He's hard against my body, and I slide my hand to my back to touch him again.
“I like you, cariño… Perhaps too much,” he murmurs while I run my palm up and down his hard-on.
There’s a pang of seriousness in his voice, and even if it weren’t, I could tell there’s more than sheer amusement.
More than meets the eye.
More than he’s telling me.
More than lust.
He’s hard for me, but I’m not blind. I see how he reacts to me, and I know how I react to him. And I know how he had filled some pretty dark moments. And I also know how he holds a special place in my heart.
They all do.
And Kai allowed them to get close to me. And he’s either brilliant or incredibly stupid for doing that, but maybe he is onto something.
What good is sex without emotions?
Sometimes it’s great.
Sometimes the anonymity is great, the clear differentiation between a heart and a body. But sometimes, the chemistry is great, and the emotions–even when twisted and conflicted–only improve the connection.
And then there is the love forged in a battle. The proven love. Tested love. The fantasies consumed before commitment.
I’m not saying Kai has thought about that. Maybe he hasn’t even considered it. Or maybe he has.
Maybe this is about the absolute truth he was talking about sometime back.
You can never know who you truly are until your wishes, words, wants, and feelings are tested.
Until you have to choose.
Things are easy when you don’t have to prove yourself or make tough choices, and Kai is not that kind of man.
Nothing is easy with him.
Although everything seems easy with him.
I’m not so sure things are easy with Alejandro either. Or Francisco.
They are the underdogs. They’re driven. Alejandro has a bit of an upper hand. Like Francisco did. Unlike Francisco, he is not willing to lose it. And I’m not willing to say no to him.
His hands come to my hips and then move to my front, and I remember that night in New York when we met in Kai’s apartment. When we stood like now in front of the window, the view of Central Park in front of us.
“I like you too…” I say when his hands trail down before moving up.
And then down again.
And then he splays his fingers below my navel and pushes his fingers down, tracing a path to my slit.
His breaths get hot.
And mine turn to fire.
I lean back into him, as I did in New York, moving my hands back and clutching his thighs while he presses his hard-on against me.
I feel the wetness trickling when he slides his hands up, from my waist across my rib cage, and then straight to my chest.