Spanish Lessons (Study Abroad Book 1)

by Jessica Peterson

  “There,” Rafa pants, pulling back. He searches my eyes. “Is that the proof you need? I don’t want Maddie. I want you. Maddie is your friend, and so she is a friend of mine. I know she has shit going on with her family, and I’m trying to be there for her, trying to be a good friend. But that is all she is—a friend. Vivian, you are the one I want.”

  My heart is pounding. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear—that I am the one.

  I want to smile. I want to cry.

  Rafa is leaning in again, taking my bottom lip between his teeth, his mouth moving over my jaw, down the slope of my throat.

  “Tell me you don’t want me,” he says, his teeth nicking at the skin beneath my ear. He’s doing it again—reading my thoughts. “Tell me to stop, Vivian.”

  No way, I think. Not for all the sangria in Spain. I never want him to stop. Just this once, I want to feel what it’s like to be the star. The one. It’s so sweet, so poignant. So lovely.

  My desire liquefies as Rafa’s mouth moves over me. He somehow manages to be both careful and carnivorous at once. We move well together. There is no awkwardness, no sloppiness. Only urgency and need.

  The idea that we could be caught, that Rafa is having me against the wall of a bathroom at a discoteca, only intensifies the desire surging through me. It’s lewd, what we’re doing, and I love it.

  I want more.

  His mouth moves to my shoulder. His fingers glide down the skin there, curling around the tiny strap of my tank top. I dig my fingers into his hair, tugging at his curls.

  “Tell me to stop,” he repeats, his voice a murmur against my skin.

  “Don’t,” I breathe. “Please, Rafa, don’t stop.”

  He slips the strap over my shoulder, pulling it down, down, revealing the half moon of my breast that curves over my strapless bra.

  His fingers slip inside my bra. I suck in a breath when they brush against my nipple, coaxing it to a hard, tight point.

  I see stars. My pussy pulses.

  And then Rafa is ducking his head, using his fingers to prop my breast, swollen with need, above my bra. His mouth finds my nipple; he bites, tears at my skin, soothes with his tongue.

  The back of my head hits the wall.

  I’m coming apart. I’m in Rafa’s arms, exactly where I promised myself I would never be, and I am coming apart, helpless against the onslaught.

  Chapter 14

  Stars shoot across the depthless space behind my closed eyes. I arch against Rafa’s mouth, sensation spiking from my breast through my core. My hips circle against his, wanting, begging. I can’t believe I’m letting him to do this to me, here, now.

  I can’t believe how much I’m enjoying it.

  It’s excruciating, the desire I feel for him. I am never, ever going to get over this, but I let it happen anyway. The way I feel right now is worth it.

  His hands move down my body, caressing every curve, every inch of skin. His touch is exquisite. Slow. Possessive. His fingers trail over my hips, slipping to cup my behind. One hand slips lower, his fingers toying with the hem of my non-existent skirt.

  “I like this skirt,” he says. “You look fucking hot tonight. I never got to tell you.”

  I let out a breathy little laugh. “Thanks. I was hoping you’d notice.”

  “I always notice you,” he murmurs, pressing kisses onto my chest. “Only you.”

  Rafa’s fingers curl around the back of my thigh, high up; so high up his first finger brushes the lace of my thong. I am so sensitive, so swollen, I almost jump.

  He meets my gaze, straightening so that he towers over me.

  That finger digs a little deeper from behind, sliding underneath my underwear. His eyes darken when he finds the soft wetness hidden there.

  “Fucking hot,” he breathes. “Díos, mujer, estás mojada.” God, woman, you’re so wet.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m thinking I should have shaved, I should stop this, now, before we do something we’ll both regret. But even though this is lewd, even though it’s frank and it’s not at all what I should be doing, it’s also lovely. Good. Especially when Rafa whispers dirty Spanish nothings in my ear. Nothings that have, well, nothing to do with economics.

  Rafa grasps the back of my thigh, pulling up my leg. Of its own volition my knee bends, and Rafa guides my bent leg onto the edge of the sink. My skin stings a little from the contact with the cool porcelain. My skirt gathers around my waist, literally nonexistent. I’m bare to him, my legs spread wide; the air feels cool against me, even as I throb hotter at the shock, the indecency, of being so exposed.

  He doesn’t give me time to second guess what’s about to happen, to feel embarrassed. He hooks his first finger in the crotch of my thong and in one swift, sure movement, rips them off of me, the sound of rent fabric filling the space between us.

  Oh.my.god.

  “I liked those underwear,” I pant.

  “I didn’t,” he replies gruffly. “I like you better without them.”

  He holds me steady with one hand firmly on my ribs, his thumb plucking at my nipple. The other hand moves back up my thigh, his fingers creeping closer, closer, oh, I’m going to burst—

  He slides two fingers up the length of my slit, back to front, front to back. Slowly, exploring me, opening me to him. It feels so good it hurts. He’s watching me, taking in my reaction; seeing what I like, what I don’t. He’s so gentle. So sure. My heart swells and so does my pussy.

  He gathers moisture on the tip of his fingers and swirls them around my clitoris. Oh, oh, oh he’s good. I glide my hands up his chest, inside his blazer, holding onto his shoulders for dear life.

  “Muéstreme,” he whispers in my ear. Show me.

  He takes my arm by the wrist and brings my hand to where my legs meet. With any other guy I’d be too shy for this. But not with Rafa. I don’t know why. Maybe because I trust him; maybe he makes me feel worshipped.

  Beautiful.

  Whatever the reason, I want to show him. I trap his first finger between mine and I show him what I like. We both look down, watching our hands move over my body.

  He is a fast learner.

  Our fingers trace circles around the tip of my pussy, lazy at first. I feel the stirrings of a familiar tightening. Yes. Yes.

  Our fingers glide in and around each other. It feels so good that for a minute I think I’m going blind. I look up at him and he looks up, too, grinning, and then he’s kissing me, long, languid strokes that match our increasing rhythm. I know, in this fevered moment, that Rafa would be a fucking unbelievable lay. I wish it was Rafa between my legs and not our fingers. I wish he was inside me, our bodies sticking and sliding, sweaty, I wish I knew how he moved in the moment.

  I want to know how it feels with him. I want him to show me how it feels.

  I’m getting close, hurtling toward the edge with unstoppable speed. My legs have started to shake, the muscles pulling, grasping.

  I guide one of his fingers inside me.

  “Yes,” I whisper against his lips. “Just like that.”

  He bites the corner of my mouth. “You’re so little,” he says, the finger inside me exploring, tickling. “So perfect.”

  He’s moving inside me and I’m circling my clit, our fingers working in delicious tandem. The tightening spirals, deepens, devastates. I’m close. I’m right there.

  Rafa dips his head. I watch as he takes my nipple between his teeth.

  I cry out. It’s coming. I’m coming.

  “I have you,” he says, pressing his weight against me, ducking his head to kiss my neck. “Go, Vivian. Go.”

  His mouth moves back to my mouth, and he kisses me deeply, absorbing my cries as I get closer, closer, I really am blind—

  I arch against him as a burst of white hot heat moves through me. The release is violent, my body writhing in response; a surge of sensation that ricochets between my legs. I clench around Rafa’s finger inside me, a spasm I can’t control, and he makes a guttural sound, some
thing between a growl and a grunt of appreciation.

  In that moment, a sense of starry-edged clarity comes over me. I want Rafa. I want to feel this way again, and I want it to be with him. I want to hole up in a hotel room for a week with nothing but Rafa and a huge box of condoms for company. This is it. He is it. I am the one, and so is he.

  The throbbing reaches a crescendo, unbearable, the rush of blood in my ears deafening, and then it subsides, each beat a quieter echo of the one that came before it. I break the kiss, burying my head in Rafa’s chest. His button-down is damp with sweat. I can hear his heart, a thick, insistent sound.

  The clarity fades as my senses, prickly, unwelcome, flare back to life. Heady certainty is replaced by confusion. The sound of our labored breathing fills the room. I open my eyes. Rafa looks at me in wonder. In awe. I can’t believe what just happened, either.

  I look down and see myself practically spread-eagled around Rafa, our hands tangled between my legs. The salty smell of sex hangs between us. Rafa holds me against him, smoothing the hair away from my face with his free hand. He presses a kiss onto the top of my head.

  “You’re killing me,” I whimper.

  He laughs. “That is sort of the point. You know in French an orgasm is called the little death?”

  That’s not what I meant, I want to say. The way he kissed me in the heat of the moment was nothing to scoff at, sure. I loved every minute of it. But that tender little kiss he just gave me?

  Dear Lord. No one’s ever kissed me like that before.

  “That death was not so little,” I say.

  “Definitely not little,” he says, “from what I felt.”

  He gently pulls his finger out of me. I draw a sharp breath, wincing.

  Rafa’s eyes go dark. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m just going to be a little sore.”

  “Fuck.” He glides his hand, gently, around the back of my thigh. “Was I too rough?”

  The note of panic in his voice makes my heart clench.

  I meet his gaze. “You were just right. It’s been a while, that’s all.”

  “I was not doing the kidding when I said you were little. Really little,” he says, narrowing his eyes. He guides my leg off the sink, tugging my skirt back into place. I stand, the blood in my leg rushing back to painful life. “Vivian. Are you a virgin?”

  I look away. I had no shame about basically fingering myself in front of Rafa in a public restroom. But confessing that I’m almost twenty-one and still a virgin? Somehow that’s far more mortifying. I have no doubt Rafa has slept with a dozen—maybe even dozens—of women. You can tell just by looking at him that he’s one of those guys who lost his virginity at fourteen to his super hot older neighbor or something. From the way he touched me—confident, just the right amount of push, of give—I know he’s no novice. I feel childish, and a little ridiculous, in the face of his obvious sexual prowess.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say.

  “Hey,” he says, ducking his head to catch my attention. “Hey. Miráme, Vivian.” Look at me. “It matters very much. I don’t want to hurt you. We can go slow. I cannot keep my hands from you, Vivian. It makes me crazy, how much I want to touch you. But always I will be your gentleman.”

  I will be your gentleman. It sounds like something Richard Gere would say in an ‘80s military-themed rom com, doesn’t it?

  “I want to know you,” he continues. “Everything about you, I want to know. I’m not going to judge you. Whether you are virgin or you are not a virgin, it’s not going to make me like you any less.”

  I swallow. He likes me. Likes. That fun, fluttery kind of like. The kind of like I’m starting to think I feel for him, too.

  The kind of like I swore I’d only feel for a guy who would stick around.

  A guy who wouldn’t inevitably break my heart.

  “Why?” I ask, glancing at him from the corner of my eye. “Why do you like me?”

  Rafa shrugs. “I just do. I can’t stop it.”

  This blows my mind. For so long I thought I had to work for it—attention, affection. I realize now that I had to work my ass off to get Keith to notice me. Wear the right clothes, be at the right parties. Like has never come easy for me.

  But this—what Rafa feels for me—it just happened. Sure, in a way I made the first move by talking to him. But beyond that, I really didn’t do a thing. I certainly wasn’t trying the way I try back at Meryton. I’ve just been myself. My messy, slightly crazy self.

  And for some reason, Rafa’s really into that chick.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s finally happening for me. Only it’s happening with the wrong guy, and at the wrong time. I want forever, but Rafa can only give me five months—if that. Once those five months are up, I’m staring down the barrel of horrible heartache. A heartache that lasted more than a semester after I stopped hanging out with Keith. I don’t think I can go through that again.

  And then there’s Maddie. She told me point blank she likes Rafa. And like I said before, the girl really needs a win this semester.

  Finding out that the guy you like actually likes your best friend is definitely not a win.

  How am I going to tell her? I can’t be sneaking around behind her back like this, especially after I told her in no uncertain terms that I didn’t want Rafa; that there was nothing between us.

  It’s obvious now there is something between us. It’s big and it’s loud and it’s impossible to ignore.

  “Vivian,” Rafa says, his voice betraying his concern. “Talk to me.”

  I open my eyes. He searches them. His face falls. As always, he knows what I’m thinking. He pulls the strap of my tank top back onto my shoulder, shifting my breast into its bra cup.

  I open my mouth, ready to explain myself, explain why we can’t happen, when the pounding on the door returns. A guy shouts something; Rafa curses under his breath.

  “It’s the manager,” he says. “We need to go. Now.”

  Rafa grabs my hand and tugs me out of the bathroom, apologizing to the manager as we pass. He holds me close to his back, protecting me from curious eyes. We move through the bar, past the dance floor. It’s so crowded I have to cling to him to keep from getting lost. I am exhausted, suddenly. I’ve had too much to drink, done too many wonderful, stupid things tonight. I’m ready to go home, get a good night’s sleep so I can deal with the fallout tomorrow.

  We stumble outside, gulping at the mild morning air like we’ve been underwater. I dig my phone out of my purse; Maddie texted me, asking if I’m all right. She and the girls are going to get churros, do I want to join?

  Guilt settles like a stone in my stomach. Mads is a wonderful friend.

  I am not. I haven’t been since I lied to her about my feelings for Rafa.

  I text her back, telling her I’m tired and I’m heading home. I want to face her when we’re both sober, and we have the energy to deal with the things I’ve done.

  Rafa keeps moving down the sidewalk, slowing his pace when he glances at my heels.

  “Do they hurt?” he asks.

  “I mean, I can’t feel my pinkie toes. But as far as heels go, they’re not too bad. Why?”

  “We have a little walk to do. It is much easier, yes?, to find a taxi on Gran Via.”

  Even though it’s well past four o’clock in the morning, traffic chokes the six-lane behemoth that is Gran Via. We weave our way through the throngs that clog the sidewalk, dodging fragrant falafel kiosks and drunk, shouty people. It’s a total circus.

  Rafa hails a cab and holds the door open, sliding into the backseat beside me. My skirt rides up; Rafa catches the driver adjusting the rearview mirror to get a better look. Rafa tugs the tiny headband scrap back into place, casually draping an arm over my bare legs like we’ve been at this I’m-his-and-he’s-mine thing forever.

  I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t feel good. If I didn’t lean in, just a little, so that my body curls into the solid curve of his side. We fit s
o well together. We’d fit even better in bed.

  Not that that’s ever going to happen.

  I give the driver my address in surprisingly coherent Spanish, heading off any suggestion Rafa might make about us going home together. This—whatever this is—it can’t go any further. We were both dangerously close to losing control tonight. I can’t control myself around him. It’s all happening so fast. Too fast.

  “Se ha mejorando much tú español,” he says, turning his head to slay me with that smile of his. Your Spanish is getting much better.

  Even though I shouldn’t, I smile, too, and tell him—in Spanish—thank you, I have a very good teacher.

  I will teach you other things, he says, his eyes flashing with heat. Whatever you want to know, Vivian, I’ll teach you. I want to be the one to teach you.

  I imagine learning him, what his body feels like, its quirks, its corners. What it craves. Where it is most sensitive. How it fits into mine.

  I sigh, resting my head on Rafa’s shoulder. He curls his hand around my thigh, his thumb tracing an arc just above my knee. The tenderness of the gesture—the familiarity and possession it implies—makes my heart hurt.

  I want him to teach me, more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

  Except Maddie’s happiness. Her friendship.

  Except, maybe, the well-paid corporate future guaranteed by a good GPA and an Economics degree.

  Or maybe I don’t want that at all. I don’t know.

  As we speed through the nighttime swirl of Madrid, I think about my conversation with Rafa about Goya and Sorolla, our favorite Spanish painters. I think about the art class Rafa lobbied so hard for me to take; the class that has turned out to be my favorite this semester, hands down.

  I think about the way Neruda’s poem of longing sounded as Rafa read it out loud to me, the happy buzz his nearness—and the ice-cold beer—gave me.