That spurred him on. He kissed across her chest, on her sternum, inhaling her scent. He cupped one breast in his hand, plumping it, and then he swirled his tongue around its straining peak. She made a sound that was between a cry and a squeal.
“So sensitive.” He kissed her breast; he plucked at her nipple. He played and played, driving her wild. When she began undulating her hips against him, he took the nipple into his mouth, sucking it hard. She yelled, pulling on his hair, clutching at his shoulders.
She tasted like flowers and honey and he couldn’t get enough. He licked at her and when he let her nipple go, he could see that it was now a dark pink, almost red, and it was his turn to groan. He was harder than he’d ever been in his life, and she hadn’t even touched him.
He played with her other breast. But it wasn’t enough. He remembered how she’d felt underneath his fingers, and he pulled her pajama bottoms down her legs. She wore white cotton panties that only made him harder.
Grace tipped her head back on the pillows as he traced her mound through her panties. He could feel she was already wet. It would only take a second and he could be inside her. He shuddered at the thought.
But he forced himself to slow down. She deserved that. He started trailing kisses up her pale legs, finding tiny moles and freckles, and even a scar on her knee that he couldn’t help but love. When he spread her legs, he found more freckles.
“How do you have freckles even here?” He traced them, the explosion of tiny dots.
He could feel her shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
He laughed, drawing patterns on her thigh.
As he moved upward, he kissed her hip, finding a pale white scar about the size of a dime. “What happened here?” he asked.
She looked down. “Oh, that? Fell off my bike when I was six onto some gravel. I was alone and I walked all the way home, crying.”
“Poor Graciela,” he said, kissing the scar.
“Don’t worry: I got back up on my bike the next day.”
He shook his head. Of course she did. Brave, headstrong Graciela.
His fingers began stroking near her sex, and he played with her. He could smell her arousal, and it was heady. He muttered words, words in Spanish and in English, and they seemed to make her tilt her hips toward him.
But as he began to pull her panties down her legs, he could feel her still. Looking up at her face, her eyes were still wide, but they seemed almost panicked.
He lifted himself upward, lying on his side next to her. He touched her face, curling a strand of hair around his finger.
“Jaime…” she said. “I have to tell you…”
He waited. He had no idea what she felt compelled to tell him right then, but if she thought it was important, he’d wait. Even if his cock was hard as a rock and Grace was lying here, naked and delicious and so close to becoming his.
He thought of cold showers and tax season and deboning trout and anything else he hated to calm his desperate body.
Grace took a deep breath. She wasn’t looking at him, but instead seemed intent on addressing his collarbone. “Before we do this, you should know something.”
He stilled. Had she been hurt before? Had sex been unpleasant for her? He gritted his teeth, wondering if he could punch that guy in the mouth.
She tipped her chin into her chest. A blush flooded her face as she blurted, “I’m a virgin.”
He stared at the top of her head. His heart galloped. And then he rolled away from her, sitting up, and groaned, knowing that he was definitely going to hell now.
Chapter Eleven
Grace watched as Jaime rolled off of her, like she’d just told him she had the plague. That little bit of information—I’m a virgin—had fallen out of her mouth, and now it sat in the middle of the room, like the greatest elephant, neither of them wanting to touch it. She grabbed her shirt and pants, pulling them on, not wanting to lie there half-naked.
She sat back down on the couch, covering her face with her hands. She’d been debating since forever about whether or not to tell him, mostly because she wanted him to know she had no idea what she was doing and didn’t want him to think she was some incompetent loser. But now he thought she was, in fact, an incompetent loser who no guy had wanted to sleep with. She stifled a groan. Was it her fate to screw everything up? Now Jaime would look at her like this freak—twenty-three years old and a virgin.
The word felt heavy on her tongue. Virgin virgin virgin. She hated it. She hated that she cared. She hated that he cared. Uncovering her eyes, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or kick him in the kneecap.
Jaime was gazing at her, watching her, looking at her like he didn’t know what to do with her. She really groaned out loud this time.
“You know what, this was a bad idea,” she said. “I’m going home and going to dig a grave to throw myself into.” She didn’t even know what she was saying. She just had to get away from him, away from the way he was looking at her.
She knew, objectively, that twenty-three wasn’t that old, and not that old to be a virgin. But that didn’t stop the intense feeling of humiliation, stripped raw, showing Jaime her soft underbelly and then having him refuse to touch her, like some kind of leper. It was rather like being wrapped up in some weird, scaly skin and she wished she could rip it off, even if it left her bloody and sore.
Then again, she guessed she kind of did have a skin covering her, and she almost burst into hysterical laughter. I’m laughing about my hymen. I need a drink. She was to the front door when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Hey, no, don’t leave. Not yet.” Jaime snaked an arm around her waist, letting her lean against him. “Are you upset?”
She bit the inside of her cheek. Now he felt sorry for her. She wanted to die. Pulling away from him, she crossed her arms over her chest, like she could protect herself that way.
“I’m not upset,” she said, in a voice that quivered.
He laughed, although it was more like a huff. She looked up, a flush climbing up her face.
“It’s not funny.” She stepped toward him, her fists clenching. “I’m also not the one acting like I told you I have herpes or something!”
He narrowed his dark eyes. “Is that how I’m acting?”
She could’ve gladly shoved him out the window. “You know what, I don’t have time for this. You think I’m some kind of freak for being a virgin, like it even matters, like it isn’t some social construct created to control women and their sexuality, like it makes a damn bit of difference about who I am as a person—”
Jaime stepped toward her, pressing a finger to her lips. He then drew her close, and although she was angry, she let him.
“I never said you were a freak,” he said quietly, “and although I agree with everything you just said, by the way, can I explain why I may have reacted the way I did?”
She uncrossed her arms, beginning to pluck at his t-shirt collar. It had started to fray. “I guess,” she mumbled.
“You’re not a freak. I don’t give two shits who you have or haven’t slept with, by the way. But realizing that I’d be your first? It’s a big responsibility.” He took a deep breath. “I’d hate to fuck it up, Graciela.”