Page 82 of Cava with My Colleague

I trace my fingers along the strap, down to the edge of the cup, feeling goosebumps rise on her skin. When I look up, her eyes are dark with want.

“Carlos,” she says, and my name sounds like permission.

I kiss her collarbone, her shoulder, the swell of her breast above the fabric. She gasps, hands coming up to tangle in my hair, and I remember suddenly—vividly—what it felt like to have control over her like this. To make her gasp and arch and forget everything but what I was doing to her.

“Bed,” she says breathlessly. “Now.”

We tumble onto it together, a tangle of limbs and half-shed clothing. Her hands are everywhere—my chest, my back, my shoulders—mapping me like she’s memorizing coordinates.

“Is this okay?” I ask, pulling back to look at her.

“More than okay.” She hooks her leg around mine, pulling me closer. “Stop asking and just⁠—”

I kiss her hard enough to swallow whatever she was going to say. Her hips tilt up to meet mine and I groan, the friction almost too much after so long.

“Wait,” I manage. “I need—” I pull back, breathing hard. “It’s been so long. I need to . . . slow down.”

She’s flushed, her lips kiss-swollen, her hair a mess. “We can go slow.”

“Can we?”

“Well.” She grins up at me. “We can try.”

What follows is slow and fumbling and perfect. There’s laughter when I can’t figure out the clasp of her bra (apparently bras have evolved). There’s tenderness when she helps me out of my pants, kissing my hip bone as she does. There’s heat when I finally—finally—slide my hand between her thighs and touch her where she’s slippery and warm.

“Carlos,” she gasps. “Please.”

“Please what?” I’m up on one elbow, looking down at her, spread out in front of me. My other hand goes to her breast, fitting perfectly around it. Her nipple is hard and puckered against my skin.

“Make me come.”

I rest my forehead on her stomach, and she runs her fingers through my hair, stopping right at my hairline. She raises her knee, inviting, and I slowly slide two fingers inside of her.

What next? Insecurity hits me hard. All those years, and I’ve barely thought of moments like this. What am I even doing?

I kiss her soft stomach, which twitches. “Help me, cariño.”

“Deeper,” she says immediately. “Curl up. Right . . .”

She reaches down and adjusts me, resting my thumb on her mons and pressing the heel of my hand on her clit.

I press into her, feeling her body shift beneath me. I kiss my way over to her hip bone and her hands tighten in my hair.

“That’s—” She cuts herself off with a moan. “Right there.”

I focus all my attention on keeping that exact stroke. I want to make her moan just like that a thousand times.

And then she says, “God, Carlos,” and no, that’s what I want to hear a thousand times.

Her second hand joins the first in my hair, and I’m pressing her down as she writhes; my hand rolling her nipple, my forehead on her stomach, and my other hand, plunging deep inside her.

I’m achingly hard.

And then Jade snaps. Her body curls, flexes, and her cunt squeezes my fingers, pulsing. She’s saying my name over and over again: Carlos, Carlos, Carlos . . .

Once she relaxes back on the bed, I slip my fingers carefully out and stretch out next to her, propping my head up on my hand. We lie quietly for a moment, catching our breaths, until she looks over at me.

“Fifteen years, huh?”