Private Acts (7 page)

Chapter Six

Miguel had heard the shock in her voice, but he’d also heard the heated tremble, recognizing she felt the same untamed need that drove him. It consumed him—so much so he couldn’t even make it to the door of his house.

The ride back had been both pleasurable and painful. He’d been tortured by the sensation of her breasts across his back and her fingers pressing into his abdomen. He’d planned to wear her down little by little over time, but that plan was tossed out. Right now he sported an erection hard enough to tunnel through granite and needed relief.

He didn’t even try to stop himself. Why should he, when he’d wanted her since the moment he saw her on stage?

He plied her mouth with kisses, determined to dominate her senses the same way she had his, and pressed his throbbing erection even harder against her while his tongue filled her mouth. She tasted so much better than he ever imagined, making him tremble and ache. With the help of her legs clamped around his hips, he held her steady and pushed up her T-shirt to unhook the front clasp of her bra and release her bountiful breasts for his waiting mouth. They spilled from confinement like heavy fruit, and he groaned with pleasure.

Finally.

He kissed the dusky tips, her jagged breath arousing him just as much as her beautiful body. Then he captured one nipple, sucking it into a more rigid point, scraping his teeth across it until she shuddered and moaned.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured as he pressed his face into the scented hollow between the soft mounds.

Her hands moved in a frenzy of motion across the back of his neck and stroked upward to cup his head as he showered kisses across her skin up to her throat. Panting and greedy, she writhed in his arms, driving him wild. He hoisted her higher and forced her harder against the wall, pressing against her breasts, stomach, and hips to hold her still. Kneading the soft skin of her breast, Miguel scraped his thumb across the nipple. Then he took her lips again in a hard kiss, sweeping the sensitive roof of her mouth with the tip of his tongue. They devoured each other, and he angled his head to steal every breath she took.

He was so engrossed he didn’t hear the ringing cell phone at first, but eventually it penetrated the fog of his brain. He recognized the familiar sound. The unique ring tone signaled a call from his brother, Aarón.

Their bodies stilled and with great reluctance, he withdrew his mouth from hers. Her complete withdrawal came fast as she unwound herself from around him, and he lowered her to the ground onto her feet.

The insistent chirping of the phone continued.

Miguel needed time to collect himself because he could hardly breathe. Leaning on his forearm, his hand curled into a fist of frustration above her head. He watched as she cut him off by pulling her shirt down to cover her bared breasts.

This couldn’t be happening. Not right now.

Samirah looked away from him. With the heavy rise and fall of her chest and lips plumped from kissing, she enticed him, and he thought about turning off the phone and carrying her into the house to finish what they’d started.

The ringing stopped, but before he could say a word, it started up again.

He closed his eyes momentarily. “
No te muevas
,” he said grimly.

Even though he told her not to move, the minute he reached into his pocket for the phone, she slipped under his arm and grabbed her discarded bag.

“I said don’t move,” he muttered, reaching for her, but only grabbed air. She slipped away, and helplessly, he watched her rush out the gate away from him.

Forcing his voice into neutral, Miguel answered before the voice mail picked up again.

* * * *

Samirah tiptoed into the quiet house. She could smell whatever the Hills had eaten for dinner in the air. She didn’t bother to check the refrigerator to see what was left over because food was the last thing on her mind. Quietly, she moved through the house to her quarters and closed the door. Leaning back against it, she let out a heavy breath and lowered her lids. Never had she wanted a man so much. The mere thought of not having him caused a physical ache as basic as hunger or thirst.

Tossing her package on the sofa, Samirah went into the bathroom and took a quick, cold shower. Feeling refreshed, she put on a clean pair of underwear and a tank top she used to sleep in and climbed into bed. She burrowed under the covers, as if they could protect her from her thoughts. The frigid temperature of the water hadn’t sufficed. Since the night was still young, maybe she could sleep off her horniness.

Saved by the ring
, she thought with disgust. Was she really so weak and impulsive she would have had sex with him? So far she hadn’t lived up to any of her promises. She hadn’t stayed out of trouble, and she’d come close to having sex.

She’d never run from her sexuality before, but dammit, this trip was about taking a break and getting to know herself better—the opportunity to regroup and assess her life going forward. She wasn’t getting any younger and needed to think seriously about her future. She couldn’t jaunt across the globe forever. Time to start thinking long term, about serious issues like kids and how she would support herself in her old age.

She thought back to her first experience abroad alone, when she’d decided to do her Le Cordon Bleu externship in
Italy
. She hadn’t slowed down since then, wanting to see the world and visit places other than the
Caribbean
where most of her maternal family lived. Ten years later, she felt the hankering for something more permanent.

Turning onto her side, she glanced at the clock on the bedside table and realized only a few minutes had passed since she last looked at it. It seemed more like twenty hours.

She tossed again, staring up at the ceiling, and wished she could stop thinking about what had happened between her and Miguel. Now that she’d felt his hands, she couldn’t rein in the ideas that trotted through her mind. Her thoughts skittered to the memory of their embrace, of her pinned against the wall as he kissed her. His touch had been so good, so intoxicating, it remained stamped into her psyche like indelible ink.

What would it feel like if he buried his fingers in her hair, yanking her head back to force her to submit to whatever…?

Samirah swallowed and kicked off the sheet in frustration. The night was no warmer than any other since her arrival, but the heat generated by her thoughts made her uncomfortably hot. With trembling fingers that reflected the tumultuous emotions rushing through her, Samirah dragged the tank over her head and tossed it onto the floor in the darkness. Her taut nipples rubbed against the cotton sheets, the torturous friction making her moan until she had to cup her breasts in her soothing palms to ease the throbbing pain.

She just needed to take the edge off, that was all.

She slipped her fingers below the waistband of her panties to stroke the swollen flesh between her legs. They glided through the slick cream, and she pressed her face into the pillow to muffle her moans. Panting, she worked her hips, imagining Miguel touching her, getting her off, stroking her just right with his long fingers.

“Oh,” she moaned aloud.

She clutched her breast and pinched the nipple between her fingers, on the very breast he’d tortured with his thumb. She continued to stroke and apply pressure between her legs. The mounting tension made her pants come harsher and faster. Release came hard, flooding her body in pleasure. Squeezing her eyes tight, she let out a loud gasp, turning her head to groan into the pillow as she grinded her hips against her palm.

Her heart rate slowed. Sliding her hand from between her thighs, she rolled onto her back. Hair clung to her sweat-dampened neck, but she could breathe a little easier. Maybe now she could sleep.

Now she could think clearly. Tomorrow she would focus on her future and forget about the sexy Latino next door. In the morning, she would work on her plans for her restaurant. She’d already had an idea of the colors and table settings she would use. Miguel would not become a distraction. She needed to focus—and stay the hell away from him.

* * * *

Miguel paced the floor of his dark bedroom. His brother had told him their mother hinted about a move to
Europe
with her German boyfriend. Aarón didn’t want to go and asked if he could come live with Miguel if she decided to move.

“Of course,” he’d assured his brother. But he knew the final decision was their mother’s, and he doubted she would be receptive to turning over her eleven-year-old son to him.

Patricia Delgado had a bad track record when it came to men. He could still remember the day his father walked out on them. He hadn’t understood the enormity of it at the time, but when his father left, he took the only means of income for him and his mother. Hearing her tears at night had saddened him, but what could a five-year-old do?

By the time he turned eight, his mother had found a new way to support them. At the time, he hadn’t fully understood what the string of men passing in and out of their one bedroom apartment meant, but the older kids in the neighborhood did.

They teased him mercilessly, calling his mother names. One night, when she had one of her “friends” over and he was lying on the couch, he turned the TV down. He could hear them, though he knew she tried to be quiet.

Unable to stand it anymore, he had gone to the door and knocked, wiggling the doorknob, begging her to come out. He’d promised to get a job.

“Mama,” he’d sobbed, “stop. Please. I’ll take care of you.” He hadn’t even understood what he was asking her to stop. He only knew it was bad.

After the man left, she scolded and spanked him and said, “I’m doing this for us.” She told him to never interrupt her when she was working again.

Coming back to the present, Miguel sank onto the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. She’d upgraded the type of men she got involved with, but the situation remained more or less the same. And even though he’d offered to take care of her, she’d refused.

What kinds of things did Aarón see or hear? Did he understand the trade his mother made with her body in exchange for dubious security with one man after another?

He couldn’t let his brother go through what he did. Convincing his mother would not be easy, but he would do whatever he could to keep Aarón from the same destructive path he’d gone down for years before he’d found a male figure to mentor him.

Chapter Seven

After handing over their invitations to the young woman standing at the door, Thomas and Samirah entered the exhibit hall for the art fundraiser arm-in-arm. Samirah held onto him for dear life, worried she would twist her ankle, or worse, take a tumble in front of everyone because she had foolishly decided to wear shoes with such high, skinny heels, making her feel like she teetered several feet up on a pair of stilts. Every step was made carefully, like walking a tight rope.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right, my dear?” Thomas asked with a worried frown.

“Yes,” Samirah assured him. “Just don’t leave my side tonight.”

Thomas looked dashing with his silver hair neatly combed and wearing a black tuxedo with satin lapels and a bowtie. On the ride over, Samirah made him blush when she told him he cleaned up well and she’d definitely have to keep an eye on him for
Geneva
.

A low murmur of conversation floated throughout the room. Photographers circulated among the well-dressed attendees. Their cameras flashed every now and again as they took pictures of the works of art and candid shots of the guests.

Behind three cloth-covered tables stood six young people dressed in white shirts and black slacks serving the food and appetizers covering the tables. Samirah deduced they were students who had volunteered their services for the event. Matted and framed student-donated paintings and sketches covered the walls, turning the space into a temporary art gallery. Display cases sat atop stands, showcasing handmade jewelry, pottery, and sculptures.