Private Acts (11 page)

“You feel incredible,” he whispered raggedly. “
Dime lo que quieres
.”

How could she tell him what she wanted when her brain cells had ceased to function over an hour ago? “Please, please,” she whispered.

She’d learned to say “give it to me harder” and all sorts of vulgar things in four languages, and yet with this man, she reverted back to senseless muttering in her mother tongue.

Samirah angled her pelvis up, taking him as deep as he could go. She tweaked her nipples, further heightening her arousal as she undulated her hips in time to his movements. His pace picked up as he watched her. She put on a show for him, massaging her breasts, moaning, ratcheting up the heat between them.

He muttered a flurry of Spanish and lowered his head to lick at her nipples in the spaces between her fingers—as if his tongue was jealous of her hands.

It was so decadent, so delicious to feel the contrast of sensations—the moist slip of his tongue and the pressure of her hands on her own breasts—that it triggered an explosion within her body, her inner muscles tightening around him like a fist.

He took advantage of her trembling body, raised her leg, and placed the sole of her foot flat against his chest. The scissorslike position provided deep, sensational penetration. Her hyper-sensitive body came alive again as he slipped in and out of her with rapid, urgent thrusts.

Shuddering contractions racked her body once more, and with an uttered groan he found his own release.

Chapter Ten

Samirah woke slowly. The veil of sleepiness eventually fell away and she remembered where she was. Her gaze traveled around what she could see of Miguel’s bedroom.

White walls with no pictures. White curtains. White dresser. No color anywhere, even on the bed where she lay under white sheets.

She lifted onto her elbow and peered over her shoulder at his sleeping form. Her breath hitched in her throat at his masculine beauty. He lay on his side, and his tousled, dark hair half covered one side of his face. Morning stubble shadowed his chin and jaw, adding a decidedly roguish look that added to his appeal. One muscular arm draped across her hip, and the sculpted lips that had kissed her so passionately last night appeared relaxed but just as tempting.

How to get away without waking him up?

Samirah eased toward the edge of the bed, using the smallest movements she could. Behind her she heard him grunt and turn. She halted, holding her breath. When she looked over her shoulder again, she saw he now lay sprawled on his back. His even breathing indicated he still slept.

Without him touching her, it made getting out of the bed easier, but she moved stealthily so as not to disturb him further. In front of the dresser, she assessed her appearance and grimaced. She had a passion mark above her right breast and on the inside of her right thigh. Faint bruises encircled her wrists from when he’d pinned her to the top of the car. She turned her back to the mirror and ran a fingertip over the reddish marks on her butt cheek left behind by his teeth.

What was left of her curls was flattened against one side of her head. She did what she could with her fingers before looking for her dress. It lay against the wall in a crumpled red heap.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Samirah bolted upright, clutching the dress in front of her. He looked across at her from a relaxed pose against the pillows. “Home.”

“Why?”

“I figured we were done here.”

He yawned, stretching. “It’s Saturday.”

“So?”

“It’s your day off.” He sat up in the bed.

“I can still go home.”

His eyes assessed her as she stood close to the wall, clutching her dress to her naked body as if it could protect her from him. “Come back to bed,” he said calmly.

“Does that work with other women? Because I don’t appreciate being spoken to like I’m a child.”

“Then stop acting like one. Get back in this bed.”

“Last night was good, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I just need to go home and…and…”

He simply had to let her go, because she needed to get home and figure out what the hell was happening to her. Why she felt so…vulnerable. As if she would fall apart at any minute. Vulnerability was a foreign emotion to her. She didn’t like it at all.

If she entered into an affair with Miguel, she knew she would never be whole again because whenever they ended their relationship, a piece of her would remain behind with him.

It wouldn’t be like when she lost her virginity to her brother’s bad boy frat brother who broke the rules: no sisters, ex-wives, baby mommas, or ex-girlfriends. It wouldn’t even be like when she
thought
she’d lost her heart to her boss at the restaurant in
Miami
.

With Miguel, she
knew
she would lose her heart. Such was the danger he presented—a danger she’d recognized when they met at Seth’s Bar only days ago. An affair with him wouldn’t be casual because she risked losing a part of herself.

He rose from the bed with graceful ease, unashamed in all his nakedness. “It’s Saturday. You owe me a meal, remember, for not telling your employers that you were using my pool without permission. And I’m looking forward to more of what we shared last night.” He continued to speak in a calm voice, as if he were telling her to stop at the store to get milk.

“I need to take a shower,” she mumbled as he prowled closer, pressing backward against the wall, hoping to disappear within it. “I—I need clean clothes. I need underwear.”

He reached her and electricity sizzled across the small space separating them. One hand came to rest on the wall above her head. His light blue eyes looked steadily down into her brown ones.

“You can take your shower here, and you can wear one of my shirts.” With his other hand, he reached up and eased the dress from her death grip and dropped it at their feet. “And don’t worry about underwear. You won’t be needing any today.” He scooped her up into his arms. “Time for your shower.”

Samirah looked into his eyes and brushed the dark, sleep-rumpled hair back from his forehead. Her stomach tightened, and she buried her face in his neck. How could she resist when he smelled good—like the morning air, good sex, and all man?

Whipped. That’s what she was—after one night. She was already in too deep, falling for him fast and hard. She knew it just as sure as she knew her own name. All she could do now was enjoy her time with him—with the understanding that her heart wouldn’t recover when it was time to let go.

* * * *

Hours later, Samirah descended the stairs in search of Miguel. She wore one of his long-sleeved, button-down shirts. After their shower together, they’d made love again. Then they took a nap, after which Miguel left her upstairs and returned thirty minutes later with a tray laden with a breakfast they ate together before tumbling once more into each other’s arms.

When she rolled out of bed, the clock said twenty minutes after twelve. She’d already called to check on
Geneva
and let her and Thomas know she was fine. They didn’t question her whereabouts but expressed their appreciation for checking in.

On the first floor, Samirah found the kitchen empty. She sauntered through the house, noting the same sterile décor as upstairs. White or gray everywhere and nothing on the walls. In the living room she stopped in front of a table displaying a few photographs. One in particular caught her eye. It was a picture of Miguel and a young boy of about eight or nine who bore a striking resemblance to him. The boy stood holding a baby crocodile up to the camera, and Miguel stood behind him, smiling. She recognized the spot as Bayside Marketplace in
Miami
. She even knew the vendor who people paid to take photos with his baby crocodile, snake, and iguanas.

Did Miguel have a son?

She realized she knew so little about him, and she wanted to know more.

Continuing her search, she found him in the back of the house. The entire length of the back half of it had been transformed into a large studio. Several unfinished sculptures were spaced throughout the room. She stood in the doorway, watching him work. Shirtless and wearing a pair of worn jeans, he sat hunched over a sculpture in relief, a raised image of one of Cuenca’s most famous buildings, the New Cathedral of Cuenca. Using sand paper, he smoothed the edges and used a fine brush to disperse the dust particles.

“Come in,” he called without looking up.

She entered. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He looked up at her, his gaze running down her body and settling on her exposed legs.

“You’re not disturbing me. I’m almost finished.” He returned to the task.

A rolling table with his tools sat within reach. She recognized a chisel, a wooden mallet, and a knife, but there were other sharp-looking instruments she didn’t know the names of. She guessed they were used to make more intricate cuts in the plaster for things like eyelashes.

The desire to reach for him filled her, to slide her hands across the smooth muscles of his back and trace the middle of his spine with the tip of her forefinger, maybe drop a tender kiss on his back. The affectionate gesture would no doubt be seen as too familiar—ridiculous considering everything they’d done to each other upstairs.

To take her mind off touching him, Samirah scrutinized the room further. Fifty-pound bags of plaster were stacked in a corner. There was also a sink for washing up and three buckets in a line against one wall.

She stepped over to a window and pulled aside the curtain to look out into the backyard and realized he might have been working in here when he saw her in the pool.

“Do you ever paint your sculptures?”

“Rarely. Most people want them just the way I create them, with no embellishments. If I did paint them, there’s more work involved. I have to seal the plaster first before I paint over it.”

 
“What are the buckets for?”

“To mix the plaster in with water.” She heard him roll back on the stool and she turned in his direction to see him go to the sink to wash his hands.

“How long does it take for the plaster to dry?”

“Once I slap it on the frame,” he said, drying his hands, “I leave it overnight to set.”

He reclaimed his seat. “Any more questions?” Amusement filled his eyes.

She saw an opportunity to learn more about him. Emboldened, Samirah went to him. He smiled up at her. She let her thumb trace the scar above his left eye. “How did you get this?”

The smile on his face vanished, and his fingers closed around her wrist. He held her gaze so long she thought he wouldn’t answer, and she feared she’d crossed some invisible line of demarcation.

“I was in a fight,” he finally said.

“It must have been some fight.”

“I barely remember it.”

She shook her head, determined to make him tell her. “I don’t believe you. I think you remember it very well.”

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.”