I’ve got the same one etched on my left sleeve on a smaller scale. All of us who work for him do.
A monstrous yawn erupts from deep within his throat, breaking through the silence of my ogling. He must sense the burn of my stare because sheer seconds later, he’s peeking over his shoulder, our eyes meeting in the glass.
That fucking, sexy-ass grin slowly claims his sleepy expression. “Coño, mami. Good morning to you, too.”
My brow arches. “What?”
“Those little shorts.” He tips his chin at me. “Where you going dressed like that?”
Like what? All I’m wearing is high-rise jean shorts and a tied-up white tee, my hair held back in a high, wavy pony. I shrug, capping the mascara and screwing it shut. “Gotta play collections today.”
Ángel rises from my bed and effortlessly slides into his briefs as he saunters into the bathroom. He looks nothing short of a giant in the small space. “You roughing him up or seducing the motherfucker?”
Seduce Enrique? That’s fucking sick, and my face relays as much. “Neither. He’s fat, balding, and sweats profusely. Not my type, papi.”
Ángel’s arms wrap around me from behind, our stares locked in the mirror as his fingers dig into my stomach. “What about me? Am I your type?”
Absolutelyfuckingyes.
“Isn’t the answer obvious?”
Well, isn’t it? I let him fuck me raw. I’ve never let another man take me without protection, and he knows this. I made it known the first time I allowed it.
“It is,” he laughs against my shoulder. “I just want to hear you say it.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t play stupid. You know you look good.”
“And so do you, muñeca.” He tightens his hold on me, sliding one hand up to my neck. “We look good together.”
I don’t even know how to respond to that. He’s not wrong; we seem to fit one another seamlessly—a fact I like a little too much, but the point of the matter is, where is this coming from?
“You’re going to be late,” I remind him, breaking the spell of his intense gaze with a glance downward at my makeup bag. “And you still need to drop me off.”
There’s no way in hell I’d dare to open that can of worms right now. For as badly as I want to know, we don’t have time for it, and who knows what bullshit feelings that answer might elicit.
Feelings I have no business feeling when our arrangement has been clear since day one.
“Benni…” He spins me around, caging me between the sink and his hard body. “Que pasa? Why are you shutting down on me?”
I don’t miss the urgency in his tone, but it’s all the more prominent in those stormy irises. “I’m not shutting down on you, Ángel.” My throat bobs through a swallow, harder still when his head cocks aside, brows shooting up to the top of his head.
“No? ‘Cause I tell you I wanna spend the night with you and all I hear is, ‘Why, Ángel? Why?’ Then I tell you we look good together y se te va todo el color de la cara.” All the color drained from my face, or so he claims. It’s definitely gone now as he steps closer and lifts me onto the counter’s edge, invading every molecule of my space with his intimidating frame. “Let me ask you something… Why are you so surprised I want you for me?”
“I’m not,” I lie—right through my fucking teeth—earning me a hushed laugh.
”You sure act like it.”
“We said no strings.” I’m sure he doesn’t need a review of the memo, but I put it out there regardless, snapping my head away. I can’t look at him, an action that doesn’t fly with him remotely. A quick hand claims my jaw, turning me back toward him. That stare sears me down to my core.
“It worked for a while, a long while. But it’s not working for me anymore. I told you last night...quiero más.”
Why, Papá Dios? Why the fuck is he doing this now, right before he leaves for two months. “We can’t.”
“Why? Tell me what you think is stopping us,” he demands.
“You.” That one little word comes barreling out of my mouth of its own accord, making its way into existence before I can stop myself.
Ángel’s head rears back, dark brows cinching together. “Me? How?”
If only that weren’t another obvious answer, but I mean, we just went through this last night, did we not? He knows damn well why I’ve labeled him the roadblock.
“We need to go,” I repeat, gently pushing at his chest, but again, that doesn’t fly.
He presses himself impossibly closer, warm palms squeezing my thighs. “Nah, you need to tell me.”
I’m not repeating myself.
It’s a waste of time, a waste of my breath. Firm and resolute, I drag my gaze up to his, setting my hand flat on his hard chest a second time. “We need to go, seriously. You’re going to be late for whatever you have going on, and I need to catch Martinez before he leaves for the day.”
Several excruciatingly silent moments tick away as he holds my gaze, no doubt a test of my resolve until finally, he realizes I’m not backing down on this and eases away with what sounds like a semi-defeated sigh. “Fine. Tonight though. We’re finishing this conversation tonight, you hear me?”
“Tonight?” Even I can hear the dubiety in my voice.
Ángel grins, giving a quick tip of his dark head. “I’m not leaving until tomorrow, which means that tonight, we’re going out to have some fun. Then, I’m coming back here with you, and we’re going to finish talking about this.”
Why? Why now?
“You’re trying to kill me,” I whisper, spreading his grin further.
“Nunca.” Never. “I just want you, Benni. Acéptalo.”
I can’t accept it, I think to myself, squeezing my eyes shut. It’s so sudden, so out of left field that I hadn’t seen it coming. Or is it? How long hasn’t this worked for him anymore? How long has he supposedly wanted more?
The real question is, why aren’t you happy about it?
I nearly gasp as my subconscious jars me with the verity of my opposing reaction. I’ve laid awake countless nights thinking about this man, wondering who he really is, where he is, when he’s coming back to see me again.
Shouldn’t I be more ecstatic we seem to be on the same page?
“You ready to go?” I ask quietly, sliding onto my feet in hopes he’ll retreat.
He does, but not by much. He’s still so damn close I can smell me on him. “Where am I dropping you off?”
“My car. We left it at my job, remember?” Slipping past him, I pad into my room, grabbing my gold hoops from the porcelain dish on top of my dresser.
Ángel’s watching me put them in from the threshold. “And where is it you’re visiting Martinez?”
“He’s by Calle Ocho.”
“That’s on the way. I’m going with you,” he states, cutting my curious gaze upon him.
“You said you’re going to be late, though.”
Chuckling, he hitches a shoulder. “I’m already late, bella. They can wait.”
“El Jefe making them wait?” My lips curl in mock dissent. “Not a good look, papi.”