Page 10 of Bit's Bliss
Trevino stood as close to me as he could without making physical contact. “I shouldn’t be here.”
I raised my chin. “Why not?”
He touched the side of my face with the tip of his finger. “When you don’t have makeup on, you look like a kid.”
I bristled.
His finger trailed down my neck. “You didn’t care for that.”
“Would you?” My voice shook, making me sound more like the kid he’d called me.
He leaned forward, and the warmth of his breath near my ear tickled. “I’m older than you are, so I can’t say it would bother me.” He took a deep breath. “I like that, by the way. A lot.”
My shoulders tightened. “That I look like a child?”
He leaned away slightly. “I said you look like a kid, not a child. And no, that isn’t it.”
“What, then?”
“You got mad at me.”
I shook my head, but when I tried to scoot around him, he bracketed me with his arms.
“The eggs will burn.”
He glanced over his shoulder and turned the heat off, then leaned into me so our bodies were flush.
“Why do you want me to be mad at you?” My voice had gone from shaky to breathy.
“I didn’t say that either. I said I liked it that you did.”
His hardness resting against my thighs pulsed when he lowered his hand to my bottom and squeezed.
While I’d thought about being with Trevino, it was never this way. What he was doing far exceeded my imagination. I shuddered when he squeezed a second time.
He brushed my lips with his but didn’t kiss me. “I shouldn’t be here,” he repeated.
I tensed when I heard another vehicle pulling in. “My dad’s home.”
Trevino took a step away, then relit the burner under the eggs. “Finish making breakfast.”
He was seated at the counter by the time my father came in. I still hadn’t moved.
“Hey, Trev,” my dad said to him before walking over to kiss my cheek. “What are you making?” he motioned to the stove.
“Breakfast tacos.”
“Yum. Too bad I already ate.”
I stopped myself from saying they weren’t for him anyway.
“Okay, kids, enjoy.”
Kids?God, I was beginning to hate the word.
I moved the eggs and chorizo around in the pan, lowered the heat, then sprinkled cheese on top. As I wrapped the tortillas in a damp paper towel and stuck them in the drawer microwave, I looked up at Trevino for the first time since my dad left the kitchen.
“What?” I said when his eyes scrunched.
