7. Chapter 5 #2
She fits against me like she was meant to — the curve of her waist beneath my other hand, the soft catch of her breath against my skin, the faint, delicate tremble I feel when I pull her closer.
The world narrows instantly to this: the taste of her, the heat of her body, and the wild, raw thrum of my heart hammering against my ribs.
It’s too much — and yet not enough.
I kiss her more deeply, sensing the soft, instinctive sound she produces in the back of her throat, feeling her fingers faintly clutching at my shirt.
She’s softness where I am steel, warmth where I am cold, and it unravels me. I force myself to pull back, chest tight, breath unsteady. She stares up at me, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted — and for a second, I almost lean in again.
But I stop.
Because if I keep going, I know there’s no clean way back. I will end up shoving her into the back of my car.
I lower my head, bringing my mouth just close enough to her ear to murmur something low, half a warning, half a confession — words too quiet for her to catch, but heavy enough to burn inside my own throat.
Then I straighten.
I step back, dragging in a slow, steadying breath, forcing control back into every inch of my body.
“We should go,” I say quietly.
She nods, her expression smoothing, the graceful mask sliding back into place — but I catch the faint tremor in her hands as she gathers her purse.
We walk to the car in silence, the air between us humming, crackling with everything we didn’t say.
And as I open her door and watch her slide in, I know — deep down, with absolute certainty:
This isn’t just political anymore.
I want to fucking hear her moan my name as her breasts giggle in my face.
The car hums quietly as we pull away from the restaurant, city lights blurring past in streaks of gold and silver.
Mara sits beside me, quiet, her hands folded lightly in her lap, her profile soft and thoughtful, and all I can think about is to take her hand and guide it to my twitching cock.
I grip the steering wheel, jaw tight.
The taste of her lips still lingers — the kiss, the heat, the soft press of her body against mine.
I tell myself to stay focused. To keep the boundary clear. But my mind is already bending in dangerous directions. Thinking about all the positions I can enter her from.
Her phone buzzes in her purse. I glance sideways, saying nothing, but every part of me sharpens.
She pulls it out, glancing at the screen.
I catch the faint furrow of her brow — a flicker of hesitation. She ignores it and slides the phone back into the purse on her lap.
The silence stretches, but her device buzzes again. She jumps slightly, pulling the phone back out.
She sighs softly, glancing sideways at me before answering.
“Cristóbal.”
The name hits me like a sharp crack to the ribs.
Cristóbal.
I keep my face smooth, my eyes forward, but inside, every sense locks onto that name like a weapon snapping into place.
I listen.
The voice on the other end is sharp, agitated — even through the low murmur, I can pick up the tone, the edge, the demanding undercurrent.
“Where the hell have you been, Xiomara?”
Her voice softens, dipping into something careful, almost apologetic.
“I’m busy, Cristóbal. I’ll call you back.”
“Busy with what?” the voice bites. “You’ve been—”
“Cristóbal,” she says, a firmer note slipping in. “Later.”
She hangs up swiftly, exhaling softly, fingers lingering a moment on the phone before she slides it back into her purse.
The warmth between us — the soft undercurrent that’s been weaving through the night — flickers and dies. The car fills with a cooler, heavier silence. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, feeling the sharp grind of possessiveness uncoil deep in my chest, unwelcome and undeniable.
Who the hell is Cristóbal? A friend? A confidant? Something more? And what claim does he have over her?
I remind myself this should be none of my concern — that this marriage is going to be fake and temporary. That I’m meant to be her exit to freedom, and not to covet her.
But the thought to deal with this caller keeps circling, darker and sharper with every passing mile.
I glance sideways at her — at the way she stares out the window, her expression distant, her brow faintly furrowed.
I wonder if she feels the shift.
If she knows I’m already recalculating, already filing away the name, the tone, the tension — already deciding that no one, no matter how long they’ve known her, no matter what place they think they hold, will interfere.
When we pull up in front of the Delgado estate, I step out silently, circling to her door.
She looks up as I open it, her expression smoothing back into practiced grace.
“Thank you for tonight,” she says softly.
I nod once, cool and composed on the surface.
But inside, everything is burning.
She steps out, her perfume brushing faintly against me as she passes, her delicate peach dress catching the porch light.
I watch her ascend the steps, slipping back into her world, her walls, her name.
My jaw tightens, hands balling faintly at my sides.
Cristóbal.
The name echoes again in my head, dark and heavy.
As I slide back into the car and pull away, the road blurring ahead of me, I know one thing for certain. This arrangement just got more complicated. Because Mara Delgado isn’t just an alliance anymore, she’s already becoming a war I’m not sure I can win.
But hell will receive more tenants before I let anyone else claim her.