He sucked her lower lip in his mouth, nipping it with his teeth. She moaned her pleasure. Her hand slid down his chest, desire driving her to find his hard length straining behind the zipper of his khaki cargo shorts. Brazenly she stroked him, reveling when his hips bucked, pushing his erection against her palm.
“God, I want you,” he groaned.
Cradling her nape with his left hand, he devoured her mouth again. The muted sounds of the narrator droned through the room, intermingled with their moans and sighs and murmurs of affection. His palms kneaded her breasts, his fingers teasing her nipples into hard nubs straining for more of his attention.
She broke their kiss on a gasp, desire threatening to consume her.
Alejandro placed a soft peck on the mole beneath the right edge of her mouth, moving to drop another on the ridge of her jaw. Another at the juncture of her neck below her ear. He laved her lobe with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth. His teeth nipped at the sensitive lobe at the same time his hands languidly massaged her breasts and she grew wet with need.
A wild animal screeched in the documentary, startling her. The light flashing on the TV screen brightened, and she was reminded of where they were. That Lulu dozed in her room down the short hall and could wander out here at any moment.
“We should probably . . . oooh.”
Alejandro blew in her ear again, robbing her of the ability to form words.
The rush of warm air sent a thrill shimmying an erotic trail down to her breasts. Her nipples pebbled in response, anxious for his touch. Rational thought fled, heading out the back door in her brain.
“Might wake up,” she murmured.
“Hmm?”
His teeth nipped at her jaw and she angled her head, giving him better access to pleasure her.
Somehow a thought wormed its way back into her head. “Lulu . . . awake.”
He froze; then, with a horrified expression, Alejandro stretched up to peer over the back of the sofa toward the hallway. “Lulu? Are you out here?”
A bird’s trill answered on the television.
Laughter bubbled up in Anamaría’s throat. Alejandro collapsed against her, groaning and burying his face in her neck. The day’s scruff on his jaw scratched her skin heightening her awareness of him. The softness of his hair tickled her jaw as the hard angles and planes of his body melded with hers. His woody patchouli and spice scent invading her senses with its intoxicating allure.
He released a shaky breath and drew back to stare down at her. His face flushed with passion, his lips wet from their kisses, he looked sexily tousled and horny. Exactly how she felt.
“Coño, this is like high school all over again,” he complained. “Us making out on the living room sofa, in danger of getting caught by familia walking in.”
She chuckled. “Truth.”
He grinned back at her, all boyish charm and manly magnetism that had her heart tripping over itself.
“So, your exhibit as a whole? It’s going well?” she murmured, trying to pick up the thread of conversation they had dropped when they’d gotten deliciously distracted.
Gently, he tucked a lock of hair from her ponytail behind her ear. “It’s coming together, thanks to Marcelo and Natalia.”
“He sure sings her praises, doesn’t he? She must be pretty great at her job,” Anamaría said.
Ale nodded. His gaze strayed to the television where a brightly colored bird, its wings spread in flight, glided above the splendor of the rainforest canopy.
“The two of them grew up in the same neighborhood in Chicago,” he explained. “Seems like people there are as tight as many of us locals here. She has a good eye. You can tell by the photographs she recommends, those she nixes. Her vision for showcasing specific ones is strong, vivid. I really like working with her.”
Much like his niece when she had rattled off the fun she planned to have with her new sibling, Alejandro’s face lit with excitement when he talked about this new art consultant.
Jealousy flared inside Anamaría.
Adamantly, she stomped it out like the embers of an illegal fire on the beach. She had no idea what this Natalia looked like, so she had no business picturing her like his ex—tall, statuesque, beautiful. Even if Natalia wound up matching that description, it didn’t matter. Jealousy had no role in Anamaría and Alejandro’s relationship.
In fact, they were both making progress with their respective, also separate, goals.
His recovery was going well. This week, he had relied on the crutches more often than the wheelchair. According to his orthopedist, barring any strange setback, he might be ready to have the Ilizarov fixator rings and wires removed the week of his show’s opening. That meant he’d be free to leave shortly after.
And she . . . she’d been offered a chance to attend two AllFit-sponsored marathon races over eight days in Europe. Anamaría and Brandon were set to work the company’s booth at the expo, with her having two hour-long cooking demonstrations. Her Captain at the fire station had already approved her request to swap Kelly days and tack on another day of leave. As soon as she’d gotten word, she’d driven to the Miami Passport Agency to apply for an expedited passport.
Come the second weekend in July, she’d be in Barcelona. Alejandro would be back home in Atlanta, or, if his agent had his way, already off on his next shoot.
She reminded herself that she’d gone into their temporary arrangement with her eyes wide open. The problem was, her heart had remained in the picture. Filled with love for him.
Oh, she wouldn’t go back on her no-strings promise. Wouldn’t let him know that while the anger and disillusion of their first breakup would be missing from their second, there would still be anguish. For her anyway. But she’d get through it. She would not ask him to stay, but she could love him from afar while they pursued their dreams on their own.
“It’s good to hear you’re happy with Natalia’s vision for your pieces. They deserve the best,” Anamaría told him.
“She’s come up with the layout for where each piece will be placed inside Bellísima. Although there’s a special section I’ve been thinking about adding. It has the potential to really resonate with longtime Conchs.” He paused, a strange nervousness creeping into his voice as he sat up.
Anamaría shifted, crooking her left knee between them to face him. “But?”
“But I haven’t shown anyone these photographs because they’re—they’re kind of personal.”
“Okay, now I’m intrigued.” Anamaría started to make a joke about him snapping illicit pics of himself to ease the uncertainty she sensed in him, but the raw vulnerability stamping his angular features stopped her. She cupped his jaw, seeking to help soothe whatever worried him. “These photographs sound important, Ale. What does Natalia think about them?”
“She doesn’t know.”
“What?” Anamaría drew back in surprise. “You just said she’s great to work with and has a fantastic eye for selecting the right images. Why are you holding these back from her?”
He wove a hand through his hair, sliding it down to cup the back of his head with his palm. “Because I took them when I was in Cuba for a commercial shoot and spent a day on my own. Retracing my parents’ and abuelos’ steps. Visiting familia I’d never met before.”