Come What May - L.K. Farlow Page 0,55
touch, I feel cherished, loved even.” My cheeks heat. “Not that I’m saying you love me or anything, just that—oh, God. Talk about ruining a good night.”
I cover my face with my hands and contemplate sinking under the water to hide.
“Hey, no.” Mateo pulls my hands away from my flaming cheeks. “Don’t hide from me.”
“I am so embarrassed.”
“Why?” He truly sounds puzzled.
“Because I…I implied you love me!”
Just like in the parking lot at my father’s funeral, he skims his index knuckle down beneath my jaw to my chin and tilts my gaze up to his. “Because I do—I do love you, mariposita.”
Slack-jawed, all I can do is stare.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” His lips tilt up into a teasing grin.
“I…you love me?” I search his eyes, looking for any hint of deception. But they’re as open and honest as ever. “You really love me.”
“Sí, I do.”
I swallow roughly as happy tears wet my cheeks. “I love you, too.”
His grin morphs into a megawatt smile. “Say it again.”
“I love y—” He leans down and captures the end of my sentence in a hotly passionate kiss.
Water sloshes as he feasts upon my lips, our tongues slide together in a sensual dance until we have to break apart to breathe.
My chest is heaving and so is his.
“You relax,” he tells me, rising to his feet, not even trying to hide his massive erection. “Your lips are too tempting and you need to rest.”
“Where are you going?”
“To shower.”
I sink down into the hot water, letting it lull me as I reflect on all that’s happened not only tonight, but over the past couple of months.
Mateo turns the knob for the shower and steps under the spray. Unabashedly, I watch him, taking note of the way his sudsy hands move over his body. He’s poetry in motion, taut and toned perfection, so much so that even something as banal as cleaning himself is mesmerizing.
Too bad for me, the show’s over and he’s wrapped in a towel before I can truly appreciate it.
“How do you feel?” he asks, running a smaller towel over his hair.
“Really good.” My voice sounds sleepy to my own ears.
Mateo smiles. “I’ll be right back with a towel.”
He returns dressed in a pair of fresh boxers. “Let’s get you back into my bed.” He switches the lever to drain the tub before helping me up and out. I allow him to dry me off and lead me back into his bedroom, stark naked.
It’s kind of crazy how comfortable I feel around him. But it’s undeniable, too; something in him calls to something in me. Mateo Reyes feels like home.
“Are you ready for bed?” he asks right as a huge yawn escapes me. “I guess that is a yes.”
I shrug. “What can I say? You wore me out.”
A look of pure, masculine pride overtakes his features. “Damn straight. Now, let me get you a shirt.”
“I packed pajamas.”
“I want to see you in my shirt though.” He crosses the room to his dresser and pulls out a threadbare t-shirt. “Arms up.” I comply and he slides the shirt over my head. It’s softer than silk and smells like him.
“Thank you.”
“No need to thank me; everything I do for you is my pleasure.”
I press up onto my tiptoes and kiss his cheek before getting into the bed.
Mateo crawls in after me, pulling me into his side so he’s wrapped around me big-spoon style. “Buenas noches, mariposita, te amo.”
“Good night, Mateo, I love you, too.”
I snuggle in deeper to his embrace, feeling lighter than I have in God knows how long, and within minutes, I’m lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of his heart, knowing that right now, it’s beating for me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mateo
The feeling of soft, supple flesh moving against my own wakes me. Seraphine is curled into me with her head nestled into my chest, her arm around my middle, and one of her legs is hiked over my own.
In short—I’m in paradise.
She shifts, mumbling nonsense as she rubs her face against my chest. At some point during the night, her hair escaped the confines of her bun. Dark strands tickle my nose and hide her face from me.
I brush the wayward locks out of the way. She looks so completely at peace here in my bed; I don’t want to move.
As gently as possible, I crane my neck to peek at the clock on my nightstand. It’s half-past seven, making a good hour and a half later than I usually get up.
I’d