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“Your what?” I ask rather dumbly.
Vic chuckles. “Shinálí,” he repeats. “My paternal grandmother.”
“I thought grandmother in Spanish was ‘abuela’,” I remark, frowning when he laughs at my poor pronunciation.
He traces my jawline with the tip of his finger, making me shiver. “You’re right, princesa. But shinálí isn’t Spanish, it’s Diné, the language of the Navajo people. My abuelito—my papá’s father—was Mexican, and my shinálí was Mexican and Navajo.”
“You mentioned Colombia earlier. Was your mom Colombian?”
He nods. “Sí.”
“So, you’re Mexican-Colombian-Navajo?” I ask, trying to wrap my head around what he’s just told me.
He chuckles. “Pretty much.” After a moment of silence, he says, “you never answered my question."
I lean against the wall. “About what?”
“How did you know it was me in the picture?”
I chuckle and feel my cheeks warm. “The dimples gave you away.”
He smiles. “You are quite fond of my dimples, no?”
I nod. “I am.”
Vic studies me for a moment. I want to squirm under his inquisitive gaze.
“What else do you like about me?” he asks rather boldly. My stomach dips. How the hell am I supposed to answer that? I suppose I could just be honest, seeing as that’s what he wants from me.
“I like your eyes,” I start nervously. “And your voice—the way you talk. Your accent is sexy.”
His face is blank, no indication that my words are affecting him at all. I start to feel embarrassed by what I’m saying, but then he says, “I love everything about you. I haven’t known you long, but I already want you for myself. I see why Ezra kept you away from us for so long.”
I let out a breath. I’m both shocked and flattered by his words. “You do?”
He nods, reaching out to wrap a stray curl around his index finger. “Sí,” he whispers.
Before I have a chance to react, he leans in and kisses me. It’s not just a peck. He claims my mouth like he owns it—like he ownsme.
Teeth clash, breaths collide, tongues claim each other. I’m dizzy from his lips alone. He digs his fingers into my waist and pulls me against him. He moans as his tongue goes as deep into my mouth as he can get it. I grab his shirt and press him closer to me, if that’s even possible. There’s no space between our bodies, nothing to indicate where my body ends and his begins.
He grabs the hem of my shirt and yanks it over my head. I quickly undo my bra, and he pulls down my pants. Once I’m left in just my underwear—a lacy black pair with a small baby pink bow right below my navel—he lifts me up and carries me to the beanbag chair. I sink into the deep, fuzzy cushion.
Vic begins taking his clothes off, never letting his eyes stray from mine. He tosses his shirt, jeans and boxers to the floor and kicks off his boots. I push myself up on my elbows and look him over.
He’sgorgeous.
His golden-brown skin glows in the morning sunlight coming in through the windows, and his night-black hair is soft and shiny. The hardened planes of his stomach constrict with each tight breath he takes, as if he’s waiting for me to make a move.
So, I do.
I push off the beanbag and stand in front of him.
“You’re perfect,” I whisper, reaching up to cup his cheek. He leans into my touch, pressing a kiss to the center of my palm. I stroke his smooth skin with my thumb.
“I hate that I can’t have you for myself,” he murmurs against my hand. His fingertips graze the hem of my panties. I suck in a breath at the feel of his rough skin against mine. “I don’t like sharing.”
I chuckle, but it comes out breathy and harsh. “You know what will happen if Ezra finds out about this,” I say quietly. I don’t want to spoil the mood, but I have to remind him so he can at least prepare for Ezra’s conniption.
