I dip the brush into the polish.
I’m not going back to high school. I still don’t give a shit about the French Revolution.
But he doesn’t press more, finishes his empanada, and grabs another as he pours some of the coffee I made. I glance up at his bare arms and neck, immediately flushing with heat. What would he look like if he’d grown up in my town?
That back would be covered in tattoos, for sure. Not a bad image, actually. The cords and muscles would look phenomenal covered in ink.
I blow out a slow breath and brush the paint on my toes, thankful I have something to do to distract myself. He hasn’t touched me yet this morning. I know we’re friends, but a little reassurance that he liked last night would be awesome because I’m starting to feel guilty.
I mean, his head was between my legs eight hours ago.
I sigh, the brush slipping over the top of my toe, painting it black. Son of a bitch.
I go to grab a napkin, but he’s there, sliding the stool up to the island in front of me and sitting as he takes my foot and the polish.
I only resist a little, but then I let him. I lean back on my hands as he pinches my toe between his fingers and cleans up my mess. Dipping the brush in and wiping it free of excess, he chews and paints, and I stare at his mouth, still wanting to see if I’m still on his lips.
“I want to do that to you,” I say in a quiet voice.
“Paint my nails?”
I remain silent, because he knows what I mean.
I want to taste him.
When I don’t answer, he looks up, and I see the realization. His lips twitch, trying to keep the smile away.
“You gonna push me away if I try?” I press.
He shrugs a little, moving to the next toe. “I don’t know. I usually don’t know that I don’t like something until it’s too late.”
That’s the conundrum. I like that he feels comfortable with me, but pushing too hard could ruin everything. And I don’t know how hard is too hard.
I shift my eyes, scared to ask but needing to. “Did you like it? What we did last night?”
He finally raises his eyes, and then in two seconds he tosses the brush and hauls me into his lap, pulling my hips into his body. “If you were still in bed when I’d woken up,” he says over my lips, “you would’ve found out how much I liked that.”
I can’t hold back the smile.
He grazes my mouth with his, saying, “How much I liked your lips.”
“Labios,” I whisper the Spanish word, wrapping my arms around his neck, my mind easing.
He dips his head down, grazing my throat. “Your neck.”
“Cuello.”
He grips my ass and pulls me up, biting my breast through my clothes. “And your breasts.”
I tip my head back, tingles everywhere. “Chichis,” I tease.
“And your cunt,” he murmurs, looking at me and sliding a hand between my legs. My clit begs for more.
I kiss his forehead. “Concha,” I instruct him.
We kiss, and I settle back in with him between my legs and my head spinning. Is he just having fun? I need to keep it fun. I can’t fall for him. What if he didn’t fall for me? I can’t be the hurt one.
“You can say cunt but not tits?” I ask.
He smiles, pushing me back up onto the counter. “One of my many mysteries.”
Both the English and Spanish words are pretty vulgar, but I’d let him say them to me. Just him.
He works on the rest of my toes, blowing on the black paint, and I’m glad I’m wearing leggings and a sweatshirt, so he can’t see the chills all over me. I’ve never seen a man do this for a woman before. I suddenly want him to wash my hair now.
“When did you get that Green Street tattoo?” he asks.
I lean back on my elbows. “When I was fifteen. Hugo, Nicholas, and Axel were in the same foster home. Hugo was aging out, but he was already at work. For a time—a short time—it just felt like…”
“Family.”
I nod, sad thinking about it. “I was naïve.”
At the time, I felt like I belonged to no one and nothing, and they were giving me a purpose. Everyone is searching for an identity, young people especially. It didn’t take me long to realize how small that world really was.
I take a bite of his second empanada. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
I sit back up and trace the words inked underneath his collarbone under his T-shirt. “When did you get this?”
He smiles up at me. “As soon as I turned eighteen. My dad has the same quote tattooed on him. He got it when he was falling in love with my mom.”