Page 38 of A Coffee Away

“Remember that last piece. That one’s a keeper,” Esteban said from the kitchen as he prepared our usual energy blend to go.

We liked to walk, and the sun was merciless.

“I did, but you exaggerate.” I was closing the canvas bag when Esteban smacked my ass.

“Hey!” I yelped.

“What have I told you about talking shit about yourself? That’s a fucking masterpiece.” Esteban wrapped his arms around me from behind, then kissed my cheek.

It was a painting I finished the day we first had sex. A montage of my life. A mosaic of what made me who I was today. It had become Esteban’s favorite art piece, and I quote, “A perfect picture of who you truly are.”

Esteban let go and turned me around. His perfect dimples did things to me. He was an incredible lover with insatiable hunger, and I couldn’t be happier. He complemented me in ways I never imagined, and as days passed, he showed me more of his dominant side.

Esteban lived for my pleasure, and the things he did made me quiver in ecstasy. He was always there for me, and nothing happened unless I was ready for it. Each session made me dig deeper into who I truly was. The pleasure mixed with the pain he so beautifully gave woke my deepest desires.

I was happy to submit. My life was enough chaos as it was, and he made me forget all my troubles and face them in a way I never thought possible. He helped me delve into my darkness and find my way out of it.

Esteban kissed me, his tongue tenderly tasting my lower lip as he bit it.

I gasped and deepened the kiss.

He pulled me in, one hand locked on my lower back, the other gripping my ass. His rough morning stubble grazed my neck as he nipped my earlobe, eliciting a hungry moan from me.

He touched his brow to mine, panting. “God, I want to take you so hard but the meeting.”

I gripped him over his pants. “We can always reschedule.”

He covered my hand with his, then squeezed. He grunted, pushing against it so I could feel the hard evidence of his arousal.

My mouth watered, and I closed my eyes.

“We could, but who knows when Mr. Rodríguez will be free again.” He kissed my hand without taking his eyes off me. “Later?”

I nodded, my body burning with desire. “Later.”

Esteban let out a soft exhale, gave me a mind-blowing kiss, then stepped back and lifted the canvas bag from the floor. “Let’s go.”

I couldn’t wait for later.

“C’mon.” Esteban was already at the door, my canvas bag in one hand, his tumbler in the other. He pointed at the counter with his pinkie. “Don’t forget yours.”

I grabbed my tanned leather satchel, one he’d bought me last week in Old San Juan, and my juice and hurried out.

The art gallery always amazed me. White walls, marble floors, and vibrant colors surrounded us in stunning pieces. My heart raced at the thought that soon my art would adorn these walls.

Two of my coworkers were mopping the floors as we entered, getting everything ready for a local artist exhibition that focused on life as a Puerto Rican and our culture.

“Come right in!” An average-height man approached us. His gray jeans and black polo shirt made him seem younger than what Miguel had told me. He extended a hand toward me. “Mr. Fernández, a pleasure to meet you. Thanks for coming in on your free day.”

It was weird to be called by my last name. I shook his hand. “Please call me Robbie.”

He bowed comically. “Rodríguez at your service. You can call me Quique.” His gaze drifted toward Esteban. “You must be Mr. Miranda.” He offered his hand.

Esteban shook it. “Esteban. Nice to meet you at last.”

Quique took off his black beret and raked his dark-brown curls back before putting it on again. He had this typical artist look. Very down to earth. “Same here. Did you bring the rest of the pieces? Miguel is anxious to see them, as am I.”

“Here you go.” Esteban passed him the canvas bag.