Chapter 33
thirty-three
Nessa
The world takes on a peachy glow as the sun dips lower in the sky and the event wraps up. I meander the aisles, relishing the scents of hay and popcorn in the air. Between the hay and sunshine, the morning’s mud is now caked earth.
Families linger at the tall wooden photobooths, taking pictures of their children’s faces centered in oversized painted sunflowers. A few feet from there, Shua is inside a pen with a litter of golden retriever puppies.
I step inside and sit next to him, bumping his shoulder. “How’s your volunteer experience, mister?”
The puppies climb all over him, licking and nipping, making us laugh. He passes one of the dogs to me, and I cuddle and coo as I stroke the golden fur.
“Amazing. Today was a-may-zing . These are the last puppies available.” He puffs out his chest, making direct eye contact, looking so much wiser than his sixteen years. “I made a decision too.” He peers around, then ducks his head, and in a low voice says, “I’m going to become a vet.”
Mirroring his tone, I ask, “Why are we whispering?”
“Because I’m going to be way better than Dr. Kelly,” he says.
I give him a knowing grin and bump his shoulder with mine one more time. “I have no doubt you will.”
We continue to play fetch and tug-of-war with the little guys until they flop over with exhaustion.
“Time to pack up, kids. Town meeting is starting soon” the elderly tech calls to us.
Shua and I carry the last few pups into the vet building and get them settled. In their crate, they pile on top of one another, snuggling up.
“Reminds me of when you’d insist we have slumber parties during family vacations. Climbing into bed and making up stories about adventures with your imaginary friend. What was his name?” I ask.
“Harley,” Shua says with a smirk. “Because I wanted us to have motorcycles.”
“Yeah, Harley. You’d pretend to ride all over the world. And look at you, about to plan an even bigger adventure.” He’s growing up so quickly. Tears start to form, and I press the corner of my eyes, hoping to prevent them from falling.
“Stop it,” he says with a soft shove. “I have a whole year of high school left.”
Then why do I feel like my job as mom is done if they’re all adults? Do I want to be a mom-mom?
“Hello?” the tech calls back to us. “I need to lock up before town hall. Rabin kids, you coming?”
Looping his arm with mine, my brother steers me away from the puppies, not knowing he just stirred a big question in me.
Am I going to let one bad relationship dictate the kind of family I want to build?
Jim knocks the gavel against the wooden podium, calling the room to attention.
“Nice to see everyone here. I’m going to keep this evening short since it’s been a long weekend.
I’d like to take a minute to thank all of the businesses, volunteers, and of course, the co-chairs for making this festival such a wonderful experience. ”
The responding applause is tepid due to a mix of low attendance and volunteers moving larger items indoors until they can be returned to storage for next year. Shua and I weave our way around the obstacles until he sees a group of his friends. He gives me a high five, then takes off toward them.
Delia and River stand together, locked in a conversation about the breakdown crew and what will happen to turnover The Featherweight tomorrow for the week ahead.
I linger, trying to figure out where I want to be, when someone steps up from behind me. I tense momentarily, but when I discover it’s Mateo, I immediately sink into his warmth.
“I need to go home,” I admit.
“Let’s go.” With his arms slung low around my waist and his front pressed to my back, he attempts to turn us.
“Won’t they notice?” I ask, glancing around.
“Out of respect for everyone’s time, we’re going to postpone any further business until next week,” Jim says.
The crowd erupts into cheers.
“Run,” Mateo says, a playful grin splitting his face.
He speeds toward the exit, turning to check for me over his shoulder.
I take off after him, and we cut across the square and zigzag to my street. Mateo jogs slow enough to hold a normal conversation, while my muscles are burning.
As we hit a small hill, my panting becomes full-on gasps for air. Damn, I’m out of shape.
“Hop on,” Mateo calls, tapping his shoulders.
“What?”
“Come on, I’ll give you a piggyback ride. We’ll still get back twice as fast.”
Laughing, I jump onto his back. He holds my legs tight under the knees and speeds past the final few houses. Once we’re on the front porch, he eases me to my feet and breathlessly captures my mouth with his.
“I’m feeling pretty gnarly after running around in the sun all day.” He gives me an exaggerated sniff. “And phew! You are ripe.”
“Shut up.” I give him a playful shove.
“I thought we were at the point where we could be honest.” His mouth splits into that stupid dimply grin that is my undoing.
“Good thing I have a solution. ” Smirking, I drag him toward the bathroom.
As we stumble in, I shush him. The house isn’t very large, and Delia could be home any minute now.
The moment the door clicks shut, he has my back against the smooth surface.
Pressing his hips harder into me, the strain of his cock against the fabric of his pants sends a shiver up my spine.
Our mouths reconnect, his tongue parting my lips to deepen the kiss.
My fingers ache with the need to touch him, so I slip my hand beneath his shirt.
His body is smooth and rippled, and I relish in the heat emanating from it.
He’s been so patient with me. Even when he’s been able to chase his own release, his whole focus has been on me. My wants, my needs, my desire.
That desire is growing as the swarm of emotions from today leaves behind the urge to build. To connect. To try.
Stepping back, he removes his shirt in one swift motion, and I feel the cold air briefly before he’s returned. A dizzying speed takes hold, his lips on mine while his hands skim under my layers.
Pulling apart, he removes my top gently, leaving me in a sturdy beige bra. This is nothing like the sexy items I’ve come prepared with in the past. Pausing, he asks me gently, “Is everything okay?”
I nod, but the way my teeth worry my lip betrays my thoughts.
He licks a line up the column of my throat to my ear and says, “If I’m being honest, I like this better than the fancy sets.”
Pressing a hand into his powerful broad chest, I pull back and survey him. I look deep into his eyes and assess the lines that crinkle around them. The wide smile that causes that fucking dimple to pop. The soft and boyish way his face comes together around his smile.
“I don’t get you,” I admit, my throat tightening.
“I like that you’re being the real you,” he says so casually it takes me a moment to process his words. Real .
Zeroed in on my cleavage, he works the five-hook clasp of my least sexy bra.
When the clasp is undone and the support of the bra is removed, my breasts drop against the upper part of my ribs.
He tosses the bra behind him, then dives back in to continue his exploration of my naked body. We break apart here and there to wrestle free of our remaining clothing, leaving each piece in a pile on the floor.
I double- and triple-check that the door is locked as Mateo turns the knobs.
The old pipes groan and clang, but the spray warms quickly.
The steam begins to rise, but the mirror is not yet fogged as I catch sight of us, my head barely skimming his shoulders.
Fully exposed and on bare feet, I take in how tiny my five-foot frame is next to his six-foot-two.
I wrap my arms around him from behind and run my hands along every inch of his torso, diving into the details of the tattoo sleeve at my eye level.
He opens the curtain and steps in, then extends a hand to me. Taking it, I follow him into the warm spray. I continue to trace around the ink and examine with delicate touches as he tosses his head back, allowing the water to run through his silky strands.
“Can you tell me about this?” I ask, my tone sweet and sincere, the usual banter and agitation all but a distant memory. I’ve landed someplace curious and demure. I’m usually anything but demure—I’m far more demonic when it comes to him.
“That,” he points to the circular center, “is an eight-rayed sun. It’s a symbol from the Philippine flag and represents the original eight provinces that fought for freedom.
The Spanish arrived and called us the painted ones because of the number of tattoos the indigenous people had.
I don’t know as much about the history of my culture as I probably should, but my grandparents, who lived on the islands, passed stories down to my parents, who passed them on to me.
I brought a bunch of old photos with me to the tattoo shop and asked the artist to design something that integrated several indigenous traditions.
These lines look like the traditional patterns from far away, but if you look within, there are repeating courts and nets.
The nets are my favorite because it ties basketball to the fishing history of the islands. ”
I follow around the lines and find myself giggling a little. “What’s with the old-school S out of the ’90s?”
“There are a few letters mixed in, actually. The S, an M, and an E. For the family, but I really don’t want to think about my family when I have you naked like this.” He levels me with a carnal look, then pulls me to him so that his hard cock is resting against my upper stomach.
I lower slightly to reach for the soap behind him, and the shift in position causes him to slide between my breasts. I tease him like this a few times, relishing the effect I have on him as his cock stiffens further.
The groan he releases creates a fire in my belly, and I’m confronted by the desire to slide a bit farther and capture his head between my lips.
Am I about to surprise him and initiate the one thing I said I would never do? Will I break my rule?
Rules? Where we’re going, we don’t need rules.
I lower onto my knees, my face centimeters from his veiny, thick shaft.
Looking up through my lashes and drops of shower water, I say, “Fuck it.”