I don’t look away, and I doubt I can even if I wanted to. Her breath ghosts over my lips, and my heart is still beating fast from the kiss I barely survived. She is still wrecking me without even touching me. I avoided this because I knew how this would feel if I had her. Just one kiss and I’m a goner.
So I give her what she wants. I tell her my first truth when I say, “I have wanted to do that since the day at the diner.” I kiss the tip of her nose before pulling back, so she can see the sincerity in my words. “When you bent down to pick up that red crayon—” Now it’s my turn to shudder at the memory. “I imagined a very different scenario of you on your knees, but it was of me thrusting my hard, weeping cock between those pretty heart-shaped lips of yours.” She smiles at my choice of words, giving me the courage to continue. “I hated myself for wanting you,” I readily admit, averting my gaze downward. “For being recently divorced and having those thoughts, so I tried to push you away,” I finish, ashamed of my feelings.
She frowns at the recollection, and it guts me. I have to change the narrative to make her understand that maybe this was inevitable. It was written somewhere in the stars before we met. Kismet, if you will. Meant to fucking be. Because I’ve never wanted anything the way I want her.
Not just the way I want to sink into her, lose myself in her body. I want everything, and the possibility of something so much more. I lean closer, my voice rough, almost begging, as I continue to make her understand my predicament and my intentions.
“I don’t want to fight it anymore. I don’t want to be that asshole to you ever again. I swear it, Nadia. Never again. I won’t lie to myself, and I won’t lie to you. So believe me when I say that I do want you.”
“I want you, too,” she says, pulling me back down to plant a hard kiss on my lips. I ease up, skimming mine down her cheekin feather-light pecks as I place my lips back on her neck, lightly sucking on the spot where her earlobe rests against her soft skin. I lick my way down the hollow of her neck and back up in one long heated stroke of desire. I brush my lips back again one last time against her ear before tugging on her lobe with my teeth, eliciting the sound of her groan that will stay with me for the rest of the day. God, how I wanted to hear those same sounds with her writhing beneath me as I thrust into her over and over.
But I want to make her understand my meaning. “I don’t just want you in my bed, Nadia,” I say, pulling her to me and letting her feel the outline of my rigid cock against her. “I want you here in this houseandin my bed.”
I hear her gasp, obviously remembering the time I told her I don’t take women to bed here. That’s why I feel the need to get my point across. I want her to understand that this arrangement would be different and mean something to me becausesheis beginning to mean something to me. She is the exception, and I want to ensure I drive the point home. I need her to know that, but most of all, I need her to feel it.
Our lips brush against each other in a slow, hungry kiss, but then a noise startles us. We jolt apart like teenagers caught doing something we shouldn’t. We are both breathing hard, forgetting why she’s even at my house in the first place. I snatch the lunch box up with one hand and try to rearrange myself with the other, desperate to think of anything that might kill my throbbing cock still standing painfully erect between my legs. But it doesn’t work. Not even close. I look over to Nadia, who spares me a sympathetic glance. My eyes narrow as she attempts to stifle her laugh.
“Papá,” my little girl calls out to me. Yeah, that will do it. I go into dad mode.
“Yes, mijita?” I hide behind the counter, and Nadia is standing there shocked as I try to hide my cock that is deflating, albeit at a slower pace than I would like. Nadia must hear the strain in my voice as she looks downward while I rearrange myself again, so she takes that as her cue to shuffle my daughter out of eyesight and into her bedroom. She says something I can’t hear, but it must make Catalina happy, because she squeals in delight, returning toher room easily. Nadia closes the door behind her and walks over to me.
“She’s getting dressed now,” she says, breathless, not from the words, but from how close we just came to being caught by my daughter.
“I was going to make us breakfast and take a little trip to the park before heading to my house.” I watch her. Watch the way her tongue peeks out to wet her lips nervously. “Is that okay?” she asks, uncertainty in her words.
My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Yes, give me the address, and I’ll meet you there to pick her up so you don’t have to drive back here.” A smile spreads across her face, her demeanor now light and relieved, and fuck, if it doesn’t hit me straight in the chest, knowing that I’m the reason for it. I feel like the luckiest man on earth, just with the worst case of blue balls.
I notice her watching me, before I forget to tell her, “Oh, by the way, I have a meeting today after work. I’m meeting a client at the tavern to review a proposal. It won’t be long, and I’m not eating there.” I save dinner time for my family and eat with Catalina at home. I don’t add that, but I realize how lonely it is. “Is that okay?” She searches my eyes, and I see that she relaxes.
“Yeah, sure,” she answers, but I notice the hesitation flicker across her face before she lets it go. Then, a second later, and a little braver, as if she makes a decision, she offers, “I can make dinner if you want to come by.” The way she says it, almost like she’s scared I’ll say no, makes me want to kiss her all over again to reassure her. She backtracks, misinterpreting my hesitation. “It will be late when you get her home, so I thought…” She trails off and looks away.
So I put her mind at ease. “I’d love that.” Her smile broadens. I retrieve my lunch box, which is now on the counter, as I walk toward the door, getting ready to leave for my day.
“Bye, mija,” I yell out, as I hear Catalina shout her goodbyes to me from behind closed doors. As I approach the front door of my house, a hand reaches out toward me, making me halt in my retreat. I turn my head to look down at the woman whom I had kissed so thoroughly just a minute ago. Her pink lips are still swollen, and her cheeks remain flushed. She must recall the same memory as shelifts onto her toes to press a simple kiss to my lips.
“Have a great day at work, Manny,” she says, and my mouth drops open in disbelief, shutting it quickly before schooling my features. Did I say that shit out loud in the kitchen? I scan my memory of the events that transpired as I think back quickly, and when I see her face, I notice that she isn’t smiling at me knowingly but meaningfully, like she is wholeheartedly wishing me a good day at work. And just like that, something in me cracks. I let out this shaky breath and manage a smile back, feeling like the dumbest, happiest fucker alive.
One sentence and I’m lit up inside, buzzing like a live wire. I release my breath and smile back, feeling like a lovestruck fool eager for affection, and maybe I am. I head out, still grinning like one. As I drive away from the house, I begin thinking that perhaps this could be it. This could be the thing I didn’t even know I was looking for. Hearing those words was like a cure for an illness I’ve been fighting, giving me a lift I didn’t realize I needed so badly. I’ve had my share of bad breaks with the worst possible partner. More so now, from being a single parent. I sometimes think God must have a sick sense of humor, but hell, maybe not this time. Maybe He finally threw me a fucking bone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
She bursts out of her bedroom, sparkling from head to toe, like she is caught in the aftermath of a glitter bomb explosion. She carries her tiny backpack, bouncing at her side, which speaks of adventures and map searching, reminding me of Dora the Explorer. Her hot pink t-shirt with butterflies shimmers with sparkles, echoing the vibe of her jeweled hair band, which tames her wild, ebony curls.
“I’m ready, Ms. Nadia!” she declares proudly, preening, as she shuts the door behind her and drifts into the open area.
I call out, turning from the stove. “Hey, place your backpack by the door, kiddo, and come sit up here so I can give you your breakfast.” I pluck the English muffin from the toaster and plate it. I place the little spatula under the egg, which iscooked perfectly in the little egg pan I found discarded in one of the kitchen drawers. I top it off with a slice of cheese, and gently remove it from the pan, serving it into a golden, ooey-gooey sandwich.
“I love it when you make me these egg sandwiches, Ms. Nadia,” Catalina says, her voice light and carefree. God, how I wish I was a child again. She licks her lips before taking a hearty bite, and the yellow egg yolk drips down her hand. Without hesitation, she lifts it to her mouth and licks the remaining egg, laughing. It’s infectious and I can’t help but join her. My heart swells as she eagerly asks me for another sandwich, thoroughly enjoying her breakfast.
Once, this simple meal had been a favorite of mine, but since my parents’ passing, I haven’t dared to make it again. The last time I tried this at the lake house, it stirred up such painful memories that I failed miserably, deciding to abandon the attempt halfway through. But this time feels different because I made it for Catalina. Somehow, spending time with her makes the ache in my chest begin to lessen. She reminds me of family, and I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s from how something begins to repair itself on its own. Each small act of kindness or laughter she graces me with when I take care of her stitches my broken heart back together. I miss my mom and dad fiercely, yet performing a role as her caregiver makes me feel good, and I enjoy it more than I thought I would.
I savor the last bites of my avocado toast as I gather up our plates, rinsing them off as Catalina, with a victorious grin, pops the final bite of her second sandwich into her mouth.
“Come on, pickles.” I grab her hand in mine and lead us to the bathroom to brush our teeth before we go.
I hand her her bright pink toothbrush and begin to sense a pattern here. She carefully squeezes a neat line of toothpaste onto the soft bristles, her brows furrowing in concentration. As I start brushing my teeth, the monotonous sound fills the quiet space, and when I feel her gaze settle on me, I can tell there’s a question she wants to ask. I can sense it in the way she hesitates, so I lift my chin in a silent invitation, letting her know to ask away.
She stares at me in the mirror. “Ms. Nadia, why do you call me pickles?” she asks, her toothbrush suspended mid-air as she awaits my reply. I spit the last of the minty foam, rinse thoroughly, andpat my face, smiling into the towel as I ponder her question. I meet her gaze in the mirror, and with a small motion of my hand for her to keep brushing, she complies, and I take a moment to slip my toothbrush back into the little cosmetic bag I carry everywhere.
