“I don’t want to stop,” I say, and I mean it. “I just…” My voice comes out rough. “Let me.”
She blinks, surprised, but she eases her hand back, resting it over my chest like she’s grounding me there. I slide mine down her thigh, fingers curling under the edge of her swimsuit bottoms. The heat of her hits me instantly, and my pulse kicks harder. She’s warm and wet and ready, and suddenly, I feel so ravenous, hungry for more.
I lean in, my forehead brushing hers. “You have no idea what you do to me,” I murmur. It’s not a line. It’s by far the truest thing I’ve said in a while.
Her lips part, but whatever she was going to say dissolves into a gasp when I touch her clit. I keep my eyes on her face, memorizing every flicker, how her lashes lower, her mouth goes soft and open, how she bites her lip like she’s trying to keep quiet but can’t manage it entirely.
“You need to be quiet, baby,” I whisper in her ear, and there’s a whole body shiver that runs through, head to toe. “Can I use my fingers?”
She nods.
Every shift of her hips against my hand pulls me deeper into her rhythm. I want to be inside her so badly it’s a physical ache, but there’s something about having her like this, falling apart under me with my fingers, that’s undoing me in a way I didn’t plan for.
“Are you going to come for me, pretty girl?” I kiss her forehead, her temple, and down her cheek until I get to the corner of her mouth, waiting there for her to give me more.
Her breath hitches, her nails curl into my shirt, and I feel her starting to lose control. I kiss her to muffle the sound, swallowing it like it’s mine to keep. She comes with a sharp, quiet gasp against my mouth, her whole body going tense before melting into me.
I pull back just enough to drag my fingers slowly past my lips, tasting her deliberately, letting her see me do it. Her eyes go wide, her chest still rising and falling in quick bursts. The flicker of want that flashes across her face nearly undoes me.
I should stop here. I should breathe, regroup, let her have this without taking more. Maybe drag her into my bed and keep her there, warm and boneless against me. But I’m too far gone to be able to do any of that. Watching her like that, feeling her like that, has me right on the edge.
I keep my hand at her hip, holding her close, while the rest of me tips over. No stroke or touch from her but the intensity of being here with her, the taste of her still on my tongue, the sound of her breathing unevenly in my ear. Heat slams through me, and I bury myself against her neck, biting back a groan as I come hard in my pants.
We stay tangled there, breathless. My heartbeat is in my ears, hers is under my palm. I press my mouth to her shoulder, not kissing but… lingering.
When I finally pull back enough to see her face, she’s smiling in this soft, almost shy way that kills me. Like she knows exactly what just happened but isn’t going to say it out loud.
“Connor,” she says, a breathless laugh threatening to come to the surface. “Did you…?”
“Worth it,” I answer, and it comes out like a vow.
17
MANUELA
THURSDAY
I sink deeperinto the lounger in the spa’s indoor pool area, the white fluffy robe puffed up under my neck, warm and heavy in a way that makes my eyelids dip. It’s nice and humid here, and it’s a perfect day to be inside since the weather turned and it cooled down compared to yesterday. Storm clouds threaten in the distance—dark gray and approaching fast, like they do in Tres Fuegos in the summer.
Somewhere behind me, the whirlpool churns steadily, and there’s the occasional splash from the indoor pool where a couple is laughing out loud and messing around, something about playing mermaids that has the woman giggling like a little girl.
The spa smells like eucalyptus and salt, I think? I don’t know what salt smells like, but this is what I imagine when someone says something has notes of Himalayan pink in it.
Nicole stretches beside me, her legs a perfect tan. “So, Manuela,” she says like she’s been waiting for this precise moment of perfect quiet to pounce. “What do you do in New York?”
The question shouldn’t make me nervous, but it does. I thought everyone knows I work with Elle, but I guess maybe they don’t know the details. And I know I’m already on edge—still replaying last night over and over, every glance and every too-long pause feeling more loaded in my head than it probably is—so her tone grates at me.
“Oh, I work with Elle at the agency,” I say, lifting one shoulder casually. “But we’re on different accounts.”
Elle smiles from across the circle of loungers. Her head is tilted back, and there are slices of cucumbers over each of her eyes. Really, if you were to look up “relaxed woman at overpriced spa,” this is what you would find.
“She’s underselling it,” she says, blindly going for her cup of lemon water on the side table next to her. “Manuela is the most requested strategist at the agency, and she fucking rocks.”
“Not true,” I protest.
Amelia leans in, her robe slipping off one shoulder. “It’s a little true, isn’t it? You practically run your accounts, especially since that fucking boss you guys have is a good-for-nothing asshole.”
I smile like it’s no big deal, but my stomach tightens. I’ve been pretending their praise still fits, that this job still fits, even as I keep replaying the email from my old boss in Buenos Aires asking if I’d ever consider coming back. I haven’t answered her. I’m not even sure why. Maybe because saying yes—or no—would make it real.
