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Yet there isn’t anything.
“Must be a mistake.” It’s the only plausible explanation because no one is stupid enough to send me flowers that symbolize death or new beginnings. Because the two are tied together.
For every death, there is a birth.
For every ending, there’s a start awaiting the chance to commence.
I close the door and take the flowers with me to the kitchen where I turn the oven off, pour another glass of wine, and sit while my food cools off a bit. And while I wait, I watch the flowers.
They’re not helping my earlier thoughts. It’s the opposite. They further unsettle me.
Who left them outside my door? Why?
Maybe a neighbor lost a family member? I know the lady three doors down has an elderly mother, but still, while the flowers themselves are beautiful, the meaning isn’t loving or comforting.
So while I eat, I stare at them. While I wash my dishes and set them on the mat to dry, I stare at them. They don’t leave my line of sight through my fourth glass of wine, and I’m so lost in my thoughts that when the ringer chimes, I jump in my seat.
At once I jump down from my barstool and rush to the door, not caring about my lack of clothing or the untamed mass of curls—the two long spirals that continually fall over my right eye now that it’s dry.
It’s one of the reasons I never leave my hair in its natural state. Too untamed. Wild.
“Should’ve straightened—” My whining is interrupted by three quick raps against my door, and I flick my eyes to the clock on the wall. Jesus, how did I lose two hours? It’s late. A little past nine-thirty, and I pull the door open in hopes of catching...
“Fuck, Muñeca.”
***
13
SHE’S TRYING TO kill me.
Destroy what little patience I have left, and before the threadbare cord snaps, I’m on her, pushing her back and slamming the door closed with my foot. The loud sound makes her jump, but my lips swallow the delicious gasp.
“Motherfuck, baby. You drive me insane.” The bag with dessert is somewhere on the floor, the thud barely registering as my arms bring her closer. “Need to feel you. Taste you.”
She’s nodding against my mouth while her chest rubs against mine, the two stiff peaks and their piercings making me shiver. The feel of her makes me forget what I came to talk to her about. It makes me forget the little punishment I’d planned for her teasing earlier.
“Javi, please,” leaves her on the sweetest little whimper, a needy sound that settles on the tip of my cock. I’m pulsing. Throbbing behind the zipper of my slacks. “Just please!”
“Tell me what you need and it’s yours,” I say into the kiss, twining my tongue with hers again and flip us around. Mariah’s back meets the door while my right hand wanders, caressing the soft skin where her thin tank has risen, and I pull back just long enough to catch the sight of her like this.
Swollen lips and hooded eyes.
Chest heaving.
Hair natural and wild, a perfect mass of curls to wrap around my fist.
The bare skin just above her indecent sleep shorts exposes the start of a tattoo I didn’t know was there.
Fuck. What she does to me.
The hand not exploring her hip and skimming lower tangles in her hair and I angle her head back, tilting it to my liking. I savor the challenge still present in her eyes and the parting of those bee-stung lips, but more than that, is that she’s letting me take control.
Mariah doesn’t fight my possessive hold or dominating touch. If anything, my muñeca melts into me as I slant my lips over hers, growling in satisfaction.
The sound is animalistic. Hungry. Thankful for her trust.
Lips hovering, sweeping softly, I stare into those gorgeous sea-foam eyes. “Tell me, Mariah. Just ask and it’s yours.”
