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Eager little fingers climb under my t-shirt, all grabby and pinchy. She’s totally feeling me up.
“Gahh, Olive. What you do to me,” I groan, brushing my lips down her neck.
She arches against me, panting softly. “More.”
Her hands slide around my waist, kneading my skin like I’m pizza dough and she’s craving stuffed crust with all the toppings.
My pulse drums, blood racing as I cup her chin to angle her just so—the perfect angle to devour her mouth. My teeth tug at her bottom lip, coaxing them open. She sucks in a breath, coming undone.
“More?” I rumble. “More what?”
“All of it,” she says thickly. “All of… this.”
“This?” I say, breathing hotly against her mouth. I graze my fingers down her shoulders, turning slow circles on the bare flesh just to the left of the thin strap of her shirt.
She shudders. “Guh, that’s… nice.”
“You like that?”
“Uh huh.”
My mouth moves down the column of her neck until I reach her collarbone. Pressing her into the counter, I kiss a trail across her shoulder, hooking a finger under that maddeningly thin strap. I slip it down, just an inch. Just enough to give my lips free rein of her delicious shoulder.
She makes a noise in the back of her throat. I love her little sounds. I love the way she feels under my hands. I love her scent. Warm, sweet spice, like gingerbread and… burnt tortillas?
Burnt tortillas!
“My huevos!”
“Your whaaat?”
“Eggs. Eggs.” I throw myself at the stove, shutting off the flame. Smoke gusts from the pan, charred fumes billowing all over the kitchen. I fan a towel to clear the air, but not soon enough to keep the smoke alarm from sounding. Olive swooshes her hands back and forth.
“I’m so sorry I ruined breakfast. I told you I was a bad cook.”
I laugh as the fire alarm stops beeping. Someone will barge into the kitchen any second now, so I steal a quiet kiss.
“You’re not a bad cook,” I say. “You're just a really hot kisser.”
* * *
We spend a lazy day doing virtually nothing. It’s glorious. Sebastian brought his Nintendo and several of us play Jackbox Games the entire afternoon, laughing our heads off when it’s obvious Dad or one of the uncles answers a question from the prompts. Abuelo even plays a round once he emerges from his room. The games require a smartphone or other device to play along, so he borrows Nate’s iPad and racks up quite a few points.
At dinner, Olive is introduced to the culinary masterpiece which is corn on the cob, Mexican style. Francesca is guiding her (AKA forcefully instructing her) how to prepare the corn her way. In other words, double the calories.
“Mayo and butter?” I say. “Francesca, that’s overdoing it.”
She cuts me a hard look. “Don’t judge me.”
Olive slathers on the butter and mayonnaise as instructed by my grease-loving sister, and cakes on a metric ton of parmesan cheese, also at the urging of Francesca.
“What are you two doing? It only needs a sprinkle.”
“Sprinkles are for losers,” says Francesca. “I say go big or go home.”
“Sounds about right to me,” Olive agrees.
Great. My own sister has turned my girlfriend against me.
