“Stop,” I whisper, unsure if I’m speaking to him or my own body.
Both of them disobey that lukewarm command.
The muscles of Enrique’s jaw harden, just as his eyes do as he leans in close enough to whisper across my lips. “No.”
He’s taunting me with my own words from back in the sea. And I’m left just as frustrated as he probably was.
“Enrique,” I exhale. Something about his name on my lips makes it taste so wickedly good. Like a fingerful of frosting off a cake I was told not to go near. Or more like a sip of tequila snuck from my father’s liquor cabinet.
It seems to have a similar effect on him as he hears it. His dark eyes are like black fire. His breath is hot against my face. His muscles strain against the cloth of his shirt.
He bucks his hips, pressing harder into the soft, warm secret part of me hidden by nothing more than a flimsy piece of white cotton. That chaste slip of fabric makes the act even more obscene.
Enrique’s eyes fall to the gold cross settled against my throat. I feel the skin underneath it tingle, then burn.
“Are you truly Catholic?”
As if he gives a damn about my religion. I know what he’s asking, but the way he’s asked it has that two-headed snake of guilt and ecstasy slithering through my veins.
“Yes.”
Rather than backing off, he presses in harder, as though testing my faith. The rough denim collides with thin cotton. His hard bulge invades the yielding softness underneath. The first signs of the pain that would bring cause me to moan. With pleasure or protest, I’m not sure.
As though sensing that debate taking hold of me, Enrique snakes his hips, increasing the friction. The spasm that erupts down there answers the question fully.
“What are you doing?”
“Finding out just how strong your devotion is,” he says, slowly bucking his hips again, testing not just the underwear between my legs, but everything else about me as well.
“I am…” I whisper. I am what? Devoted? Strong? Willing?
All lies, if the stirring just above the area he teases means something.
“I can practically feel how wet you are through my jeans. I think the idea of me taking what you’ve promised not to give is even more exciting to you than swimming naked. More exciting than standing there on the beach with nothing on save for the pretty white panties protecting your precious chastity.”
He’s right. As appalling as the idea is, even the thought of it sends a shiver through me that definitely isn’t revulsion. His hands still hold mine captive near my head. His body leans lower over me, his chest grazing across my hardened nipples through my shirt. His hips invade the space between my legs, and now his thighs spread, forcing mine wider.
Enrique could so easily take me now, and there’d be nothing I could do about it.
I hate myself for being turned on by that.
“I think,” he says, lowering his head enough to whisper in my ear, “I’ll punish you myself.”
My eyes flash wide with panic, realizing that he might actually—
He releases my hands, and I blink in surprise. When he lowers his head once again, it isn’t to whisper in my ear. Instead, I feel his lips on the tenderest space just beneath it where it meets my jaw.
I’m not sure if it’s a gasp or a sigh I feel escape my lips. Which direction is my breath even going? It doesn’t matter, because when his kiss continues to descend, I stop breathing altogether.
Why haven’t I used my free hands to push him away yet? Even now, fully cognizant of my ability to do so, I keep them up in surrender.
But it feels…amazing. In all the wrong ways of course. No wonder the Church warns against this sort of thing. It could cause a person to lose control. And we haven’t even taken our clothes off.
His mouth comes to a stop at my throat. My eyes go wide once again when I realize why.
“Enrique!” It’s a whisper, but there’s no missing the urgency of my warning.
He patently ignores me, dragging me right down to the lowest level of depravity as his tongue darts out, drawing circles around the gold cross. The circles contract, coming closer and closer until the very tip of his tongue outlines it, as though for my benefit. As if that symbol isn’t right now searing my skin with its imprint. Then he does the unthinkable, lapping it right into his mouth with his tongue, sucking on it for just a second before releasing it. It lands against my skin, wet and hot, as corrupted as I now feel.
“Please…” This time it’s more of a cry.
Enrique just chuckles, wicked vibrations tickling my chest.
I was right, back there on the beach, when I declared Enrique the serpent himself. And here I am, playing Eve, letting that wicked tongue have its way with me—tempt me.
He rises up to stare down at me. I feel the cool air of the hotel room dance across the wet outline of the cross still clinging to my skin. I wonder if this was a form of torture used by the Spanish Inquisition, teasing the sinner in the most indecent ways with their own hypocrisy.
His eyes pierce me, like two obsidian blades sinking past this thin facade of good to find the sticky, sweet evil underneath.
“I wonder just how far I could push you before you reached the edge of your limits.”
Rather than wait for an answer, he moves further down on the couch, his body slinking across mine until his head is positioned right between those legs that he forced open.
What the hell is he doing?
It comes at me like a shockwave when I feel his fingers scrape across my hips, digging into