The Latin Lover

“Liar.”

He winked. “Perhaps once or twice I have eyed the competition, but a man must learn how to make love to a woman, not merely have the tool to do so. It matters not how one measures in comparison without that.”

“Even if that measurement is very impressive?”

“Be careful, or you will make me blush.”

“Maybe I’d like to see that.”

“I think you would rather feel right now, byba. Don’t you?”

“I don’t know…would I?”

He came down on the double lounger, his hot body above hers. “Trust me, you would.”

“I do trust you, Spiros. More than anyone or anything.”

“I am glad to hear it, Phoebe.” He leaned down and kissed her again, then started divesting her of her clothing. “Let’s get rid of these, shall we?”

“If you insist,” she tried to joke, but her voice came out too breathy, and just a little high.

“Oh, I do.” His voice was sultry, and sensual as sin. Wow. Just wow. And maybe darn.

His fingertips traced her skin as he removed her clothing, sending shivers throughout her body as he removed one article of clothing after another. She’d expected him to spend extra time on commonly accepted erogenous zones, was even preparing herself for it. What she was not prepared for was the way he found nerve-rich centers in the most unexpected locations and spent time with his hands and mouth playing to her sensitivity.

Places like the arch of her foot. And just behind her knee. And the small of her back. The nape of her neck. And the underside of her chin. Yes, her nipples were responsive, achingly so, but by the time he got to them she was so aroused she cried out in pleasure as his mouth closed over one hardened bud. When he sucked, she bowed up off the lounger, feeling the cataclysm she had felt once before at his touch building inside her again. And he brought her to it without giving her a chance to catch her breath or touch him or anything. Building, building, building, until her whole body went rigid and then convulsed in ecstasy.

She lay there, a boneless heap, and thought at least this time she hadn’t passed out.

He wasn’t finished with her yet, though. In fact, from the rigid hardness pressing against her, he was a long way off from it.

He started touching her again—this time his hands going between her legs, his fingertip slipping inside her, pressing massaging…making her ache all over again. He added another finger to the first as he started speaking to her, telling her how beautiful she was, how much she excited him, how different it was with her than any other woman he had been with, how she was made for him.

She didn’t think he knew what he was saying…she’d heard of sex talk…but she liked it. She didn’t care if he didn’t mean it. Hearing those things while he touched her so intimately made the experience absolutely right.

He built the ecstasy again, slowly but inexorably, until she was shaking underneath him and begging him with little whimpers to complete his possession of her body. When he did it, there was a stinging pain that made her cry out and try to push him off her.

But he didn’t move. At all. He just waited, talking in that low, seductive voice right in her ear. Telling her it would get better, that the pain was natural, inevitable in one so innocent. And he was right…it did get better. She made an experimental wiggle and an arc of enjoyment shot through her.

He began to move, and she realized the pain wasn’t gone completely, but pleasure was there too. And it was so special, so incredibly intimate to have him inside her, that she would not wish him anywhere else.

He reached between them, carefully touching the bud of her pleasure as he continued to talk to her between kisses, coaxing her body into the response he wanted. And when he climaxed with a shout, the pulse of warmth, the swell of his flesh inside her at the last moment, sent her over the edge again. This time she collapsed back onto the lounger, just barely with it enough to notice the sting as he withdrew slowly.

“Does it hurt every time?” she asked.

“No. But we need to let you heal before we repeat this experience.”

“Oh.” Healing sounded good. The experience had been awesome, putting all her fears about him not being truly attracted to her at rest, but she was going to be feeling it for a while, she could tell.

He cuddled her for a long time, before bathing with her, keeping constant physical contact, but he wouldn’t let her spend the night because it would upset her parents, he said.

His insistence that she leave heightened her certainty that she had to go through with the proposal for him and her father she had been working out in her head over the past twenty-four hours. She was pretty confident of their physical relationship, but there were still some assurances she needed.

They made plans to meet in her father’s office the next afternoon, and then she drove herself home, sure that if he loved her she wouldn’t be spending the night alone—not after they had made love the first time.

Spiros watched Phoebe come into the room with a foreign hunger. It was more than simply being turned on by her presence. He was hungry for her, not just her body. He’d missed her over the past weeks, and last night had only brought into sharp relief how much.

He’d hated sending her home after their time of intimacy. But he would not be responsible for her parents getting angry with her or denigrating her actions.