The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,116
flowing more freely, a manic air that suggests this feeling inside me, this desire to jump out of my own skin and don another, has seeped into everyone else on board. The revelry has taken on an edge.
It is a night for caring little of what others think.
I tried to go back to my cabin, climbed into bed and stared up at the ceiling, running through all the reasons this was a terrible idea in my mind. In the end, none of them matter.
My knuckles rap against the wood.
A muffled voice on the other side says, “Come in.”
I open the door, my legs shaking beneath my dress. I can scarcely believe that I’m doing this, and at the same time, after everything, I can’t imagine anywhere I’d rather be.
Rafael is seated in a chair in his cabin, in the process of removing his shoes.
He glances up as I close the door behind me, turning the lock with a resounding click.
He stills. “Grace.”
He doesn’t rise, and so it is up to me to cross the room to him, my gaze trained on his face, the expression in his dark eyes unreadable.
I stop in front of him, the skirt of my dress whispering against the fine fabric of his trouser leg. His collar is unbuttoned; his necktie is discarded on the arm of the chair, the first few buttons of his white shirt open.
His chest is tan, and the sight of his exposed flesh sends a thrill through me.
“You said I had to decide,” I say, a shaky breath escaping my lips.
“Did you?”
“It hardly feels like a night for big decisions, and as much as I wish I knew what the future held, I don’t. But tonight I want you. This. Is that enough?”
He doesn’t answer me, but he rises from his chair, his big body uncoiling until he reaches his full height. The pants he borrowed are a little short for his long legs, and I seize on that tiny imperfection to calm my nerves.
My heart thunders in my chest.
“No one can know,” I say. “What happens between us tonight is just for us. They’ll see me as one of your women, and they won’t take me seriously otherwise.”
Hearst can parade around the office with a showgirl on each arm, but for a woman trying to make it in a man’s world, the standards are very different.
“‘One of my women’?” His lips quirk. “There’s only you, Grace. And I won’t tell a soul.”
I lean forward, unmistakably charmed by his words, just as he bends down, and we meet somewhere in the middle, his lips pressing against mine, brushing back and forth, hesitant at first, before my mouth parts and his arms tighten around me, bringing me closer to him.
It feels as though we’re picking up where we left off on New Year’s, and we both dive into the kiss, without the need for formalities.
He strips the layers of clothes from my body with the practiced ease of someone who knows his way around a woman’s boudoir, and in this, I’m grateful for his experience where I have none. Rafael’s hands are gentle as he removes each piece of clothing, teasing away my nervousness until I am left with only desire.
With each caress, I cannot help but indulge in my own curiosity to explore his body, and I reach for him, tugging at his remaining clothes, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, fumbling with his trousers, until he is nude before me.
Rafael sweeps me up in his arms and carries me over to the bed, setting me down gently on the mattress.
He looms above me, and as he enters me, our gazes meet, and I am undone.
Forty-One
I wake early the next morning to the sight of Rafael propped up on his elbow, watching me sleep.
The intimacy of the moment catches me off guard, the sight of a naked man in bed with me momentarily startling, even if the view is more than pleasing. I explored every slope and plane of his body last night multiple times, and I have little regret over the matter.
“What time is it?” I ask, my voice husky with sleep.
“I’ve heard some commotion around the ship. I think everyone is readying to go to Siboney to file their stories.”
“Oh no.” I leap out of bed, remembering Hearst’s words at the dinner table last night, his desire to take our report of the battle back to the temporary headquarters we set up at Siboney, the village in Santiago where