Page 122 of Deep In Love
“Come for me, bruja.”
The demand sends me over the edge, and I tumble into oblivion, riding the wave of ecstasy as far as I can. He continues to move inside me, his thrusts shallow and uneven as I tighten around him. He releases a shuddered breath before his head falls against my chest and he erupts into his own orgasm.
Labored breaths mix with the sounds of the waves crashing into the side of the vessel.
Mateo’s erection softens, and he pulls out, cleaning the both of us up the best he can before sliding my underwear back into place and pulling me against his chest.
His heartbeat pounds beneath my ear—a heavy drum with a steady beat.
“I love you, Charlie.”
His words are a declaration, but they’re also a balm over unhealed wounds.
When you have days where it’s hard to admire yourself, it feels impossible to believe someone else could desire what you find lacking. How could anyone love me if I don’t feel that way about myself?
That’s what everyone says. You need to learn to accept yourself before you can offer or accept love from someone else. While I believe there’s a sliver of truth in the phrase—it’s important to grow, to accept who you are, and find pride in yourself—I think they’re missing one crucial piece: It’s easier to believe in something when someone else also shares the belief. To have someone in yourcorner who says “I’ll love every part you’re still learning to accept, and I’ll hold your hand while you work through it.”
I’m not healed—far from it—but I know I wouldn’t be on the deck of a research vessel confessing my feelings if it wasn’t for Mateo’s unwavering confidence in me. I’ve stood on my own for a long time, learned how to operate in a world where I felt judged and examined, but in doing so, I lost pieces of myself along the way.
Over time, I regained a few, clawed and hustled for each one, but I was far from whole. I stopped hiding inside the house, but I was still hiding from the world. Covering my scars with clothing. Avoiding social interactions. Missing two years of flirtatious cues because I struggled to believe anyone could see who I am and decide what they saw was worthy.
The things I love most about you have nothing to do with your beauty.
His words have played in my mind every time I look in the mirror and question what reflects back. It’s knowing what he loves about me—wait a damn minute.
“Mateo?”
He hums, his thumb stroking against my thigh.
“When you found me crying after the comments on the video, what did you say to me?”
“That I wanted you to ride my cock?” There’s both a furrow between his brow and a subtle, cocky smile on his lips, like he’s confused by the question but proud of past Mateo.
“No,” I say, trying to fight a blush, “the other thing.”
“That the things I love most about you have nothing to do with your beauty?” I nod, and he adds, “I do think you’re beautiful. Is that what you’re getting at?”
Ugh. Dense man.
I wanted one thing. And it was to tell Mateo I love him first, and he still inadvertently managed to beat me to it. I want to laugh at the irony of it; I used to despise him because he alwaysbeat me, whether it was a better grade or a more prestigious paper submission, and here I am, once again beaten to the punch. It’s hard to be annoyed by it this time, though.
“Say the first half of that again.”
“The things I love most about you…Oh,Dios.”
His smile slips, before it blossoms into something extraordinary—a rare thing of astonishing beauty. His laugh is like melted honey, sweet and warm, as his head tips forward and a soft kiss is placed on my temple.
“I’ve never been able to keep my faculties around you. Hell, the first time we met I got so flustered by you, I tripped and spilled my wine all over your dress.”
I scramble to lean back so I can see his face. “What?”
He’s silent—contemplative—and his finger runs along my scar. Every time he touches it with such reverence, like now, it’s hard to keep the tears away. I’m not sure I’ll ever get comfortable with how openly he admires it.
“You were laughing with Cheryl when I was walking over to introduce myself, but when you spun to look at me, I was so shocked by your beauty, I faltered a step, which caused me to trip and spill my wine all over you.” He sighs deeply. “I felt so bad, but I couldn’t get my tongue to work—didn’t know what to say to you—so I panicked and ran away.”
When I reminisce about the day we met, it was always clouded by my annoyance at a lost dress and the embarrassment of being in the center of a scene when I wanted so badly to stay on the outskirts of a crowd. But beyond it all, he intrigued me, too.
Instead of leaning into the pull, I ran far away and put up as many mental shields as possible.
