His mouth set in a grim line, and then he rose abruptly from the chair to walk over to the same window she’d stared out of. Silence stretched between them for some time. “I was in a fight when I was twelve. A boy said something ugly about my mother. He called her a whore.”
Samirah gasped. “Why would he call her that?”
He laughed, but there was no amusement in it. “Because she was. She slept with men for money. It started after my father left us, and it continued for a long time until she figured out a better way to get the lifestyle she wanted.” The deadpan tone of voice didn’t fool Samirah. It hid a multitude of hurt. “It wasn’t the first time kids had said ugly things about my mother, but that day”—he shook his head—“that day, I’d had enough, and I decided I wouldn’t put up with it any longer. We fought, cheered on by a small group of kids in the neighborhood. When he realized he was losing, he smashed a bottle and came at me.”
Samirah lifted her hand to her mouth, horrified at what had happened to him.
“He cut me right here.” He fingered the scar. “The blood scared him and the other kids, and possibly saved my life. They ran off and left me there on the ground, with blood streaming down my face. An adult came along and took me to the hospital. The other boy never bothered me again. I guess it’s true what they say about standing up to bullies.”
Samirah padded over to him on the dusty floor. She wanted to wrap her arms around him. Instead, she said, “I’m so sorry.”
He looked down at her. “For what?”
“For what happened to you.” Her heart grieved for him.
“It happened a long time ago.”
“Yeah, I know. You barely remember it, right?”
He slipped his arm around her neck and drew her closer. “You ask too many questions.”
“And you don’t ask enough.”
“Will I ever get the last word with you?”
“No.”
He threw his head back and laughed. The sound warmed her insides and brought a smile to her lips, glad she could make him laugh despite the sadness of the tale he just shared. “Samirah, Samirah,” he said, rubbing her back. “You’re one of a kind.”
“True. I’ve never met anyone else like me.”
“In all the places you’ve been? I believe you said…what did you say? You’re a citizen of the world?”
“I am.”
“And where have you been?” He lowered his body to the window sill and rested his hands on her hips.
“Where haven’t I been would be easier to tell you.” She grew excited. She loved to talk about her travels. “I’ve been all over, but I’ve spent most of my time in Europe, Africa, and the Caribbean. This is only my second trip to South America. The first time I came for fun—a trip to Brazil for Carnival.”
“You travel from place to place on a whim?”
Samirah shrugged. “Sometimes it’s a short vacation, but most of the time, I have a job lined up before I go. It’s exciting. Sometimes I’ll go somewhere, without a job, and travel around until the money runs out. This world is so big. Why would you want to stay in the same place when you can go anywhere you want? There’s so much to see and do. I’ve run with the bulls in Pamplona, I’ve danced down the street in Rio’s Carnival, I’ve been to the top of the Eiffel Tour, and I’ve been to the dungeons of Goree Island. I’ve seen the Pyramids, and I visited Buckingham Palace. I’ve seen so much, and there’s still plenty I have to see. And in case you’re wondering, I speak four languages besides English.”
“I wasn’t,” he teased.
She ignored him. “French, Portuguese, Spanish, and Italian. My Arabic’s rudimentary, and right now almost nonexistent, but I could probably pick up the basics again if I had to. A friend got me a job on a military base in Kuwait a few years back, which I then turned into a gig in Dubai. That’s how I learned a little Arabic.”
“Do you ever want to stop and live somewhere permanently?”
Samirah trailed her fingers down the corded strength of his forearm. “One day,” she admitted quietly. “I’d like to own a restaurant.” Only her closest family knew about her dream.
“What kind of restaurant?”
“Caribbean-Latin fusion. A combination of the food I learned to cook from my mother and Latin food, which I love.”
“There are some common elements in the cuisine. I can see how a menu like that would work.”
Pleased he didn’t think her idea was silly or unrealistic, Samirah added, “One day, I’ll have it, and I’ll be my own boss. It’ll probably be in Miami, in a trendy part of town. If I could afford it, I’d love to have it on South Beach, where all the action is. I’ll be in control of the menu, and no one can dictate whether or not I have a job. I’ll make my own future.”
“You sound as if you’ve thought this through in detail.”
“I have. I keep a notebook with all of my ideas, and in a couple of years, I’ll do it. And the next time you’re visiting Miami, you can stop by and have a meal on the house.” A grin widened across her face.
Something shifted in his eyes. “I’ll take you up on that offer.”
“How often do you visit Miami?”
“Not often, but my mother and younger brother live there. My brother’s very young. My mother said he was unexpected.”
“You don’t believe her.”
His expression became guarded, as if he’d said too much. “My mother seldom does anything that doesn’t benefit her. My brother is only eleven. At the time of his birth, his father was seventy-five.”
“Is he the boy in the picture at Bayside Marketplace?” She remembered Geneva mentioned once that he had a little brother.
“Yes.”
“Do you—”
“No more questions.” He started to undo the buttons on the shirt. “How often can I see you?”
“My contract requires me to stay at the house during the week. But I’m free on the weekends, and I can see you on Karaoke Night.”
“It’s not enough, but it will have to do.”
When the buttons were all open, he pushed the shirt off her shoulders and drew her closer to latch his mouth onto her breast. His tongue stroked lazily around the circumference of her nipple, forcing her stomach muscles to tighten into a sharp twist of desire.
He palmed the smooth globes of her bottom. “I like you naked.”
“I like to be naked.”
So what if she’d broken her no man/no sex rule? It was her rule to break. She was hungry for him. There had been a power shift—one she’d never experienced before.
Samirah lowered to her knees on the hard floor. She wanted to taste him—every long, salty inch. When he recognized her intention, the bulge in his jeans grew larger, stretching the denim fabric to capacity.
She popped open the clasp and unzipped the jeans. At the sight of his magnificent erection, she kissed the tip. It twitched at the same time Miguel drew a sharp breath. With her eyes locked with his, Samirah dragged her tongue from the base to the tip and pulled him into her mouth.
* * * *
Miguel shoved his fingers into her hair, watching beneath lowered lids as her beautiful lips stretched around his wide shaft and she sucked him in farther. Deeper still, and he muttered an oath at the velvet strokes of her tongue and the warm suction of her mouth. Just when he thought he couldn’t experience any more pleasure, he felt the vibrations in the back of her throat.
His head hit the window pane, and he grabbed a handful of her hair. He tried to prolong the tumble into oblivion, but she was too good—a master with her hand and mouth. He ejaculated, pumping his hips through the agony of release.
When she’d sucked him dry, Miguel got shakily to his feet and dragged her with him. Gripped by an unfamiliar emotion, he kissed her, hard. He planted his large hands on her generous bottom and massaged until her knees weakened so the only thing holding her upright was his hold on her. He pulled her up against him, up onto her toes, and ground his hips into hers, letting her
feel how hard he was again. She shivered and grabbed his shoulders to maintain her balance.
“When you’re not at work, you’ll be with me.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. It wasn’t a request. It was a demand. He kissed her again, taking her acquiescence. With his hands beneath her hips, he lifted her higher until her legs coiled around his waist.
He’d had enough of work. There were more important things to tend to. He marched toward the staircase with her wrapped around him.
They spent the rest of the afternoon in bed.
Chapter Eleven
Miguel sat on the wheeled stool downstairs in his studio. With controlled movements, he tapped the mallet to the top of the chisel and began the process of forming a head out of the block of plaster.
Over the past month, he and Samirah spent every moment they could together. Their comfortable routine consisted of fixing breakfast together on Saturday morning and then making love. Afterward, he worked in the studio and she took off to the market to buy groceries for their weekend meals.
Saturday evenings, they ate dinner at his house, went to the movies, or rode the motorcycle into town to listen to music at Parque Calderon. On Sundays, they returned to the park to people watch. Families dominated then, picnicking or playing games. In fact, from time to time, Samirah would join in a game of soccer, and no one ever refused her. Who could?
He thought back to the time he took her to one of the neighboring towns to purchase souvenirs for her family. She ended up also purchasing the traditional colorful skirts of one of the chola women for herself. When they arrived back at his place, she put on the two skirts, layered over each other the way the women did.
“Look at the colors!” she’d exclaimed with a twirl. “They’re so pretty. I couldn’t wait to put them on.”
Before he could stop himself, he’d whispered they were nowhere near as beautiful as she. With a mischievous grin, she’d told him to show her just how beautiful he thought she was, and he’d chased her up the stairs, her laughter trailing backward to curl around him and tighten his chest. He could never grow tired of that laugh.
Then there was the time when they’d returned one Saturday night and she stripped out of her clothes and jumped into the pool, screeching at the cold temperature of the water. At first, he’d protested against her invitation to follow suit.
“Come on, Miguel, join me,” she’d insisted.
He couldn’t resist as he watched her. The moonlight bathed her skin and reflected off the dark surface of the water. Within minutes, he tore out of his clothes and joined her. And within minutes, their slippery wet bodies were joined together as she straddled him on a patio chair.
He even found himself reaching for her hand in public, kissing her in public. Doing things normally reserved for the private moments alone. Like on Karaoke Night, he waited for her at the back of the bar. When she descended the stage and made her way back to him, he would pull her into his arms and kiss her for everyone to see that she was his. If he was fortunate enough to find a seat, he made sure she sat on his lap all night.
He didn’t even know himself anymore. He was changing, engaging in activities he normally didn’t. If he wasn’t careful, she’d soon have him on stage singing, too.
The mallet connected with the chisel with force, and he knocked off a piece that was too big. He swore in frustration. He should stop because he couldn’t concentrate.
Miguel rose from the chair. She should be out of her shower already. Her trip to the market would have to be delayed today.
He left the studio and passed by the vase of flowers on the table in the living room. Every week when she went into town, Samirah brought back fresh flowers from the flower market. Over the sofa, she’d had him frame and hang one of the colorful fabrics purchased during a trip to a different town nearby.
When he walked into the bedroom, he could hear her off-key singing in the shower. He opened the door and went in, walking right up to the glass door before she noticed him.
“Hey, what are you doing in here?”
Smiling, he slid open the door. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t need any help.” He rested his shoulder against the enclosure, admiring the way the tiny streams of water raced down her back and over the curve of her pert bottom.
“You, señor, are not here to help, and if I needed any help, I would have called you.”
He could take her right now, he was so hard. Despite the amount of time they spent together, it never seemed to be enough. She came over every weekend, and after she went to the market for the Hills on Tuesdays and Thursdays, she spent time with him in the afternoon until she had to go back to the house to fix dinner.
Watching her leave every Sunday evening grew harder with each passing week. He wanted to demand that she remain with him. She was entrenched in his home, and that wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to be having a good time, enjoying each other for the short period she was in the country. But now he had a hard time imagining his life without her in it.
The intense nature of his thoughts shocked him. So much so he didn’t realize Samirah had turned off the shower and was drying off with a towel until she spoke.
“Hey, did I lose you?” She wrapped the towel around her body and hung the shower cap inside the stall. Walking right up to him with a grin on her face, she whispered, “Earth to Miguel.”
His heart pounded a fierce beat in his chest. Something was wrong here. Very wrong. “I’m fine. My mind wandered for a minute.” He kissed her upturned lips.
“Want to talk about it?”
The concern in her voice twisted through him. He wanted to reassure her, yet at the same time, he had to admit the problem that needed to be sorted out lay with him. Samirah was not the kind of woman he saw himself in a long term relationship with. Aside from the fact she would be leaving in a few weeks, he recognized that she could never truly be happy here.
How long would it be before she got bored and moved on? The memory of her words mocked him.
…a citizen of the world. Why would you want to stay in the same place when you can go anywhere you want?
His throat tightened to repress the emotion churning inside him. This casual affair suddenly didn’t seem so casual. “Everything’s fine.”
Skepticism filled her eyes. “If you want to talk, I’m all ears.” She moved into the bedroom. He watched her pick up a jar of lotion and dip in her fingers.
Talk. Right.
Talking solved nothing.
He first learned that lesson at the age of fifteen when his mother had decided to move to Colombia with her first “sponsor.” He had talked to her, told her he didn’t want to go. Her response had been to tell him he could come with her or stay there. He’d stayed behind. Fortunately, he was big for his age, and he found construction work to earn money. He’d slept on couches of friends and family before he finally earned enough to get a small place of his own.
His second lesson on talking came at the age of twenty when he fell in love with a senior at the university. He had met her through Esteban, and they’d been living together for a year when she told him she wanted to move to New York where she had family and hoped to find success with her art. By then, his sculptures were garnering national attention. He asked her to stay, promised to take care of her. She agreed and stayed for awhile, but eventually, she, too, left—seeking excitement elsewhere.
Samirah smoothed scented cream onto her arms. The towel dropped and she filled her hands with more lotion and rubbed it down over her full breasts, stroking over her stomach, firm butt, and then down to her thighs. She bent over in front of him to get her ankles and feet.
He walked up behind her in slow motion. Her provocative movements sent a charge through him. He’d never met a woman like her before, so confident in her sexuality, and yet with such a sweet disposition that people flocked to her in droves. Everyone in the neighborhood knew her. Her mastery of the Spanish language endeared her all the more to what he coul
d only call her legion of fans. Whenever she walked down the street, they waved and called out her name. He’d lived here for years and only knew a handful of his neighbors. If they knew he was a famous sculptor, they didn’t show it.
Her easy assimilation into the day-to-day of Ecuadorian life showed her respect for the culture and made it seem as if she belonged here. But she doesn’t, he thought. No matter how much it seemed she fit in, when her job was over, she would leave.
Samirah reached behind her with the container. “Would you do my back?”
He brushed her long hair over her shoulder out of the way and then took the jar. He smeared the fragrant substance between his palms and began to smooth it over her skin. The room became charged from the innocent but erotic motions.
“I want to take you somewhere before your contract is up,” he said, his voice already getting tight.
“Where?” she breathed.
“The Galapagos Islands.”
“I would love to go.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “When?”
“In a couple of weeks. How many days can you get off?”
“I don’t know. A few days, maybe.”
“You smell so good,” he muttered, temporarily distracted. “Your skin is so soft.” He lowered his lips to the back of her neck.
“This is what you really came up here for, isn’t it?” she whispered breathlessly.
His hand drifted across her stomach and pulled her closer. “Soy culpable,” he said, admitting his guilt.
She tipped her head back for his kiss. “I have an idea for how we can convince the Hills to give me the time off.”
“Tell me later,” Miguel said, turning her in his arms so she faced him. He cupped her face in his hands. “But I don’t want you to worry about a thing regarding the trip. This will be my gift to you.”
He lowered his head to indulge in an earth-shattering kiss before they fell onto the bed. With gentle kisses, he worked his way down her body. Her fingers encouraged him, tangling in the silken threads of his hair.
Private Acts Page 8