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My family won’t approve. I’ve been promised to another—an obnoxious jerk—without my permission, and all I want is to choose him.
Alejandro is who I want. I deserve to be happy.
And wearing him between my thighs does that. Feeling his lips on mine while my hips cradle his, gives me the sense of home and comfort I’ve been missing.
I cried out for more.
I never want to leave.
For once, I’m doing what my heart tells me and not following an order and I’ve never felt freer. Unbidden. Calm.
“Why him?” I ask myself, even though I know the answer. It’s been there all these years as I followed him through the media’s eyes. Through my father’s hatred. There’s always been something that draws me in and holds me captive.
That keeps me coming back.
I’m a stalker.
I’m weak.
I’m his.
My eyes close as the sight of him above me replays through my mind. How his lip curled and grip tightened. The way his cognac eyes never left mine as he marked my skin with his release and then kissed my lips.
Lost in my desire, my right hand travels down my stomach and lower, not stopping until the proof of his lust covers my fingertips. It’s a heady feeling and I shiver, his release and mine coating my labia, and I’m tempted to slip my slick finger inside.
To coat my walls with his essence, but I don’t.
Not like this.
Instead, I focus on the memory I want to relive again. And again.
I’m sensitive to the touch, and my clit trembles beneath my soft touch. My thighs tremble and core clenches.
So close.
Just one more—
“No. Not without him,” I hiss out, pulling my hand from between my thigh and slapping the white marble tile inside his shower. I’m sensitive and turned on but don’t want to come without him.
I need him.
“Then go find him.”
My heart thumps harshly inside my chest the moment I step into his kitchen. It beats at a fast cadence while goose bumps rise across my flesh, and the sight before me makes me want to pat my own back.
I rushed through my shower. I almost ran down the stairs.
This is my reward.
There’s something so sexy about a man that can cook.
Maybe it’s the fact he can take care of himself. Maybe it’s the sight of his arms, the thick cords of muscles rippling as he wields a knife against the chopping block while preparing a meal. Or maybe it’s the heat in Alejandro’s eyes when he says good morning after kissing my cheek.
He’s trouble and fire, and I’ll proudly dance inside those flames for him.
“Buenos dias.” It leaves me on a breathless whisper and his lips quirk up. Alejandro doesn’t hide his smirk, nor is he apologetic in his perusal of my body. From head to toe, hetakes in my lack of clothing choice with a spark of mischief in his eyes.
I’m wearing an old shirt I found in his dresser with nothing beneath; my dress would be uncomfortable, and my panties are drying in his bathroom after I hand-washed them. So with little choice in the matter, I opened his drawers and snooped a bit before grabbing an old, threadbare El Pibe jersey and slipping it on. It’s smaller in size than his other clothing and definitely from his youth but fits me loose with the hem falling just above my knee.
