He slipped a finger inside her, probing and stretching her. He slipped in a second finger, and her tiny muscles clenched and quivered. He raised his head to stare at her. He reminded her of a photo she’d seen of a black jaguar interrupted mid-drink at the Amazon River, amber eyes glittering, mouth glistening. Trapped in his savage gaze, she shivered.
Then he smiled and the savageness melted away. “You like that, don’t you?” His fingers slid even deeper, pressing against a particularly sensitive spot. She ground her hips against him. “Marco, please! I want you inside me.”
“Not yet.” He bent his head and swirled his tongue around and around her aching bud. Her legs quivered from straining against the fine linen bonds. His mouth lapped at her, hot and wet, coaxing every drop of response from her that she had to give. Just as she couldn’t bear the buildup of sensation, he darted his tongue inside her, giving her tiny muscles something to clench on. The dam broke and an exquisite flood washed over her, leaving her limp and drained.
She heaved a sigh of contentment and raised an eyebrow. “I enjoyed the lesson on naughty Cuban slang, but it seems one-sided. There has to be a nickname for the penis.”
He gave her a wicked smile. “Of course there is. I saved that lesson for last. Pepino is a nickname for the penis, but it really means ‘cucumber.’”
“That makes sense.”
“I know you love to eat cucumbers.” He stood and slowly pushed down his briefs. His erection sprang free, almost touching his tight abs. Desire coiled between her thighs again. He was so sexy it almost hurt to look at him. What would she do when he was gone? She decided to play it cool. “You do, hmm? How do you know that?” She wiggled into her nest of pillows.
“You love to eat my pepino.” He straddled her belly, rubbing his penis between her breasts. If she tipped her head, she could suck him deep into her mouth just as in the sauna.
“Marco!” She blushed but couldn’t deny it. His erection had made her mouth water from the first time she’d seen him strip off his briefs and pose for her.
“And I found something in your refrigerator that gave me an idea.” To her utter disappointment he swung off her.
“What? Whipped cream? Jelly? Honey?” Maybe he’d play with her breasts some more.
He lifted a cloth napkin. “A pepino.” A whole hot-house cucumber lay on the tray, long and thick. Its smooth, waxy, green skin glistened in the candlelight.
“Marco, I’m really not hungry anymore. And it’s not even peeled and sliced.”
“But I did wash it.” He admired the vegetable, turning it around in his hand. “Sad to say, my pepino is not this big.”
“You’d have trouble walking. That thing is almost a foot long.”
“It’s easy to see the comparison. Long and thick but smooth with a rounded tip, meant for gliding in and out of a woman’s body.” He hefted the cucumber.
“Marco, are you talking about you or the cucumber?” She shivered as he traced the outline of her nipples with the icy vegetable. He dragged it down the center of her belly until it rested right above her mound.
“Both.” He grinned up at her.
“Both?” she squeaked. He couldn’t mean what she thought he meant.
“Sí.” He parted her lower lips with his thumb and forefinger. “Dios mío,” he said in mock concern. “Your papaya is all pink and swollen. Was I too rough?”
She grew even more swollen as he petted her moist flesh. “No,” she whimpered.
“Are you sure? I can see you getting even pinker just lying here. Let me check.” He slipped one finger inside her and she spasmed around him. He withdrew his finger and spread her juices over her clitoris. “I couldn’t tell with just one finger. I’d better try again.” He wiggled two fingers inside her, stretching her.
Her hands clutched at empty air, straining against their bonds. “Stop teasing me.”
“Do you ache?”
She nodded, aching badly for him.
“I think you need something cool and soothing.” He pulled his fingers out of her and rubbed the cucumber against her throbbing cleft.
“Marco!” Her eyes flew open. “That’s cold.”
He stopped immediately and she moaned. “Touch me more.”
Leaning over to nibble her neck, he whispered, “First, this pepino. If you’re still hungry afterward, I’ll let you eat my pepino.”
“Don’t you want to push your cock inside me and come?” She had a brief victory when his erection jerked and left a damp trail against her thigh, but he shook his head.
“You want to try this, I can tell. It’s long and thick and smooth,” he cajoled, twisting the cucumber against the rim of her passage.
“I don’t know about this.”
He pulled it back abruptly. “This is the only pepino you’re going to get.”
She sucked in a deep breath and glared at him. She couldn’t even kick him out of her bed and finish by herself.
“Tell me what you want.” He was relentless, nudging her clitoris with tiny rhythmic strokes. Her feverish body heat was starting to warm the cucumber’s tip.
“Yes,” she muttered.
“What?” he asked, slipping in the cucumber an inch or so. She gasped as her tiny muscles clenched around it. He pulled it out, waiting for her answer.
She gritted her teeth. “Yes, all right, damn it. Give me the pepino.”
He thrust it inside her. Cold filling her heat. Totally stretching her swollen tissues. She arched her back off the bed and screamed in pleasure. “Oh, my God, Marco!”
He slowly pulled it out again, making her whimper in frustration, then wiggled it into her, inch by agonizing inch.
He slowly rotated the cucumber deep inside her, filling her harder and thicker than she’d ever had before. She writhed against her linen bonds, the silky duvet slipping against her back and bottom.
“Are you close?”
She nodded, her breath searing her throat in large gasps as she shut her eyes.
“Good. Let’s take you all the way there.” He bent his head and sucked her clitoris hard into his mouth. The hot, wet suction of his mouth and the cold, hard pressure of the cucumber against her vagina sparked bursts of colors. Mango-orange, papaya-pink and cucumber-green swirled on the black canvas of her closed eyelids, pulling her into a world of uncontrolled chromatic overload where she was the painting and Marco was the artist.
As she blinked to clear her vision, he lifted his gleaming mouth. She moaned in frustration as he eased the cucumber out of her still-pulsing sheath.
“Don’t worry, querida. We’re not done yet.”
She sighed with relief as he pushed inside her. After the vegetable’s chill, his bare cock was blazing hot.
She saw him grit his teeth as she contracted around him. He muttered in Spanish as he thrust in and out of her, his chest rubbing her fruit-sticky breasts. Already sensitized from her first two orgasms, her innermost muscles tightened as the pressure from his penis rubbed against her clitoris and his balls slapped her wet flesh. She squirmed against her bonds, wanting more, wanting to touch him as he came.
He paused for a second and freed her wrists and ankles. Rey immediately threw her legs onto his shoulders, gasping as his cock penetrated even deeper into her throbbing flesh.
“Tócate, tócate,” he said with a groan. “Touch yourself, mi amor.” His hair-roughened chest abraded the backs of her thighs as he increased his tempo.
She slipped her hand between their sweat-slicked bodies, her fingertips stroking him as he pushed in and out of her. Her index finger found the swollen nub between them and circled it, first slowly, than quickly as the tension built. “Oh, Marco,” she crooned, cupping her breast in her other hand. “Taste me.”
He bent his head and nipped the tip of her breast. The silken thread of desire connecting her nipple and her vagina snapped, and she came again, arching as she feverishly caressed herself.
He threw back his head with a loud groan, the tendons in his neck s
tanding out like steel cords. He thrust deep into her wet depths. “Oh, Reina, I love you, I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She held him close as he slumped onto her, his heavy body pinning her to the fruit-stained coverlet.
They lay together in the cozy nest of her bed for several minutes. Rey stroked his head, the short black hairs tickling her fingers.
He finally raised his head and smiled at her. “Sweetheart.” He tried to roll off her and they both yelped.
“I think I lost a few chest hairs.” He examined her breasts. The streaks of mango pulp had hardened to the consistency of rubber cement.
She sat up and rubbed her own chest as he flopped onto the bed. “It feels like I peeled my breasts off a Naughahyde couch in summertime.”
“Have you ever done that?”
“Done what?” She glanced over her shoulder at him.
He leered at her. “Had to peel your lush, naked tits off sweaty vinyl furniture?”
She laughed. “No, Marco, I’ve never had to do that.”
“Too bad. My mother has this poolside lounge chair that would be perfect. You put on a sexy black bikini and lie down while I rub lotion all over you.” He moved behind her and caressed her back with long, sweeping strokes.
“Ooh, I get it. I’ve always wanted to play Rich Tourist and Cabana Boy.”
He purposely deepened his Cuban accent. “You don’t want to get tan lines, señorita. Shall I gallantly untie your bikini top?”
“Marco, I’ve never tanned dark enough to even get a tan line. And where’s my piña colada?”
“Shh.” He pinched her bottom and she yelped. “This is my fantasy. So I untie your bikini bottom and begin smoothing lotion over your fantastic ass.” He pushed her gently to her stomach, caressing her bottom. She wiggled a little, opening her legs wider.
“As you lie naked and glistening on the lounge chair, I cannot contain my desire any longer.”
She tipped her head back in pleasure, but her long hair snarled on the drying fruit juices on his hands. “Ouch! Time to go wash off this fruit salad.”
He heaved a disgruntled sigh. “Poor cabana boy. I bet she forgets to tip him, too.”
She cupped her breasts, pressing them together. “When I come back, you can show me how a horny blond foreigner might please a Cuban cabana boy.” She licked her lips slowly, enjoying how his pupils dilated sharply, only a narrow rim of gold surrounding the black. “Is Cuban-style on the drink menu?”
He growled deep in his throat and reached for her, but she scrambled off the bed, laughing. “I have to get this fruit off my skin before it dries permanently.”
“You just wait, Reina. We’ll go lie by my mother’s pool in Miami and I’ll make you come screaming on that lounge chair.”
She trotted into the bathroom. “Only if you serve me a piña colada.”
“I’ll serve you plenty,” he called after her.
She stood under the hot spray of water and scrubbed at the mango with her shower puff and creamy jasmine body wash. Turning off the water, she slipped into her pink robe and heard him rattling around in the kitchen. “Still hungry?” she teased.
“Just being a good cabana boy and clearing away the dishes.” He came around the corner wearing the dark blue robe. She’d have to buy a new robe for her next model since she’d never be able to let anyone else wear it. “There’s fruit on the sheets though.”
“I’ll change them while you wash off.” She pushed him toward the shower. “Later we can play Cabana Boy in the sauna. No vinyl furniture but plenty of heat.”
“Excellent.” He stepped into the bathroom, where she heard him humming a tune from the salsa club.
She went to her small linen closet for a new set of sheets and found Marco’s open bag sitting in front of it, stuffed to the gills with clothes. Everything was neatly rolled and folded, as if he had packed for a long trip instead of an overnight stay at her loft.
His dark, reckless mood made sense now. He was planning to leave her, probably first thing tomorrow or even as soon as it got dark.
Well, she wasn’t going to lie weeping alone on her chaise, wondering if he was alive or dead. Whatever happened, she would be with him. She grabbed her own suitcase from under her bed and tossed in underwear and long johns.
She heard Marco come out of the bathroom behind her. “Reina, what are you doing?”
She fisted her hands on her hips and turned to glare at him. “Packing to come with you. Do I need winter clothes or summer clothes?”
19
MARCO’S FRESHLY SHAVED jaw dropped. “Come with me? Ay, Dios mío, are you loca? You can’t come with me!”
“If that means am I crazy, then no, I’m not crazy. But I am coming with you, wherever you go.” Rey pulled some turtlenecks from her drawer and shoved them into her bag.
“No! I absolutely forbid it.” His accent had thickened with emotion and he yanked her bag away from her.
“Forbid it?” She pointed at the table linens still dangling from her bedposts. “You’ll have to tie me up with those napkins again to keep me here.”
Marco tossed her bag into a corner. “Don’t tempt me! It’s too dangerous to be with me anymore. Rodríguez would take pleasure in your suffering because it would make me suffer, as well.”
She crossed her arms over her breasts. “You know I’m not safe here, either. What am I supposed to do if he tracks you here and finds me alone? Stab him with my chisel?”
“I don’t know!” He paced across the floor, the robe flapping around his legs. “Go to Meg’s apartment. Go travel with your parents overseas. Just let me go alone.”
“No.” She caught him midstep, wrapping her arms around his chest. “Did you mean what you said about spending the rest of your life with me?”
He sighed, pulling her close and nuzzling her damp hair. “It may not be a very long life, querida.”
“Whatever happens, we’ll be together.” She settled into his embrace with relief.
“I’ll do my best to protect both of us.” He clasped her shoulders and stared at her, his hazel eyes fierce. “But you must do everything I tell you.”
She nodded eagerly. “I will.”
“I mean it.” He shook her gently. “If I tell you to run away and leave me, you have to obey me. I lived with these savages for over a year. I know what they are capable of.”
“I could never leave you, Marco….”
He interrupted her with an angry shout. “Promise me or I will tie you up and leave you here!”
She shivered. Her previous romantic notions of dark, dangerous men were very silly now that they were faced with real danger. “Where will we go?”
He thought hard. “We’ll go south through Indiana and swing up into Michigan. There are dozens of small towns and back roads there.”
“And if we carry my old skis and ice skates, we’ll look like winter tourists.”
“Good idea.” He quickly dressed. “I need to get that car. You have an hour to get ready.”
“Be careful.” She clung to him, his muscles rock-hard from tension.
“I will. Pack warm, but pack light. And make sure your loft is shut down tight. We may not be back for a long while.” He bundled himself up and stepped into the dazzling sunshine.
She locked the door behind him and ran into her bedroom, retrieving her bag. She dressed and braided her hair, then quickly packed a couple pairs of jeans, long underwear, some turtlenecks and her heaviest wool sweater. She found an extra-large sweater and tossed it in for Marco. Those stylish cashmere knits he wore would be no match for the cold north woods.
She tossed the bag near the door. Forty-five minutes left. She stuffed her sketches of Marco into a mailing tube and addressed them to her agent. At this point she didn’t care when or even if Evelyn got them. Nothing else mattered but keeping Marco safe.
Rey looked around the loft to make sure all her appliances and heaters were turned off. A wistful smile crossed her face as she saw the oil
painting of Marco sitting on her easel.
She’d painted him nude, lying on the chaise longue where they’d first made love. The hard lines of his bronze body gleamed from the soft swath of white cloth. But her painting wasn’t quite finished, her expensive brushes crusting over with drying oil paints. She checked the clock. Half an hour. It would only take five minutes to clean her brushes. Painting in oils gave wonderfully luminous color, but the cleanup was messy and required turpentine or other smelly solvents.
She opened the metal can of paint thinner. There was only a dab at the bottom, not enough to clean her brushes, since it had been several months since she last painted in oil. Setting that can aside, she unscrewed the cap of the turpentine container. The fumes blasted out, burning the inside of her nose. Oh, well. It was either turpentine or risk ruining hundreds of dollars worth of brushes. And when she came back she probably wouldn’t have any money to replace them.
The buzzer sounded. She wasn’t expecting anyone but Marco, but just to be on the safe side, she pressed the intercom button. “Marco?”
“Sí, querida.” His voice was muffled from that scarf he always wore outdoors.
She smiled. She’d learned from Marco that querida meant darling. He used it often. She dashed over to the door and yanked it open.
“Señorita Freya Martinson.” An older man stood on the stoop, swaddled in an exorbitantly expensive cashmere coat. He had a thick fur hat pulled low on his brow, and his jaw and neck were wrapped in a fine wool scarf.
She tried to slam the door closed, but he shouldered his way inside the loft.
“Get out!” She ran for her phone to call 911. He easily cut off her escape route, shoving her toward her easel.
“I see I have found the right place.” He pulled off his hat and scarf, revealing a neatly trimmed head of salt-and-pepper hair. His face was lined but still handsome in a craggy way. He surveyed the contents of her loft, stopping when he saw the painting of Marco. “Your current project?”
“If you leave now, I won’t call the cops. I don’t have any money or drugs here.” She tried to bluff him.
Her Body of Work Page 18