Clutch Hit, Faith O'Shea [read along books TXT] 📗

followed his feverish movements, and when he pulled her back into a hold, her hips still obeyed what his hands had dictated.

When he began to sing, the Spanish seductive, his voice took her to another dimension of sensory delight. The baritone ignited her nerves with the kind of tension only he could master.

“You are feeling it, yes?”

She was. It moved through her like quicksilver and it was intoxicating. Or maybe it was the way he held her, or merely the way he looked. He was laughing, his face free from worry and expectation. This was someone who loved life and found happiness everywhere. It made him even more beautiful than the man she’d married.

He’d worn a black silk shirt, opened to mid-chest, revealing a thatch of matted dark hair, and it was tucked into a pair of black slacks, his pants fitting his solid form perfectly. His hair was unruly from his exertions, and his eyes glittered with pleasure. And she wanted him. Not just for today but forever.

When the dance was over, she buried her fingers in his hair and pulled him close, hot need bubbling up inside. He gently loosened the hold, cradled her head in his palms and whispered, “Whatever I was looking for esposa, it was always you.”

He followed that with a kiss that was soft and tender, and she felt her legs turn to jelly.

As if the DJ knew she needed to stay within his embrace, the next song was slow, but instead of moving her around the dance floor, he remained in place, making love to her with his hands. His breath was hot against her face when he murmured, “I think we need to leave soon, querida. You feel too good and I need you too much.”

Desire, hot and sharp, clawed at her, and she could do nothing but nod in agreement. She was in a daze when they said their goodbyes to Fiona and Rique, and Mateo led her out into the frigid air.

All the way home, he stroked the inside of her thigh, increasing the building tension, and once they reached the elevator, he trailed kisses down her neck, his thumbs brushing the swells of her breasts. After fumbling with the key, he threw it on the hall table and began stripping her of her dress and undergarments. When she was fully exposed to him, he freed himself, lifted her up against the wall, and captured her with his hardened body, not stopping until she was shuddering against him and he had spilled himself into her.

Their hearts pounded together in the aftermath, his body limp from the explosive release, his arms still supporting her as best he could. His loss of control had scared him. He’d always prided himself on his discipline, but it had vanished at some point on the dance floor. Her body had become one with his, and they’d become inexplicably bound together beyond vows, beyond reason.

In a ragged voice he demanded, “Wrap your legs around me.”

Without thought, she did, her arms wound tightly around his neck. He carried her to his room and laid her down on the bed. As he relieved himself of his clothes, his eyes were riveted on her. She was exquisite, flushed now from their lovemaking, and open to his gaze. When she reached out for him, he wanted to believe she always would.

He nestled her against him, tangled his legs with hers, and listened to her breathing as it evened out and sleep claimed her.

He was held spellbound by the way she looked in his arms.

He didn’t know what he was going to do when he wasn’t with her every night. Like this.

And yet he was lucky. Rique would be leaving his fiancée behind and have to be satisfied with occasional visits. He’d at least get to see Allie every day. If only she’d be willing to admit they were married. Then he could play the part. Be the husband he wanted to be. He wouldn’t need to hide the smile of appreciation when she came into view, or the open admiration for who she was and what she did. They could play, go clubbing, or just hold hands.

He had such a dim memory of his mother and father together, didn’t really know what love between a man and a woman looked like. He’d never witnessed devotion or sacrifice, although at six, he wasn’t sure he would have known what that was. Manny had been gone a lot, trying to escape the dire circumstance that was their life in the nineties. It had become known as the special period. It was special, all right. They’d almost starved when the government launched an austerity program, trying to keep the island afloat after the Soviet Bloc fell. His mother had stood in line for hours, her hand in his, to find empty shelves when they got to the front.

He bristled at the memory. His father had given no thought to anything but his own needs. If Allie had walked through the Plaza de Armas twenty years ago, his father might have been one of the men sitting, discussing, smoking, playing dominoes. He had his cronies and his stipend. So many had let ambition go or maybe they’d had to bury it. The state had prohibited individual enrichment and expected its people to volunteer to build, to plant, to labor in the factories. At least when his father was out of the house, it was quiet. Chaos returned every night when he walked through the door, and Mateo had cowered under his bed more than once, in the dark due to power outages, as the arguments escalated, about money and about shortages. Then his father was gone, promising he would send for them when he was settled, but it went unrealized. His mother had prepared for that, never believing Manny would find room in his new life for them. He’d heard from him once, when he was twelve, informing him of his new family and