Page 66 of Interpreter

It does. It’s like our own language that no one understands.

“You’re so beautiful,” she says, her gaze fixed to my lips. She lowers her head and presses her breasts against me. “So beautiful….”

At that, I grip her hips and push her down on my cock. “Hang on to me.” Her grip tightens, and I put my hand back to her throat as she goes up and down on my cock. Our hands are at each other’s throats, both of us crumbling with each thrust until we fall into each other, sweaty and spent.

I pull back, admiring the flush of her face, her hand still around my throat. She strokes my jaw as if she’s doing the same. And then she places the softest of kisses on my lips and mouths, “Again.”

“Mami!”

Someone is shaking me more than they should this early in the morning. “Wake up, Mami. You have to see this.”

I rub at my eyes and zero in on the idiot sitting on my legs. “Have you been drinking Jäger again, Pe? I told you that stuff makes you crazy.” I push at my roommate. “Go back to your room and sleep it off.” I try bucking him off, but all he does is flip on the light.

“Mami!” he whisper-shouts in my ear. “Mr. Broody is in our kitchen!”

My eyes fly open, visions of the best sex I’ve ever had floating around in my head. “Our kitchen? The one we never use unless Marcus is over?”

Felipe nods. “Yes, that’s the one. Get up. You have to see him cooking.” Pe waggles his eyebrows, which don’t look that great this morning since he doesn’t have his face on. “He’s shirtless,” he adds all giddy. “And he has these back dimples—”

“Back off my man, Pe,” I say, shoving the overexcited fool. “You just celebrated your anniversary last night.”

Felipe gives me a look of horror. “Have I taught you nothing, little prude?” I blink, not understanding where this is going before he catches on and sighs. “Marcus is still here. Webothhave been eyeing those dimples. And get this! He’s making breakfast forallof us!” He shakes his head like he can’t believe it. “I don’t know who you sucked off at school to land him for a co-teacher, but they certainly deserve a Christmas card this year.”

Sitting up, I rub at my eyes, making sure there isn’t a wad of mascara sitting in the corner. “You didn’t say anything to him like—”

“Like you not getting laid since Céline’s last album or that you clogged up the drain trimming the beave yesterday?”

“I did not! That was you shaving your legs! I told you to try waxing. It lasts longer.”

Felipe laughs, wrapping me up in a bruising hug. “I’m so proud of you. You finally kept your crazy intact long enough for a man to make you breakfast.”

I narrow my eyes, focusing on the silk robe knotted at Pe’s bare chest. “I’m not going to miss you when I move,” I lie.

“Oh, you’re going to miss me. Now, hurry up and get your haggard ass out of bed so you can watch him stir the waffle batter. Spoiler alert: his ass barely jiggles. Tell Papi how firm it was in your hands….”

“Okay, that’s enough.” I push the crazy man off and drag the sheet with me.

“Ooh, you slept naked,” he notes as I try to find where the hell Tim tossed my clothes last night. Would it have been too much to ask for him to have folded and stacked them back on the dresser? The memory of him stuffing my underwear in his pocket comes flooding back to me. Yeah, that would have been too much to ask. The Tim I saw last night was a very different Tim. Quite possibly, the real Tim.

“Give me your robe,” I say, nodding at the silk number he doesn’t need. He has on silk pants. I’m the one naked here.

“No. Get something out of your closet.”

This diva….

“Do you want to see him stir the batter again or not?” Pe ponders my question and then mutters something about me being a diva, but he slides off the robe and hands it to me.

“I want to know all the details later,” he negotiates.

I nod in agreement, but I don’t plan on telling Pe shit. What went down in here last night will forever stay my and Tim’s memory. Except the soreness between my legs. That’s no memory.

Cinching the robe, I follow my nosy roommate out and into the kitchen where sure enough, Tim is shirtless in front of the waffle iron. His hair is disheveled—you can thank me for that—and his pants are unbuttoned, hanging dangerously low on his hips. “How hungry are you?” I whisper to Pe, who can’t seem to take his eyes off Tim, who is explaining to Marcus how you can’t overcook the waffle with fresh blueberries or it will dry out.

“Pretty hungry, why?”

I watch Tim explaining so thoroughly and Marcus nodding, soaking up every word. “Because I might want to break in the kitchen table we’ve never used.”

A slow grin stretches along Pe’s face. “Someone raised you right, girl.”

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