“I will,” he said, pressing the heel of his hand to it. “I will, Sofia, but fuck, c’mon, don’t tease me, c’mon, Sofia, I need...” He was officially begging.
With a regal nod that had his cock thumping against his hand, Sofia backed away slowly, not lowering her skirt but not raising it any higher either, and sat on the edge of her pink frilly bed. Without taking her eyes off Aish, the silk still held by one hand, she tossed the ballerina doll to the floor.
Aish was glad to hear the crack of its lifeless porcelain face against the tile.
Pushing herself up the bed until she was ensconced among all the satin-and-lace pillows, she tapped a spot at the foot of the mattress with her toes.
“Siéntate, guapo,” she commanded, and Aish was standing, toeing off his shoes, and kneeing up onto the bed between her feet like the most obedient of palace guards.
He leaned back on his heels. He let her admire him with those dark, liquid eyes as he worshipped her.
Her legs, those gorgeous, hardworking, miles-of-skin legs, were bared to him from her unpainted toenails to the creamy silk dipping between her thighs. He put his hands around the delicate bones of her ankle in fascination, amazed to see this again, to be allowed to touch her this way again.
He raised his eyes and saw her, his sun-stroked princess, so smart and filthy and serious and proud, sprawled for him because she wished it, sleeping with him because she chose it, listening to him because she allowed it. He was wrong in assuming she’d been the one who’d needed to change when he came here, but he would make amends now by changing for her. If she needed to move mountains, he’d help her push. If she needed quiet to let that big brain work, he’d shoot singing birds out of the sky. Her wants were beneficial and generous in a way Aish’s had never been. She deserved her wants, and he would help her achieve them.
He would tell her. He only had four days left.
“Take it out, guapo,” Sofia purred, shifting the skirt over her thighs so that it made a hissing sound. Or maybe that was Aish. “I haven’t gotten a good look at that big, beautiful dick in a decade. Let me see it, amor.”
His toes curled at that word—amor—and he put his hands on his zipper. “You too, Sofia. C’mon, raise that fucking skirt for me, baby. I need it. I need to see your pussy so bad.”
Her bare toes tickled at his hips like she was restless and needy, both crazy with all the fucking teasing, but she started to shift her skirt incrementally higher as Aish carefully slid down the zipper. The sound of the clothes—silk over skin, the buzz of the zipper—was the hottest soundtrack he’d ever heard.
With his zipper down and the bulge of his hard-on pushing his grey boxer briefs through the opening, he got a glimpse of light brown curls before she put a hand over herself.
“Sofia,” he groaned.
She kept the skirt trapped at her hip with her other hand. “Pull it out, Aish,” she said, and her voice was like magic. “Pull it out and I’ll spread my legs and you can see how wet I am, so wet, and I’ll use my fingers so you can see it and hear it, but you have to pull it out, pull it out, please, please, and touch it for me, fist that perfect hot cock, my handsome love...”
And every humming, spell-casting word as she spoke and he watched her face and her lips and her fingers, fluttering over where they hid her, was in Spanish. And he was ashamed and embarrassed and vibrating like a kid on the verge of coming because he knew, he knew as he gingerly pulled his cock through the opening in his briefs and she slowly slid her hand up to her stomach, showing him light brown curls, trimmed now in a way she wasn’t a decade ago, that for all of his noble pretension, this was why he’d learned her language.
He’d hoped and prayed and wished for this chance, a chance to touch her again and understand her lust-soaked words in her native tongue.
She made a delicious sound, like she was licking flan away from the spoon, as he fisted once down his cock and held it at his base. Held it up for her.
“Spread your fucking legs, Sofia,” he growled, because he was done, fucking done, she’d promised and he needed it, needed the wet and heat and pink and softness of his memories and current reality, needed to finally marry the two, and she did, almost like she wasn’t paying attention, her teeth digging into that lush bottom lip and her earthy eyes hungry on his cock, but his were just as hungry as those kissable knees widened and those sleek thighs spread and then, lovely curls parted to let him see her. Smell her.
She moaned, hurt, when a bead of clear precome came from his tip and ran down his shaft, dribbled over the back of his hand.
Fuck.
Yeah, she was beautiful, rosy and puffy lipped and peacocking her arousal for him in the mellow light of the overhead chandelier. Yeah, she was gloriously shiny. And yeah, she smelled good, she looked good, she looked like forever.
But he didn’t give a fuck about the look of her pussy. What he cared about was that she was showing him. In the light. In her castle. In her kingdom. Breaking every rule that had ever kept them apart. She was spread out and vulnerable and giving it up for him. To him.
With a restraint he’d never had, Aish carefully let go of his cock to crawl over her, watching her heavy-eyed approval as his shadow fell over
