeated voice, moving to sit again.
But I press my hand to the center of his chest and push him back down. “Not a chance, honey,” I say, not quite sure where this newfound assertiveness came from. Or rather, where the old me has been hiding all this time. “Be still.”
I press the tip of the marker to his lower abdomen again and pick up where I left off, drawing a swirl of snaky vines around the feet of my hermit. The marker grazes over the ridge of his hip muscle and his erection visibly rises in his shorts. Holy fuck, it somehow managed to get even bigger.
“So . . . Hugo, huh? That’s an appropriate choice.”
“It doesn’t mean big, if that’s what you’re thinking. It means smart. It’s meant to be ironic. So are you deliberately trying to torture me now? Because it’s fucking working.”
I snicker. “Hugo’s the brains. I get it. Clever.”
“Hugo’s getting a beating if you ever let me go.”
“Now why would I do that? I need to finish this design first. And then I think since both you and Hugo were such gentlemen all day yesterday and all night, you deserve a reward.”
My entire body is humming from the surge of energy caused by the barely conscious decision I just made. It feels amazing to let these particular impulses take over for a change. Hell, it feels good to even have impulses that don’t involve seeking oblivion at the point of a sharp implement, and I’m not letting him go without having a little more fun.
“What reward?” he asks, his voice rough and his gaze hot.
I deliberately focus on the last few strokes of the vines, sitting back and examining them to make sure they’re symmetrical. Then I carefully replace the caps on both markers and lean over to set them on the nightstand.
I return to his side, knees perpendicular to his hip, and trace a finger along the happy trail beneath his navel, all the way to the elastic of his shorts. His stomach tightens and I glance up to see he’s holding his breath.
“You’ll see, but first I have one rule: What happens in Cancún stays in Cancún. Got it?”
12
Toni
“What exactly is going to happen in Cancún?” Sam asks.
“What’s going to happen is I’m going to set Hugo free and have a little fun with him. But only if both of you want me to. I think I know what Hugo’s answer is. What about you?”
“Fucking hell,” he blurts, his voice strained. “Yes, I want. I want it so fucking much.”
I hook the top of his shorts with one finger and lift the elastic away from his belly, tugging down just enough to trap the head of his cock underneath. I’m breathless, not quite believing what I’m doing, because this was the absolute last thing I expected to have happen while we were here.
But I can’t control myself anymore. My need to give him this has built up too much momentum, but it isn’t just about pleasing him, is it? It’s about validating myself. Proving that I really am the woman he evidently sees when he looks at me: sexy, beautiful, and desirable enough for him to get so hard he becomes incoherent.
Because that’s exactly what he is when I bend down and dart my tongue out to lick the crease at the tip of his cock. He emits a string of nonsense and starts to reach for me, but seems to think better of it, letting his fists fall to the bed and claw at the sheets.
I take my time, teasing my tongue in slow swipes up and down the underside of his tip, then wrap my lips around and gently suck. Sam groans and arches his back.
“Don’t fucking tease me, please.”
All too happy to oblige, I grasp the top of his shorts with both hands and drag down. He eagerly lifts his hips, then bends his long legs so I can tug his shorts off his feet.
Heart pounding, I sit back on my heels and stare at his exposed cock for a moment before reaching for him again. He’s big, which I knew already by the prominent bulge in his shorts a moment ago, but not only that—he’s thick. Much thicker at the base than the tip, with a throbbing vein running up the length that pulses with mesmerizing rhythm. I cu
p his balls at first, rolling them in my palm and watching him watch me.
“Tell me what you like.”
“Toni . . . that’s, ah . . . that’s easy. Your hands. Your mouth. Whatever you choose to do, I like.”
I bend over and lift his balls, then suck one into my mouth, laving it with my tongue. He’s salty and the fine hairs tickle my tongue. He spreads his thighs when I move to the other, and I feel a light touch on my hip.
Releasing him from my mouth, I look up. “Good?”
“Fuck yes. Can I touch you?” His hand is barely resting on the upper swell of my hip and he squeezes gently. I know he means touch me more—the way I’m touching him. I recognize the need and know full well where this could lead if I let it, but I’m not ready for that. This is just a fun morning interlude. Not a full-on romp.
A distraction.
I rest my hand atop his, and without a word I gently slide it down my backside, over my ass. His breathing quickens and so does mine, and I finally stop when his long fingers curl into the crease of my ass, fingertips pressed into the wet fabric covering my pussy.
“Just this. No more,” I whisper.
“What about this?” he asks, shifting his fingertips, then probing beneath my shorts until they slide directly against my wet, aching heat. I gasp and involuntarily clench.
“Yes, but . . . fuck . . . that’s my limit, okay? Your fingers.”
“I can work with that,” he says, sliding his fingers farther. He locates my clitoris with surprising precision and with one stroke has me gasping. The room spins and I lose track of my boundaries entirely for a moment, overwhelmed by the charge of pure pleasure his touch sends through me.
“Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers from my shorts just enough to allow me to regain my senses. The sentiment is tender, gentle, but also oddly proprietary. It leaves me with a strange sense of connectedness to him that I didn’t have a moment ago. I’m acutely aware that it’s no longer just me asserting power and granting him the favor of a morning blowjob, like a bonus for going above and beyond.