Page 65 of The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn
“I want to do that,” I whispered. “Close the book, I mean.”
Roman smiled gently. “You will, querida. You are. What you did today, that’s a chapter in the next one.”
I’d known he was bilingual; as a kid and now, I’d heard him speaking Spanish at the shop or around town with other Spanish speakers. His family is from Mexico, and he’s a first generation native-born citizen. I’ve known those facts about him as long as I’ve known him. But he’d never spoken Spanish with me before. I’d taken Spanish in high school and remembered thatqueridameant honey or sweetheart. He’d called me honey often since we’d started dating, but this sudden switch to the Spanish version felt significant.
I knew it was too soon. We’d been together only a matter of weeks. I’d been a widow less than two years. But the relief of the day, the contentment of this night, my growing feeling that I’d truly comehome, it all had my emotions in a sparkling swirl of light and color. And here was this beautiful, kind-hearted, patient man, holding me in his arms, sharing his deepest pain with me, understanding my own pain, and calling me sweetheart in the language of his family, wrapping the word in a low, rolling accent that wound around my heart.
It was too soon, I knew it was too soon, but I said, “I love you.”
He didn’t say it back, and I was glad. If he’d returned the sentiment right away, it would have felt reckless and wrong—weightless and too fast.
At first, he did nothing. He simply gazed at me, deeply. I gazed back, full of contentment and love ... and a touch of fear. Then he leaned down and kissed me.
He kissed me urgently, claiming my mouth as his own while his arms crushed me against him. In that fervor, I felt loved. It was too soon, but it was true. It was love. The books of our pasts were closed, and we stood together on the first pages of the next one.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and plunged my hands into his thick, dark curls, and I kissed him back, matching his intensity. When I moaned at the ferocious need charging through my center, he lifted me off my feet and carried me away from the sink.
I thought he’d head toward his bedroom, but he turned the other direction and instead set me down on his kitchen table.
Surprised, I pulled back a little, breaking our kiss so I could see his face.
He was grinning. “The first time we had sex, I told you I didn’t want to fuck you on the tableyet.”
I laughed. “But now ...”
He kicked a chair out of his way. “If you’re into it.”
I grabbed his shirt and started unbuttoning, exposing the fit expanse of his chest. “I’m into it.”
My answer erased the question, and with it went any hesitation between us. Fervor took over, and we ripped each other’s clothes off in a frenzy we’d not yet shared in sex. When we were both naked, our clothes and shoes tossed carelessly on the floor, Roman dived into me, burying his head between my breasts as he laid me back on the cool, polished pine of his table.
All I could do was wrap my arms around his head, my legs around his waist, and fall into the sensations of his body on mine. His mouth sucking, his teeth nibbling. His beard scratching, his hands clutching. His cock brushed and bounced against my thighs, my belly, and my core, teasing, promising
Every touch, every move pulled a cry from the deepest reaches of my chest and dragged me toward mindless need, until my body writhed and rocked, pleading with his for more. I bucked my hips, growing desperate.
His breath stuttered over my skin, his groans and grunts echoed mine, and I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Roman! Please!” I cried, and he laughed around the nipple caught between his teeth.
“What do you want, querida?” he asked, the question fluttering coolly over my overheated flesh.
“Fuck me. Fuck me so hard,” I gasped, feeling vague surprise at my own raunchiness.
He reached out and came back with a condom—when had he gotten a condom? I didn’t care. He tore the packet open with his teeth, rolled it on, grabbed himself with one hand, my hip with the other, and sank into me hard and fast, and so deeply I cried out again, loudly, at the explosive delight of his impact.
“Mygod, Leo. You are fire in my hands.”
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” I chanted, not caring that it was soon, that it was fast.
Roman wrapped me up tight and fucked me hard. So hard the table juddered noisily across the terracotta tiles of his kitchen floor until it banged against the wall. So hard we both grunted with each thrust, so hard I thought I might be bruised, deep inside, before we were done and couldn’t have cared less. So hard that brilliant, colorful flashes of light filled the darkness of my closed eyes. So hard that my orgasm burst wide and bright and everywhere, the finale of a fireworks show.
Roman came seconds after me, with a long, loud groan that shook our bodies and seemed to rise from the earth itself. Then we lay together in that awkward, sweaty tangle, his forehead on my shoulder, his feet still on the floor. I brushed my fingers through his damp curls, then smoothed my hands over his back, still heaving with his panting breath. I was replete. Perfectly sated, perfectly content. Any troubles I had were miles away.
He lifted his head and looked down at me, his dark eyes serious and a bit dazed. “I love you, too,” he whispered and kissed the tip of my nose.
Smiling, I brushed a fingertip over his bottom lip. “I like this new book.”
A grin spread across his face. “It’s an instant classic.”
ROMAN AND I SLEPT TOGETHERthat night for the first time, nested together like spoons.
