Aria’s stumbling block is her sister’s disappearance—and presumed death—and El Santo. Though my problems are much simpler from her point of view, I have Dario to consider.
My hermano clings to independence. Watching him fall from his wheelchair, I’d react. Same as Mami. Although, she’s not here to have a punch thrown at her. Dario and I have engaged in more fights since he’s been disabled than when we did as children. I huff, Aria had a point. She’s the first woman who dished out the same shit I’ve offered clingy women. But I have to save her from this innate need to vindicate her twin.
“Penny for your thoughts.” Aria moans, her body curving into an arch, tits planting against me.
“You don’t want to know my thoughts.” I eye her breasts, determined to see how luscious they feel around my dick before I’m done with her.
“Keep your thoughts.” Aria climbs onto my waist, her dazzling brown eyes shining down on me. “What are your fears, Dominic?”
I lift my hips, hard, and the apex of her feels like heaven slamming back down on my cock. “You straddled me . . . to ask about my fears. Fucking tease, mami.”
Her beautiful skin glows as she offers a knowing laugh. “What wine did we drink last night?”
“Same as the night before.”
“Well, last night had a nice kick.” Aria’s thighs squeeze around my waist. Dipping down, she dusts kisses along my chest and up my jawline. I’m about to catch her mouth with my own when she sits up. I reach out to paw her breast, and she swats my hand.
“Back to my question, Dom.”
“What question?” In a second, I lift, suckling her hardened nipple into my mouth and squeezing the curve of it in my fist.
“Dom,” Aria purrs, pussy permeating gushy, wet stamps along my waist. She starts to slide back over when my arms swoop down, locking her on top of me. Smile uncontainable, she threatens, “Hey, I could kick you out. Focus.”
“Fears?” I cock a brow. “You teasing me like you did during our first few encounters, and me never having you. Biggest fear of my life. There you have it, chula. Fuck me.”
“Be real.” Her hands drum across my biceps. I loosen my hold around her. The word intimacy blares in my psyche. Sí, biggest fear ever. Aria settles at my side, one thick thigh over my waist.
The man I was molded into craves sex with her. Plentiful, amazing sex so that I can erase the chula out of my system before she has the chance to return the favor. But I shed the thought. Nope. Nada. This isn’t something I’ll share. “No fears, mami.”
She groans into my bicep. “You have to be afraid of something. What penetrates that ambition and confidence on occasion?”
I blink a few times, then it clicks. Offering Aria my affection didn’t make me restless. The night before last, I told her to fall for me. It was a line; they all are, resorting to words and feigned emotions after sex, which was fucking extraordinary. But when I said that to Aria, it wasn’t my usual line. So, if it’s not intimacy that I’m afraid of, it’s . . . Alejandra. Aria transforming into Alejandra, what a nightmare. Aye, no bueno, I can’t say that. I smile a little. “Cup towels.”
“What?”
“I’m afraid of cup towels.”
She cackles, assaulting me with cute, little punches.
I turn to my side. “Don’t give me that look, Aria. You asked. This is me, a thousand percent transparent.”
“Okay, tell me, Mr. Top Chef in the kitchen, how cup towels of all things scare you.”
I press my lips to her forehead, and I stay there, my breath on her skin. No part of me is ready to let go. “When I was a chamaco, I was a bad motherfucker. My mami came after me with a cup towel. It got to the point where I knew if bad grades were sent home, I didn’t eat dinner.”
“Ha!”
“Not funny. I was never a little guy, chula. I played soccer, got into my fair share of trouble. Had to be fed.” I pat my abdomen.
“So, you ducked and dodged your mother and her cup towel?” Aria sighs.
“Aye, my mami may have come up to my chin, but she hit me with her zapata, too. Impeccable aim. But there was a difference between the cup towel and her shoe.”
Holding her arms around her waist, Aria chortles. “Eh, I’d be more afraid of getting hit with a shoe.”
“Nah. It took Mami a while to reach down and grab her zapata. By the time she did, I’d be already across the street.”
Shoving her hands through her hair, Aria laughs. She grips her midriff and continues until her eyes are shining. She wipes away tears. “God, I wish I had the chance to meet your mother.”
“Sí? I was her favorite. The bad one. Dario never knew the sting of a wet cup towel or a zapata at the back of his head.”
“You were not the bad . . .? Eh, never mind. I can see a miniature, muscular version of you. I’m sure you had curls for the girls before the phrase became popular. Your mother loved you, no matter what. It tears me to pieces when good people leave this earth.”
Noting the jaded flicker in Aria’s eye, I tangle my hand in her hair. I pepper kisses across her face until the exultant glow falls around her again. I give just enough. Because if I continue, I’ll place myself in the position of having told her the truth the other night—that I’m falling for her. I sigh against her lips. “Chula, speaking of my hermano, I have to check on Dario.”
“Tell me about him.” Her voice tenses. “Crazy world. We both ha-have twins. Were you close before his accident?”
I sit up, leaning against the custom headboard. “Dario was breaking down and rebuilding computers by age ten. We were never close. I had sports. He had this inquisitiveness. But around our familia, we could finish each other’s sentences. That was our greatest twin power.”
“Hmmm.” She leans against me again. “More.”
“He had computer clubs. I had chulas. My hermano was a geek before nerds became popular.”
“The exact opposite.” Aria laced her hands into mine.
“In high school, we grew further away from each other. Dario was shy. I never saw him outside of a classroom—I didn’t take advance classes, either. But I will tell you that I didn’t have to study. He did.”
She laughs a little. “Cocky bastard.”
“Aye, you chulas are a fan of ambition. Our senior year, he switched to a gifted school. My padres were sent home that year.” I grit my teeth a little.
“They couldn’t stay?”
“They hired an immigration attorney. The pendejo charged them retainer after retainer. Strung them along with the notion that as soon as either Dario or I turned eighteen, we could petition to make them legal.”
“How old were you?”
“Mami, the attorney lied. The citizen has to be twenty-one with the financial capacity to care for his or her parent.”
“I’m sorry. Did they see you graduate?”
“High school, no, mami. Dario stuck with the gifted school during that last year. I took night classes. I wouldn’t dream of giving up soccer, not without my mami there to keep me in line. I got a job. Sent them money. Graduated and thought, fuck that attorney, I could do better.”