by Mia Sosa
Most people might laugh off that fact, but in times like these I want my mother’s recipe in printed form and I want things like a quarter cup of oil—not eh, about this much, filha—to be reflected in it.
“Maybe you could try forcing her to do it your way. You know, show up one day with measuring cups and spoons and a notepad. When she says, ‘a little bit of this,’ you say, ‘show me using the cup.’ Then write every step down so you can work on it here.”
I tilt my head in his direction, envisioning how that would work. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. And maybe I could record her making a dish. Might be nice just to have it for posterity’s sake.” I briefly close my eyes, upset with myself for revealing how even the smallest things set me off. Max must be regretting this dinner as we speak. I wave my hands as though I can erase the last few minutes in one motion. “Anyway, enough about that. You didn’t come here to listen to me talk about this stuff.”
He turns his body sideways, placing his feet on the bottom rung of my stool, and then he gently turns my chin in his direction. I swivel my body to face him.
“I came here to spend time with you,” he says, “and if that means we talk about something that’s bothering you, then I don’t have a problem with that. Keeping it casual doesn’t mean I won’t care about you as a person. That would be impossible. And I suspect it would be impossible for you, too. I mean, I get the sense you don’t share what’s bugging you with just anyone.” He caresses the sides of my face and presses a kiss to my forehead. “So thank you for letting me be more than just anyone.”
Is it possible for your heart to expand in your chest? I don’t know enough about anatomy to say for sure. But it feels like my heart’s making room for Max to come inside even though I don’t want him there. Well, heart, we certainly can’t have any of that. Obviously we both need to be reminded why we’re here.
I take his hands in mine, lean forward, and kiss his neck, burying my nose in his skin and breathing him in deep. He smells like a mix of earth and citrus, as though an orange fell from a tree and someone plucked it up from the rich soil and packaged it on the spot. “The salad will keep, and the carrots can be reheated. Care to skip to the main attraction? I wore a skirt for the occasion.”
His eyes darken as he considers my invitation. “Dinner wasn’t the main attraction?”
Dinner can’t be the main attraction. That’s not what flings do. Rather than answer his question, I rise from the stool and tug on his hands. “Come with me.”
Max stands reluctantly, his gaze returning to the ruined pie on the stove. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. Whatever he was going to say is now tucked away, hidden behind the wicked curve of his lips. “You mean that literally, don’t you?”
I nod as I lead him to my bedroom. “I absolutely do.”
When we cross the threshold, Max says, “More throw pillows and candles, I see,” and he gets a slap on the ass for that one.
He turns to me and puts up a hand. “Listen, I know you’ve been dying to touch my ass, but you don’t need to pretend you’re doing it to punish me for making a valid observation about the state of your room.”
My gaze narrows on him. “I really hurt you when I mentioned Crate & Barrel, huh?”
He throws his hands over his chest and lifts his chin. “Maybe. It’s just that it’s where my mother shops, and I’ve always regarded her style as . . . nothing like mine.”
“Aww, I didn’t mean to make you self-conscious about it. Forget I said anything.” Without fanfare, I pull my short-sleeved top over my head and toss it behind me. “Will this help with the memory loss?”
I’m standing before him in a highly impractical powder-blue bra. The demi cups are good for absolutely nothing other than making my breasts look like they’re being presented on a platter. I call it my cosmetic harness, a scrap of material made solely to, one, enhance my cleavage, and two, be removed.
Max raises two fingers to his lips and takes a slow breath. “Who are you? Where am I? What year is it?”
I settle my hands on his chest and step forward, forcing him to retreat until the backs of his knees hit the bed and he drops onto it. I’m on him with the speed and dexterity of an Olympic athlete. Meanwhile, he fusses with the front clasp of my bra as though he’s performing the “Itsy Bitsy Spider.”
“Need help, partner?” I ask him.
He grits his teeth. “This is like picking a lock. Do you have a safety pin or something? Credit card, maybe?”
I slap his hand away. “Let me. Watch and learn. See, you need to flip the clasp outward and pull up.”
His mouth drops open. “Genius.”
I love that we’re comfortable together. I love that I don’t have to guess what he’s thinking. We just fit. There’s no artifice between us. We’re just two people enjoying each other—in bed and out.
He raises his hands. “May I?”
I nod and he slips his hands under the bra straps and slides it off.
“And these are beautiful,” he says.
“Go ahead. Touch them. You know you want to.”
He cups my breasts, the tips of his fingers ghosting over my skin as he fondles me. He looks up, observing my reaction. But my face can only tell part of the story. I’m shamelessly undulating on his thigh, unable to remain still. And I want to speed things up because I know what awaits me near the finish line. When his thumbs brush against my nipples, I fall forward, rocking into him.
“Can I get a condom?” I ask. “Please?” My voice is low and urgent. Needy as hell.
He nods, his mouth opening but not forming words.
I scramble off the bed and grab a packet from the bowl of condoms on the dresser. I toss it onto the bed, slip off my skirt and panties, and dive for his jeans. Max, my trusty assistant, unbuttons his shirt and slips it off well before I’m done.
“You’re fast,” I say, stepping back to give him room to discard his clothes.
“I’m impatient.”
He raises off the bed long enough to toe off his shoes and yank his jeans down, kicking both to the side of the bed. My gaze meets his when he puts his hand on his cock and strokes it—slowly. Oh God. My own personal sauna engulfs me, the heat originating inside me and spreading out to my arms, the backs of my knees, and the expanse of skin between my thighs. I’m unsteady on my feet and woozy in the brain. With shaky hands, I reach out to grasp the dresser behind me. He’s watching me intently as he touches himself, making it easy to imagine I’m the one bringing him pleasure.
Still watching me and stroking his erection, he slides his free hand out to the side and pats the bed until his fingers find the condom. He rips it open with his teeth, the intensity of the movement speaking for him, as if to say, This is what you do to me.
He rolls on the condom based on touch alone, his gaze never straying from my face. I stare at him as he sheaths himself, my lips parted to ensure I remember to breathe and my hands resting on the dresser for support.
“I wonder if you want me as much as I want you,” he says.
I don’t know the extent of his need. If it’s to a degree that muddles his brain and makes him ache everywhere, then the answer’s yes. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say I do.”
“Come here and take what you need, then.”
I straighten and walk toward the bed, holding out my hands when I’m close enough to reach his body. He threads his hands with mine and holds me up so I can straddle his thighs. I use my body to tease, grazing his cock as I center myself, until our bodies are aligned just so and I sink onto him.
“Max,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut and seeing spots.
We’re an exquisitely tight fit. For a few seconds I sit still, simply experiencing what it’s like to be stretched around him. Then I tighten my core and rise off him, reveling in the friction.
Max chokes out my name and grabs my ass, pumping up when I push down. “Can we just do this forever?”
My eyes pop open. Judging fr
om his wide-eyed gaze, I gather the question startled him, too. I grind faster, focusing on the tingling in my body rather than any thoughts threatening to take root in my untrustworthy brain. He trails his hands up my back, caressing my shoulders before tracing his fingers over my nipples again. His touch leaves tiny sparks in its wake that heighten the pulsing between my legs. It’s lazy and decadent and deliciously torturous. The faster I bounce the slower he moves, until he’s touching me at a glacial place, as if he means to show me that everything isn’t always within my control.
“I need to come,” I say in a breathless rush.
“And you will,” he says, his voice as ragged as mine. “Look at me, Lina.”
I drag my gaze from the spot over his shoulder back to his face, slowing down to focus on him. “I’m here.”
“Are you?” he asks. “Just let go of whatever you think should be the case and simply feel. I promise you, I’ll be right there with you.”
I could fall for him easily. Make a fool of myself with hearts in my eyes and glitter bursting from my chest. For so many reasons, Max shouldn’t be the one for me. And certainly not for the version of me I need to be. I’m trapped in a maze, unsure where to turn, but somewhere in the distance, Max’s voice calls out, and though I don’t know where that voice will take me, I follow it anyway. Simply feel? I can do that. Am I with him? Yes, I want to be. So I nod.
With a triumphant gleam in his eye, Max pulls my torso against him and buries his face against my breasts. We rock against each other for several minutes, our harsh breathing and the slapping of our thighs the only sounds in the room. I pull away, searching for his lips, and find his mouth as eager as mine.
Through it all, I ride him hard, and when we come up for air, he nuzzles my jaw, peppering it with kisses as he tries to gauge whether my orgasm is near. “Lina, baby . . . are you . . . close?”
“I am,” I manage to eke out.
And I can hardly keep my head up. The pleasure spiraling through my body is like an anchor, tethering me to this moment and leaving no room for anything else. “Max, I need your fingers.”
He growls against my ear and snakes his hand between us, his thumb grazing my clit.
“That’s it, yes,” I say, still rocking against him.
Max looks up at me, his heavy gaze and swollen lips broadcasting that he’s as tied up in knots for me as I am for him. “Squeeze around me, baby. Make it as tight as you can.” His voice is laced with need, which only heightens my own.
As I contract around him, Max’s fingers roam over me, until he finds a glorious angle that produces the right amount of friction against my clitoris. All I can do in response is bear down on him and say his name: “Max . . . Max . . . yes, right there, Max.”
“Christ,” he says, his voice tinged with awe. “I can’t believe we feel this good together, baby. How can you not want this over and over?”
I clench around him, trying to draw out the orgasm that’s just out of reach, building and building. When Max alters his approach, using his middle and index fingers to draw tight circles perfectly centered on my nub, all my nerve endings seem to fuse together into one continuous loop of pleasure that flows through me like billions of fireworks going off at the same time. Crying out his name, I shake and shudder and writhe, a mass of vibration and movement that I can’t control even if I wanted to.
I tremble for what seems like minutes, experiencing tiny aftershocks, and when I finally, just barely, regain my bearings, Max is shuddering against me, too, his arms pulling me into his tight embrace as he pumps into me. “Fuck, Lina. Yes, yes, fuck, yes, fuck.” He stills, and then he lets out a long groan and slumps backward.
When our hearts are no longer racing, I press a light kiss to his forehead and smile against it.
“What’s so amusing?” he asks, his warm breath teasing my neck.
“I was thinking we’re an eloquent pair. All the yeses and fucks are a testament to the true depth of our vocabulary.”
“Having range is important,” he says on a chuckle, “and anyway, our bodies are communicating like they’ve mastered their own language. I’m good with that. You?”
I mimic his words because I can’t do much more. “Yeah, I’m good with that, too.”
Now that I’m capable of stringing coherent thoughts together, I remember that the point of this “main attraction” was to remind us—well, mostly me—that we’re having a fling. But as I wrap my arms around him, I admit to myself that I came nowhere close to reaching my goal.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Max
Feeling Lina’s backside against my morning wood ranks as my favorite wake-up call ever. Drawn to the peachy scent in her hair, I place my arm on her waist, scoot closer, and breathe her in. She moans and snuggles into the new position.
I don’t know where we’re headed, or even if we’re headed anywhere at all, but I suppose the best approach is to take my own advice and not worry about what was or should be and concentrate on what is. Because I’m sleeping with the woman my brother almost married, and I have zero interest in changing my current status.
Lina stretches her arms and lets out a happy sigh.
“Good morning,” I say against her ear.
She reaches behind her and strokes my jaw. “Good morning back.” Then she lifts her head. “Ouch. Why is there a twig in the bed?”
“What?”
Frowning, she sits up and reaches under the covers, her hands searching for whatever’s distracted her. Until she grabs my dick. “Oh. Sorry. I mistook that for a twig. Thought I might have gotten something stuck on me when I was gardening. Never mind.”
With my mouth curved in amusement, I do nothing for several seconds—and then I pounce, wrestling her to the mattress as she screams and feigns outrage. Eventually I manage to pin her down and press my “twig” against the apex of her thighs.
Quite pleased with herself, she gives me a lopsided grin, her eyes bright with mischief.
“Are you ticklish?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Not at all.”
I watch her quietly as her eyes travel to a spot over my shoulder. That’s her lying gaze, and I won’t be fooled by it anymore. “Well, if that’s the case, then you won’t mind this.” Growling, I dive under the covers and tickle the backs of her legs and the sides of her waist. Lina yelps, bucking against me like a bronco and throwing me off her in seconds.
I lie back against the mattress and stare at the ceiling, a smile that even feels goofy plastered on my face. If it were up to me, we’d spend the day together, feeding off these good vibes. But it’s not up to just me, and Lina’s still skittish about our relationship. Maybe there’s a way to keep this day going without making her nervous. Knowing Lina, if her work figures into it, she’ll be game. “Let’s go to dinner tonight. At Blossom.” I turn on my side and catch the way her eyes widen at the suggestion. “The pitch is a little over two weeks away, so we should probably get started on figuring out how to feature the hotel restaurant.”
She sits up and tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, thanks for the reminder. The presentation should be our priority.” Letting out a heavy sigh, she rolls her eyes upward. “But I have tons to do today. Want to meet there?”
“I don’t mind picking you up.”
She shakes her head. “No, that’s okay. I’ll probably be near that side of town, so it’ll be easy for me to order a Lyft straight to Blossom.”
If that will make you feel better, sure. To her, I say, “That works. I need to run a few errands before then anyway.” I lean over and kiss her cheek. “I had a great time. I’ll use the bathroom and get out of your hair.”
I can’t say that I blame her for wanting to keep our relationship casual, but a part of me wonders why it requires so much effort on her part. This is me, trying to keep it casual. Why can’t she do the same? Maybe her need to distance herself is a symptom of the push and pull that brought us together in the first place. Maybe this is just us.
What I do know is that she’s fucking precious when she’s second-guessing me. Or am I second-guessing her? She could very well have a lot of shit to do today, and I’m just feeling unsure about my place in her life. Christ.
She drops her shoulders, probably surprised I’m not campaigning for more sex. “Oh. Okay, yeah. How about I make a reservation for six?”
I stand and stretch, yawning out the last of my sleepiness. “Perfect.”
What’s even more perfect? Keeping Lina off-balance. Because I don’t want to be in this alone. Welcome to the I’m-Into-You-and-Don’t-Know-What-to-Do-About-It Club, Ms. Santos. We’ve been expecting you.
* * *
“Welcome to Blossom, folks. My name is Camille and I’ll be your main server this evening. Have either of you dined with us before?”
Lina nods. “For lunch only, though. Looking forward to trying something else on the menu.”
Camille smiles. “Excellent. We’re glad to have you back. Just to explain to the gentleman here”—she turns in my direction—“any staff member on the floor can help you, whether it’s because you need more water or a utensil, or because I’m taking too long to bring the check.” She leans over and drops her voice to a whisper. “That last one never happens.”
A different server arrives to fill our water glasses and another places a basket of bread in the center of our table.
Camille hands us each a piece of delicate paper. “And this is our tasting menu. Very popular right now. Happy to answer your questions once you’ve had a chance to look it over. In the meantime, can I get you started on a cocktail?”
Lina orders a pomegranate martini. I order a Tom Collins.
When Camille’s gone, Lina leans forward as though she wants to tell me a secret. “I’ve been dying to try the martini. I saw it on the menu when I came for lunch, but I didn’t want to risk being tipsy during an afternoon appointment.”
“Well, now you can be tipsy with me. This should be fun.”
A smile dances on her lips as she opens the menu. I can’t stop looking at her. The simple dress she’s wearing hugs her curves, and its deep red color accentuates her glowing skin. Her hair falls to the side in ringlets, a gold barrette at her temple helping to hold some of it in place.