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
* * *
“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
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