Say When (10 page)

“Thanks,” I say, but inside, I don’t want to slow down. I want to speed up, blowing through traffic lights and stop signs, never stopping until I get enough of Andrés.

“So is it this fiancé?” I can hear the rising doubt in his voice. “Are you still getting over him?”

“God, no,” I say a little too fiercely. “It’s just, I’ve never had a one-night stand before.”

He flashes a subtle smile as his eyes soften. “It doesn’t have to be. It can be something more.”

“What?” I don’t know why I asked him to repeat himself. I heard him clearly the first time. I’m having a hard time believing I heard him correctly. Andrés wants something more than a once night stand… and so soon. I swallow the knot of panic in my throat as I wonder if I have something more to give him.

He’s rubbing my back again and the pressure from his hands feels so damned good. “How about we just take it easy and see where this goes?” He nods toward Dylans. The thrumming bass pours out the door as the bouncer checks IDs. I see the long line of people pressing to get in, and I think I’ve had enough of crowds. Besides, there’s only one person I want to be with tonight.

I shake my head. “I don’t want to go back in there.”

“We can dance right here if you want.” Andrés motions toward the ground.

“In the parking lot?” I think about pulling away from him, because the last thing I want is for every bar patron to gawk at us. I made a big enough fool of myself on the dance floor.

But he’s already wrapping his arms around my waist and rocking his hips against mine. Instinctively, I lean into him, meeting the sway of his hips with a rhythm of my own. It’s not hard to channel that other Christina, because I’m so overcome by lust, my inhibitions are overpowered by need. I don’t hear the music. I don’t see the people I know must be staring at us. All I hear, all I feel, is him. That’s when I lean up and whisper into his ear. “You told me to say when, right?”

“Right.” His answer is a throaty growl.

“When.”

* * *

Andrés has to be the world’s biggest idiot. After Christina walked out on him this morning, he raced back to Dylan’s like her little lap dog as soon as she texted him. How pathetic. He can hear his Tio’s voice reverberating in the back of his skull.
Fool me once, your fault. Fool me twice, my fault.

He tries to tell himself he just wants to get laid, but deep down he knows that isn’t it. If Andrés wants to get laid, he can take his pick of several of the girls who were sticking their tits in his face just moments ago. Maybe he can even bring a girl home who won’t race out of his apartment the next morning like a bat out of hell.

But Andrés doesn’t want those other girls. He wants the girl with the angel eyes and hot little body. The girl who moaned into his mouth and matched each thrust while he ground into her. More importantly, the girl who’d chased away his nightmares. That’s the girl he wants.

As if she is attuned to his troubled thoughts, Christina leans over and laces her small fingers through his. When she squeezes his hand and smiles, Andrés’s heart unravels.

Damn him for falling under her spell two nights in a row. He only hopes tomorrow morning will be different.

Chapter Twelve

The drive to his apartment seems to take forever. I fire off a text to Grace that I don’t need a ride home. She answers back with a ton of winky faces. I’m embarrassed, because I’m sure Andrés has seen them. We hold hands while listening to music. I cross one leg over the other, trying to quell my growing desire while grappling with a range of mixed emotions.

His words keep echoing through my brain.
It doesn’t have to be a one-night stand. It can be something more.

The prospect of
something more
with Andrés excites and terrifies me at the same time. He is drop dead-gorgeous and awesome in bed, but there is no way my mother will ever approve of me dating a mechanic, unless he has some secret inheritance I don’t know about. His truck is new, with all the bells and whistles, which probably explains his tiny apartment. I am certain the bulk of his paychecks go to his vehicle payment.

I ask myself, does it matter that Andrés is a mechanic? I remember when I was a teen, there was this hot mechanic at my dad’s boat dealership. His name was Marco, and he was bronze and beautiful. After the rape, I thought I’d never like a member of the opposite sex again, and then came Marco. I worked at the shop on weekends and after school, air brushing the dealership logos on the backs of the boats. I’d smile at Marco whenever he stopped to admire my work. Sometimes, when my parents weren’t looking, Marco flirted with me, too.

Then I caught Marco and my mom fucking inside the cabin of one of the showroom yachts. That ended my crush on Marco. I cried for weeks, locking myself in my room and refusing to go back to work. My mom had to have known I had a crush on Marco. She’d teased me more than once for giving him “coy looks.” And yet she thought nothing of using him for an afternoon fuck.

Dad died soon after. Mom sold the boat dealership, and I never saw Marco again. He didn’t even come to the funeral, which was fine by me. I didn’t think I could face him, anyway.

And now here I am about to go hook up with my own hot mechanic. The thought of using Andrés like my mother used Marco doesn’t sit right with me. I don’t want to be like her. I’m not a whore. Besides, even though I’ve known Andrés for less than two days, I like him. There’s something in his smile that tells me he’s not like other men. I think maybe I might want to have
something more
with him after all.

* * *

After we park the car and walk toward his apartment, I feel awkward. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. It’s a shame, too, because the setting is the perfect backdrop for romance. The night is warm, with a slight breeze. A halo of light from the full moon shines through the billowy clouds, giving them an ethereal glow.

I usually don’t take the landscape for granted as do most of my friends. I don’t just see another set of clouds and the same old stars. I see a canvas. I clench my fist to quell the tingling in my fingers. I want to paint so badly, but I want Andrés more.

Even as he’s leading me along, I’m looking over my shoulder at that moon. Finally, I tug on his hand, pulling him to a stop.

“What’s the matter,” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say, digging my phone out of my purse. “Just taking a picture.”

He flashes an expectant grin, and I feel kind of bad as I turn my back on him, because I guess he thinks I want a picture of the two of us. I realize I wouldn’t mind a picture of Andrés, preferably one where he’s wearing less clothes, but first I need to capture that nightscape before the clouds disperse.

“What for?” he says behind me. And damn, the heat of him as he presses into my backside is so distracting, I have a hard time focusing on what I’m doing.

“So I can paint it later.” I bite my lip as I peer through the small lens of my phone. I’m actually afraid to say too much. I don’t want him thinking I’m crazy. Jackson used to laugh at my obsession.

“You’re a painter?” Surprisingly, the tone of his voice is not mocking or degrading.

I turn to him after I finish my last shot. “Yeah.” I shrug, as if my life’s happiness doesn’t pertain to my artistic creations.

I know I’m a bad liar. Painting is almost as important as breathing, a way to immerse myself in beauty and escape from the ugly realities of life. After the rape, it was my way to disconnect from the world. I honestly don’t know how I could have survived without it. Over the years, I’ve dabbled in several forms of artistic expression, from drawing to digital photography and air brushing. But nothing has brought me more joy and comfort than a paintbrush and a blank canvas.

Tonight, this moon and clouds have inspired me. After I leave Andrés, I hope I can go home and recapture the night’s beauty. I know it will signify more to me than just another night: a night spent in Andrés’s arms.

“So, can I see some of your work?”

The seriousness in his gaze is almost enough to unnerve me.

Not many people, other than Karri, have ever taken interest in my work. Of course, there were Jackson’s rich friends in the Hamptons, but it is typical of social climbers to pretend to have an interest in the arts when they probably wouldn’t know a Van Gough from a kindergartener’s art project.

“Really?” I ask, because even though he’s not smirking or laughing, I’m still skeptical.

“Yeah,” he says. “I had a friend once. He could look at something and draw it. He was amazing.” There is wistfulness in his voice, and as he averts his gaze, I think I see his eyes cloud over.

I slip my camera into my purse, and then I reach down and entwine my fingers through his. “I’d love to show you.”

I’m taken aback by the warmth behind his smile. “You got a website? You could show me on my laptop.”

“Um, okay,” I answer hesitantly, as warmth creeps into my cheeks.

He smiles again and squeezes my hand. Something about the way he’s looking at me kick starts my heart. This wild pounding in my chest feels good, and I don’t ever want this night with Andrés to end.

This guy seems so genuine. So real. Not like Jackson.

As we walk to his place, I’m feeling oddly less awkward than before. I don’t know why, but I’m actually giddy. Someone is playing country music from an apartment overhead, and Andrés twirls me once, twice, and a third time before we continue down the walkway. I don’t miss a step.

* * *

“I am fucking floored.”

I’m sitting in a small fold-up chair at Andrés’s computer table. He’s kneeling beside me, gawking at my website, something my mixed-media professor made me put together last semester. He’s scrolling through my portfolio of designs, just random stuff I’ve made over the past few years, including class projects, paintings of seascapes, and a few boat logos I designed for my dad’s dealership.

“So you just do this for school? You don’t have a job?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I had a summer job, but it fell through.” That’s an understatement. I broke up with my summer job when I dumped Jackson. I was planning on painting more landscapes for his parents’ rich friends.

He comes across the portfolio I dedicated to Tyler, and I think I’m more amazed by the smile that lights up Andrés’s face than he is by my artwork.

“Who is this?” he asks.

“Karri’s baby.”

He’s looking at a series of black and white sketches of Ty I did a month ago. Ty’s got this cherubic smile as he spreads Cheerios around his food tray. One little Cheerio is stuck to the side of his cheek. His wispy hair comes together in a point at the top of his head. He just looked so darned cute that day, and, luckily, I had my sketch pad with me.

Andrés turns to me with wide eyes. “How did you do this?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug and look away.

This is overwhelming. Even though Andrés likes my work, I’m feeling terribly vulnerable and exposed. Andrés doesn’t know what my artwork means to me, and I’m too afraid to tell him. I think the drawings of Tyler are my best work. It took a long time perfecting the dimples in his smile.

I repress a grimace as he continues to scroll through my work. I wonder, selfishly, if we are ever going to have sex. Then I berate myself for thinking like a nympho. What is wrong with me? Why does my gaze keep wandering from Andrés’s computer screen to his bed? The sheets are folded over and tucked in nicely, no sign of our wild lovemaking from last night. I realize he must have learned to keep his room tidy from his days as a soldier. I want so badly to crumple those sheets again.

As if he’s reading my mind, Andrés shuts down his laptop and slowly rises, pulling me with him.

We sit on the foot of his bed, and an awkward feeling comes over me again. I don’t know what to do with myself, so I clench my hands by my sides while averting my gaze. Then he cups my face in his warm, strong hands.

One look into his dark eyes, and my heart awakens, pounding wildly, the heavy thrumming of my blood resonating in my ears. He strokes my bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, and an involuntary shudder courses through me. His mouth slants across mine, stifling my gasp.

He pulls away abruptly, leaving me hot and bothered, even a little aggravated.

“You are amazing,” he breathes against my mouth.

“So are you,” I say as my lips find his again and I press into him. Before I know it, I’m straddling his waist. His hands are beneath my shirt, gently stroking my back and sending euphoric shivers across my skin.

My hands are in his hair; I’m massaging his temple and pulling him closer. Our mouths are melded together, his tongue darting across mine. I breathe him in, relishing his kiss, and then he moves his hands up the front of my shirt, cupping each breast. I groan and grind against his thigh. I swear I’m so close to an orgasm right now, I could almost come through my jeans. But that’s not what I want. I want him inside of me, filling me, pounding against my G-spot like he did last night.

I’m roaming his chest, pulling apart buttons and pushing the fabric over his broad shoulders, but I can’t seem to undress him fast enough. He groans as I break the kiss, but I’m frantic now, needing his clothes off, needing him inside of me. He gives in and lies back on the bed, allowing me to take off his jeans. I unbuckle his belt and unzip the denim. After he slips off his boots, he arches his hips as I pull his pants and underwear off. My eyes bulge when I get a close look at his erection. I had been so drunk last night, but after only half a beer tonight, I can appreciate its fullness. I tentatively reach out and grasp it, feeling the weight of it in my hand. He groans as I brush my fingers across the wet tip, rubbing the essence down his silken shaft.

He jerks and rears up, his eyes dark, thunderous. “Stop, or I’ll explode.”

I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me as he flips me onto my back and starts undressing me. He’s not as gentle as I was, and I think he tears the fabric of my shirt, but I don’t care at this point.

Once my jeans are off, I spread my legs wide, wanting him to fill me. He’s smothering my breasts with kisses, lavishing each nipple with his tongue. His lips trail down my abdomen and, then, without warning, his tongue is spearing deep inside me while he strokes the swollen pearl of my cleft.