It doesn’t matter if she thinks she loved him. She knows the truth deep down about who he was. In this moment, it’smyfingers inside her. My thumb rubbing her clit, like the strum of a guitar, as her moans become the symphony.
“This is my pussy,” I growl.
She pants loudly as I thrust my hand into her.
Thrust
“My.”
Thrust
“Fucking.”
Thrust
“Pussy.”
“You like this, Kitten. You like the way my fingers are tearing through you. Tell me how much you like it.”
“God. Oh my God,” she says through a choked moan.
The smell of her sweet pussy fills the room alongside the unintelligible sounds of pleasure falling from her lips.
Using my hand like it’s my cock, I increase the rhythm and speed, slamming into her until she’s trembling. I pinch her clit, and she clamps down around me, head falling back as her orgasm rips through her.
I turn her toward me, needing to see her face. The afterglow. The evidence. She doesn’t hate me. Not even close. I’ll let her lie for pride’s sake, but we both know better.
We were made for each other.
I free my dick from the confinement of my sweats. It’s red and angry, the need too much to bear. Pumping hard, I watch her body tremble from her own release. The air hums between us as I groan, my release hitting sharp and fast. Strings of white fly from the tip and cover her swollen pussy.
For a heartbeat, there’s only breathing—hers shuddering, mine uneven. The world narrows to the pulse still echoing through our bodies. Then her eyes lift to mine, dazed and shining, the moment splintering as reality slides back in.
“This means nothing,” she says, voice rough, the words slicing through what’s left of the moment.
I almost smile. “Keep telling yourself that, Kitten.”
Chapter 17
Alma
PAST
Freshman Year
Before Esteban’s Death
It’s early when Don Cheetos wakes me. I like to think it’s his way of telling me happy birthday. Staring at the door, I wait for Mom to start her yearly tradition.
I miss the way she’d bust through the door and singLas Mañanitasin her raspy voice I loved so much. It was never a cake in her hand though—she never had the patience to make a whole cake. Instead, she’d carry in a stack of pancakes, decorated with blueberries, whipped cream, and three candles. One for love, another for good fortune, and the last for anything my heart desired.
My eyes water at the thought of my last birthday when I wished for her to live forever. She was my person, my home, and I knew the day she left this world how lonely I’d be. My eyes swell at the memory of her, that ache in my heart returning. I’m not sure it will ever go away. I snuggle Don Cheetos and hum the tune to myself.“Esas son las mañanitas que cantaba El rey David.”
I lay there, letting my emotions have their place. The songtapers off in my throat, and I wipe my eyes. Don Cheetos jumps from the bed as I swing my feet to the floor.
Slipping into my cheetah print slippers, I make my way to the kitchen and pull out a mug. There are no pancakes. No wishes to be made and no one singing. Only goosebumps embrace me as I walk into the cold kitchen.
“Good you’re up. Make me my fucking coffee,” Nan calls from the living room.
