“Since forever. I save it for special occasions.”
“This is special?”
“Absolutely.”
When their eyes connected, Santi knew instantly he hadn’t been hallucinating the electric charges passing between the two of them ever since they’d kissed.
“You’re not talking about words anymore, are you?” Saoirse’s voice was barely a whisper.
A counter’s width was suddenly too great a distance from her. Before he could think better of it—think of anything at all—Santi rounded the breakfast bar and had her in his arms, his mouth seeking answers to the questions that had been all but eating him alive since he’d moved in with her.
The heat and passion with which she met his fierce kisses were all the answer he needed. He scooped her up from her go-to perch on the kitchen stool and carried her into her bedroom—a room he had been strictly forbidden to enter. He wasn’t hearing a hint of a protest now...just a mumbled half thought about minding her hand.
“Don’t you worry, querida. I will never hurt you.”
Saoirse stiffened in his arms, pushing him back to arm’s length. “How can you say that? How can you make a promise like that?”
His gaze traveled from her pure blue eyes to her cheeks, flushed with the day’s sun and the moment’s emotion...her mouth. Her heaven-sent mouth that never needed an ounce of lipstick or gloss to make it shine the deep red it was now.
Because I love you.
Those were the words he ached to say. The risk he felt he couldn’t take.
“I made a promise.”
“To keep me legal, not to offer a life of wedded bliss.” Saoirse’s eyes were glued to his as if searching his very soul for any sign he would disappoint her. It was then he knew, without question, how much he loved her.
This moment—giving herself freely to another man—was a hurdle she’d not yet crossed after her idiot of an ex had betrayed her.
He swore softly under his breath. Santi couldn’t even imagine—didn’t want to imagine—the sort of man who would do that to a woman. More particularly the wiggly woman he was just barely managing to hold in his arms.
“Are you having some sort of internal battle?” She pressed her hands against his chest and fully extricated herself from his arms. “I can’t do this, Santi. Not if you don’t—”
She stopped in midflow, her lips still parted as if she were on the brink of making the same confession he wanted to. Opening her heart to the possibility of love.
Just as quickly she regrouped, grabbed his shirt and tugged him to her as if her very life depended on it.
When their lips met and bodies collided, Santi was virtually consumed by desire. He wanted each moment to be special for her. Cherished. Meaningful.
He forced himself to take things slowly...lovingly.
He might not be able to say the words that mattered most just yet. Por Dios! He felt them to his very marrow. Through the dappled light of the afternoon sun, their bodies moved in a synchronicity he only would have believed possible with a soul mate. Was this what true love was? Knowing, anticipating, finding just the right spot to stroke and caress her to elicit pleasure-filled moans? When they were physically as one, he could no longer hold back, whispering again and again as their bodies reached an unparalleled release in unison, “Te adoro. Te adoro.”
* * *
“There’s absolutely nothing in here we can eat and I’m starving,” Saorise wailed.
Having...relations...with Santi had ramped up her rumbling stomach to earthquake level.
Santi gave her booty a little bump, his thigh still deliciously bare of clothing, before draping his arm along the length of the refrigerator door.
For the love of St. Patrick and all his blessed leprechauns. Santiago Valentino floated her boat. If she’d had an entire armada he would float that, too. Having sex with him sounded just crude compared to what they’d just shared. If her heart wasn’t the beat-up bruised thing it was, she could almost, without laughing, call what had just happened between the two of them making love. A turn of phrase she’d thought, until now, best confined to soap operas.
“How about a ketchup and mayonnaise sandwich?” Santi smiled up at her, the glow of the refrigerator highlighting the outline of his lips. Lips now... Oh, there it was, the tooth along the lip thing that never failed to... Yup, there went her tummy, doing a giddy, swirly flip.
The uncharacteristic explosion of undiluted happiness was, officially now, a medical term in her book. The giddy, swirly flip. Who knew a man could come with a new vocabulary attached to him! She swallowed down her I’m-so-happy giggles and forced herself to focus.
“Mayonnaise and ketchup, you say? Well, normally I would agree that ’twould be a grand combination but we don’t have any bread.”
“Don’t you ever go shopping?”
“I’m not one to cast aspersions, but I do recall a certain someone moving in a week ago and all but eating me out of house and home.”
“Liar. There wasn’t any food here to eat when I moved in! I’ll tell you what I’m hungry for.” Santi popped the refrigerator door shut with his foot and tugged Saoirse’s fresh-from-the-shower body up against his. She drew swirls along the expanse of his chest with her index finger as she feigned considering whether or not to christen the kitchen while they were at it. They’d only done it twice. Once in the bedroom, a second time in the shower...third time even luckier?
“Have you ever had a Helibana?”
“What? Those sandwiches on the specials board down at Mad Ron’s?” She shook her head, just an itsy-bitsy disappointed that he hadn’t been hungry to ravish her. As if on cue, he dropped his lips to hers and drew from her a deeply fortifying kiss, their bodies connecting with erotic intent.
Okay...that would do. For now.
“Helibanas,” Santi said with a sigh when they finally managed to break away from one another. “My brothers and I used to eat them by the dozen.”
“I’ve seen two of your brothers.” Saoirse laughed softly at Santi’s faraway gaze. Food, it seemed, was his gateway to memory lane. “If your little brother is anything like the other two, I believe it. Do Valentinos only come in tall or extra tall?”
He didn’t answer and she watched as his eyes flicked up to the clock. Eight o’clock on Sunday night. She could practically see his mind zipping through a reel of decision making, his lips opening to begin a sentence, reconsider, then open again to start another. It had been a long day and as much as she’d like to jump back into bed, the man needed to be fed and watered.
“Santi, shall I put you out of your misery and drive down to Mad Ron’s and get you one of your cherished sandwiches?”
His grin widened. “Let’s both go. One definitely won’t be enough.”
He gave her cheek a noisy kiss and virtually bounded back to the bedroom, where their clothes had been dispensed with in ridiculously hasty fashion. Funny, she thought as she rounded the breakfast bar to follow him. This was the first time she’d wandered around her home—here or in Ireland—absolutely starkers and felt...beautiful. Her gaze shifted along to the bedroom door where she could hear jeans being tugged on and a song being half sung, half hummed. Was humming in Spanish even a thing?
She looked down at her body, the body she’d grown to despise over the last year, and gave it a grin. She felt good. She felt happy. About all of this. Nothing she wanted to put a name to. Not when it made her feel so click-her-heels-together