“I must have you, like this, right now,” he said adamantly. “I am clean. Do you trust me?”
Of course I did. I wasn’t going to put a condom on him anyway. If I didn’t trust him by now then I shouldn’t be here. Thankfully, I was religious when it came to the pill.
“Yes,” I said, nearly begging. “Please come inside of me.”
With his hands planted on the rug on either side of me, his answer was a single thrust, going in deep, expanding me. I gasped and he slowly slid out. Then back in again. Then out. Taking his sweet, beautiful time. I stared down at him as he pushed in and out, with his slick cock and his white work shirt. I couldn’t keep my hands to myself. I started playing with my nub but soon my hand was replaced by his.
“That is my job,” he grunted, his fingers sliding back and forth between my clit and his cock.
Soon, his thrusts became faster and faster, and he was so adept at control, playing me just right, that I wasn’t coming until he was. Both of us cried out, moaning and jerking from the spasms, riding an endless wave that made my mouth gape open and my eyes roll back. When he began to slow, he remained inside of me, kissing my face gently and everywhere. My eyelids, my nose, my cheeks, my chin. Our breathing eventually returned to normal, but I didn’t want him to pull out yet. I wrapped my arms around his toned back and held him to me, his face in the crook of my neck.
I’d dreamed about having him like this again. It’s what kept me going on those nights where I felt alone and cold and unloved.
A tear rolled down my cheek.
I was finally home.
I awoke before the break of dawn, the world saturated in a grainy ink blue. After the night of sex—on the floor, on the couch, against the wall, in the bed, in the shower—I would have thought I’d sleep for days. But despite all the frenzied activity, I was wide awake, my internal clock all messed up thanks to jet lag. I stared down at Mateo sleeping soundly beside me, so tanned and dark against the cool white of the sheets. I could still hardly believe he was here.
I wanted to run my fingers over his nose, feel his soft lips, his solid jaw, his chin, his cheekbones, but I didn’t want to wake him. I was somewhat surprised at his stamina last night—I had been with guys my age who tuckered out after two vigorous sessions in the sack, let alone five. I wanted to wear Mateo out until he couldn’t possibly go on—that was my new goal.
I smiled to myself at that thought and slowly got out of bed. The light outside was already turning from ink to sky blue, and through the thin glass of the windows I could hear the birds chirping. The only thing this apartment was missing was a balcony. It would have been nice to start the day outside.
I slipped on my boy shorts and my t-shirt since we’d slept naked, and went out into the kitchen to make myself some coffee. He had a fancy espresso machine that would put my barista skills to good use, but I knew it would be messy and noisy. I rummaged through the cupboards, full of food that looked untouched, and finally found a container of instant coffee. While the kettle was heating up, I leaned against the counter and hugged my arms across my chest. The apartment was cool in the morning, which was good considering that Madrid was apparently going through a heat wave. I was so in and out yesterday that I barely had time to feel it.
I went through three cups of coffee, black, my heart being jumpstarted again and again, and just took in the look of my surroundings, my new home. It was going to take some getting used to, especially with jet lag. I know when I was in London, the first few days were spent in a fog and I had done stuff that, looking back now, I could barely remember. I wondered if I would look back at this exact moment and remember everything I was thinking, everything I was feeling: excited, nervous, hopeful, and scared.
Compared to yesterday though, I felt a lot better now that I was with Mateo. He made a lot of the fears go away, though there were still some dark worries lurking around in the back of my heart. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to fit in here—yes, I did well with the Spaniards at Las Palabras, but this was the city of Madrid, and in some ways a whole new game I knew nothing about.
I worried that his friends and family wouldn’t like me—while Lucia was darling, and according to her, her parents were accepting of me and Mateo, I didn’t know that for sure. As for his friends, I had absolutely no idea. His friends were all going to be in their mid to late thirties. What the hell were they going to think about me? I still liked to party, go out and get drunk, go to concerts where you got stale beer thrown in your face and people kicking you in the head from crowd-surfing. I wasn’t a martini-sipping in a fancy lounge, gossiping about boring shit kind of girl. I didn’t have children, or even a pet. I didn’t have a prestigious career or a well-paying job or a job in general. Fuck, I didn’t even speak Spanish.
And of course my biggest worry was the divorce itself and all that involved, particularly Chloe Ann. I was worried that the little girl would resent me for doing this to her, for taking her father away from her. I worried that Isabel and her semi-royal family would turn hateful and come after me for being the other woman, the villainous homewrecker. And more than anything, I worried that it would become too much for Mateo and I to carry on. We’d survived Las Palabras and seeing each other every day; we’d survived a long-distance relationship where we never saw each other, but this would be the final test. If we could survive my moving to Madrid and being with Mateo while all of this shit was whirling around us, then we could truly survive everything.
I just had no idea how things were going to pan out. I’d have to start living in the moment, not worrying too much about the future, or I’d go insane. I already made all the right steps—now it was time to see where they would lead.
Eventually Mateo came out of the bedroom, having slipped on his boxer briefs, and stood in the hallway, staring at me with sleepy eyes while scratching his bedhead. As usual, he skirted the line between sexy as hell manbeast and being absolutely adorable.
“I had the most wonderful dream,” he said with a yawn, padding over to me. “That you had come to live with me in Madrid. Now I see you in my kitchen, drinking my shitty coffee, and I have to ask…am I still dreaming?”
I grinned at him. I don’t know why I bothered with coffee when the mere sight of him made my heart turn into a rocket. “I may be dreaming too. Some things seem far too good to be true.”
He came and kissed me on the forehead. “I like you like this, my dream Estrella.” He walked over to the fridge and opened it, and I took a long moment to admire his ass. “You, in my kitchen, like a vision.”
“Well, I like you in the kitchen too. Especially when I’m up here,” I said, patting the counter with a wicked gleam in my eye. I jumped up so I was sitting on it, opened my legs, and gestured to my pussy. “And when you’re right here.” I expected him to laugh. I didn’t expect him to be interested right away, not after the night we had, but he closed the fridge door and strolled over to me, a smug look on his face.
“You want more?” he murmured, reaching for my underwear. I lifted my hips and he pulled them right down my legs. I kicked them off to the floor as he pulled his cock out of his briefs, already thick, hard and at attention.
I bit my lip, wondering how the fuck I got so lucky. “Of course I want more. What about you?”
“Vera,” he whispered feverishly, coming up against me, my legs around his hips, his hands in my hair. He gazed at my face, blinking as if in disbelief. “I can never get enough of you, ever. I could fuck you every day, several times a day, for the rest of my life, and I’ll still never get enough.” He kissed me, soft and wet, then slid a finger down into me. I gasped at the intrusion, immediately wanting more.