Page 15 of American Sweethearts

I kissed her hard and, as always, she gave it all back to me. Hot, hungry. Lips nipping, mouth open and I couldn’t hold it in. I could almost smell her.

“Are we blaming this on post-wedding haze?”

I was so caught up in all the places I wanted to get to on her body that I almost missed the question. When I pulled back, again I could see the vulnerability in her eyes. It hit me hard to know that she thought wherever this was going could hurt her.

I lifted my hands off her and tried to get myself under control. I didn’t ever want to be one of the things that Priscilla regretted. Not again.

I didn’t want to say it, but I made myself do it. “Why don’t I walk you to your room? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” I was more stating a fact than asking a question, and no matter how much my dick was going to hate me later, I was glad I said it.

She looked at me for a long moment without answering, her gaze scrutinizing me, as if she was looking for the answer to my question somewhere on my face. Like I’d just turned into a puzzle she was set on solving. I always forgot the way Priscilla could make my skin feel like I was on fire. Like my lust was a tornado swirling inside, powerful enough to lift me clear off my feet.

“I missed kissing you, too, J, and I was lying.”

My heart thumped in my chest, because we never did this. Heartfelt and earnest was not us. We were usually too busy slaking whatever thirst we’d built for each other to think about feelings or consequences.

“I don’t need a wedding haze excuse to want you.”

chapter eleven

priscilla

No matter what lies I told myself all week, I knew this is where we’d end up. In a quiet corner tangled up in each other. I wracked my brain for a reason not to do this, but the way Juan Pablo was looking at me, how he was letting me take this where I wanted, it was burning me up inside. It was always like this with him—I could take charge or let go as I needed to without ever having to explain. That’s why I always came back; because with J I never had to explain and always got what I wanted, what I needed.

Without breaking eye contact, I placed the little bottle of bubbly on the table by the chaise and then pushed forward until his lips were right against mine.

I could feel his arms stiffening, as if he wanted to touch me or pull me closer, but was waiting for me to make the next move. Letting me set the tone. But his tongue still darted out slowly, and he ran it over the seam of my lips, making me gasp. “Tell me what you need.”

I slid a hand over his arm, my pointy nails digging into the skin. “I miss your mouth and your hands.” I didn’t even need to say where, it didn’t really matter.

When he kissed me again and I pushed against him, he finally let himself touch. His hands ran over my thighs, then mycalves, agonizingly slow, until finally, he slipped them under my dress.

“Touch me, J.” I usually chased my orgasms with single-minded determination, but with J, I let his touch set the tone and he almost always wanted to explore. He was thorough, and not by going hard and fast. He always took his time, slowly undoing every knot, unfurling every nerve ending until I was a panting, sweaty mess.

He could always wreck me.

He laughed in that filthy way he did when he was getting me so revved up I lost the ability to talk. I wanted to move. Spread my thighs for him, raise my knees, so that he’d touch me like he knew he could. But he would not be rushed. It felt illicit to be doing this out here, the breeze of the ocean lifting the flaps of the cabana as J made his way over every inch of my skin.

I felt liquid and wild under Juan Pablo’s hands. He could always do that. With his eyes locked with mine, he moved so he was kneeling between my legs and ran his hands—rough from years of gripping baseball bats—on the inside of my thighs.

He crawled up on his knees as my thighs widened, adjusting for him. As if he could not hold himself back any longer, he pushed my dress up. I threw my own arms over my head, feeling languid and wanting to enjoy the familiar buzzing under my skin.

“You’re soaking through this, Nena.” He leaned in to kiss me as he palmed my sex over the wet lacy fabric.

I gasped as he gripped my thigh hard and circled his thumb over my clit.

“Juan Pablo.” I wasn’t sure if I was laughing or screaming, but he was touching me so I’d beg. I felt myself tighten and my hips started moving without my bidding, needing more.

“You know I go a little crazy when you get like this, Priscilla. Imma have to put my mouth on you.” He sucked his teeth, neck muscles tight from holding back until I told him he could.

“Tú no eres fácil, Juan Pablo.” It was more of a gasp than a statement, as our gazes were locked tight and I exhaled with a laugh.

“You only say that when you’re taunting me to turn you out,” he said, as he flashed me a filthy grin, and with the same thumb he’d been driving me out of my mind with, he slipped my underwear off.

He balled the lacy bit of fabric in his hand and pressed it to his nose, closing his eyes in apparent ecstasy. He spoke, eyes still shut tightly, as I laid there vibrating.

“You know what I miss?” he asked, but it wasn’t a question. Before I had a chance to say anything, he lowered himself to kiss me, his hands roaming over my belly. Fingers tracing the edge of my dress until he got my nipple out. My skin buzzed, anticipating what it would feel like to have his mouth on me.

“I miss this.” He traced a finger over the dark brown areola, and without a word brought his head down to lick at it. His tongue tracing the edges and lapping at the tip.