21. Alejandro
Alejandro
Her thighs tighten around my hips and I forget how to be decent.
Sun leaks through my blinds, painting her skin in soft gold, and she’s already moving—slow grind, deeper roll—like she woke up with a mission to wreck me.
Saturday belonged to us, lost between the sheets and the feel of her body. Now, so does Sunday morning.
“Look at me, mi reina.” My hands bracket her waist, thumbs skating over warm skin. “Ride me.”
She plants her palms on my chest and takes what she wants.
Steady at first, then confident when she feels how hard I am for her.
I meet her halfway, thrusting up, making her bounce, the mattress complaining under us.
Her head tips back, hair spilling over her shoulders, a breathy sound slipping out that I catch with my mouth and swallow down.
“You feel that?” I rasp against her lips. “All yours, mi amor. Own it.”
“Alejandro—” It’s a gasp and a plea.
“Faster.” I slip one hand lower, guiding her hips, greedy for the way she takes me to the base and holds me there. “Give me everything.”
She obeys. God, she always does when she’s like this—needy and bold and completely mine. I pin her wrist to my chest and slide my other hand between us, thumb circling that spot that makes her come apart. Her rhythm stutters. She tries to smother a moan; I shake my head and kiss her jaw.
“No te calles,” I murmur, rough and soft at once. “Don't be quiet with me.”
She lets it go. The sound rips out of her—raw, gorgeous—and I chase it, pulling her down hard and grinding up until she’s shaking.
Her nails scrape my ribs; pain licks up my spine and something in me snaps.
I sit up, catch the back of her neck, kiss her like I’m starved, then flip her in one motion, laying her out beneath me.
“Hands over your head,” I tell her, pressing her wrists to the pillow. “Good girl.”
Her chest rises fast, eyes dark and locked on mine.
I push in slow, savoring, every inch a new reason to lose my mind.
When I’m fully inside again, we both go still, hearts drumming the same pace.
I slide out and drive back in, harder, deeper, setting a punishing push and pull that makes her bite her lip.
“Don’t hide from me,” I growl, thumb tugging her bottom lip free. “Let me hear you.”
She unravels—no mask, no guard—just Bee, flushed and open and perfect.
I keep my grip on her wrists and angle my hips to find the place that steals her breath.
The second I feel that little catch in her throat, I lock there and work it, relentless, giving her exactly what she begs for without words.
“We’re… we’re going to be late,” she manages.
“I’ll light a candle,” I grunt, driving deeper. “You handle the praying.”
She laughs, a sound that crumbles into a whimper when I drag my mouth down her throat and nip the spot that makes her shiver.
I release her wrists so I can touch her everywhere—palms mapping her, thumbs teasing over tight peaks until her back leaves the bed.
I take one into my mouth, slow and focused, and she arches, offering me more.
My hand finds her again between her thighs, slick and pulsing, and I rub tight circles, ruthless and exact.
“Say my name,” I order, lips hot against her skin.
“Alejandro,” she gasps. “Please—”
“Asi. That's it, hermosa. Now come for me.”
She breaks beautifully, muscles clamping around me, voice catching on a curse that makes me curse back. I don’t stop. I keep the rhythm unforgiving and work her through every aftershock until she’s boneless, blinking up at me, lips parted, eyes blown wide.
I’m gone. Completely. I hook her leg over my hip and drive harder, chasing my own edge, one hand cradling her jaw so she can’t look anywhere but me. “Mine,” I grit, each thrust a promise. “Dímelo. Tell me now.”
“I’m yours,” she whispers, then louder when I hold still, buried deep. “I’m yours. Always.”
That’s it. Heat explodes up my spine. I push as deep as I can go and break, groaning into her mouth, everything inside me spilling while she tightens around me like she’s trying to keep me forever.
We stay there, locked together, the room quiet except for the thud of our hearts and the hum of the morning.
I ease out and gather her onto my chest without giving distance a chance to sneak back in. She curls into me, cheek warm to my collarbone, fingers tracing slow lines over my sternum. I kiss her hairline, her temple, the corner of her mouth—small, reverent things that make her smile against my skin.
“We’re terrible,” she mumbles, still smiling.
“Completely,” I say, brushing a curl from her face. “And I’m still putting on a clean shirt and walking into your church with you.”
Her head tips back so she can see me. Something tender flashes in her eyes. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” I hold her face, thumbs skimming her cheeks because I need her to feel every word. “I will sit next to you and hold your hand. If anyone looks over, they will see me there with you. No hiding.”
Her throat works. She nods, blinking fast. “Okay.”
“Shower,” I say, mouth curving. “Or I’m going to prove we learned nothing.”
She snorts and kisses me slow—sweet this time, grateful.
We peel off the sheets and step into the bathroom.
Steam climbs the mirror while the water warms. I pull her under with me, palms smoothing over damp skin, no rush now, just quiet touches and soft laughter when I bump her hip on purpose.
She tilts her face up, eyes closed, letting the water run over her, and I swear I’ve never seen anything holier.
“You good?” I ask, forehead to hers.
“I’m good,” she whispers, hands flat to my chest. “You?”
“Better.” I press a kiss to the bridge of her nose. “Today’s a big step. I want you to know I get that.”
“I know.” She smiles, small and bright. “Thank you.”
We move through the rest like a practiced dance. Towels. Clothes. Her in a simple dress that turns my brain to static. Me in a button-down I actually ironed last night because I knew what this meant. I tuck my wallet and keys into my pocket, then lace our fingers as we head out.
In the car, she threads our hands together over the console.
I keep my eyes on the road, but my head’s loud.
Not with doubt—with everything I’m choosing.
I’ve never set foot in her church. Not once.
This morning I will. Because she asked me to share the parts of her life that made her who she is.
Because sitting beside her—there, of all places—is a promise without a speech.
I picture the hush, the music, the familiar faces turning. I picture her father a few feet away in the same pew, jaw tight when he sees me. Let him glare at me. I’m not going for him. I’m going for her. For us. If being there paints a target on my back, fine. I’ve played through worse.
My thumb strokes across her knuckles. “After?” I say, keeping my tone light even as my chest tightens.
“Lunch,” she answers, reading me exactly. “We’ll go together. Andrea will be there.”
“Good.” I exhale, long and slow. “We’re not picking a fight. We’re just… clearing things up.”
“We’re clearing it up,” she echoes, squeezing my hand. “And we’re not backing down.”
I glance over. She’s staring out the window, but there’s a calm on her face that wasn’t there two days ago.
“I’ve got you,” I tell her, because that’s the only thing that matters.
She looks at me, eyes soft and sure. “I know.”
We pull into the lot and park. People move toward the doors in small clusters—families in their best, elders who know everyone, kids tugging sleeves. She lets go of my hand only to smooth my collar, an absent-minded touch that goes straight to my chest.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Sí, mi amor.” I lean in and kiss her forehead, then her mouth—quick, grounding. “Let’s go.”
We barely make it past the church steps before the first abuelita spots Beatriz.
She lights up like it’s Christmas morning, calling Bee’s name and pulling her in for a hug that smells like rose lotion and starch, then starts the questions—where have you been, who is he, is this serious.
It’s all there, whispered, without me catching every word.
Bee answers in English, warm and sure. “I’m his girlfriend.”
The abuelita leans back, eyes running the tally on me—from hair to shoes, to the hand Bee refuses to hide in mine. She gives me a small nod, blesses herself, whispers “Dios te bendiga,” giving Beatriz God's blessing, and then glides off to deliver the headline to three more women.
Inside, the cool air wraps around us—beeswax, lilies, old wood, the faint trace of incense folded into stone.
The narthex hums in two dozen accents of Spanish that belong here as naturally as the light, a chorus of ‘buenos días’ and ‘hola, mija’ and ‘cómo está tu mamá.’ Bee stops at the side altar without asking if I want to; she just moves the way she was raised to move, and I match her.
She lights a slim candle, shields the new flame with her hand, and bows her head.
Her lips shape a prayer I don’t need to hear to understand.
For her. For us. For today. I take a match, strike it, and light my own.
The old rhythm in my bones wakes—forehead, chest, shoulder, shoulder—and words rise that I haven’t said out loud in years.
Give me patience. Give me courage. Help me stand next to her the way she deserves.
Keep me from losing my temper when I see him.
I blow the match, drop it in the brass, and the small flame stays, steady as a heartbeat.
Bee dips her fingers into the font, makes the sign of the cross, and looks up like she didn’t know I’d know how. I squeeze her hand. It says the things we don’t need to say. I get it. I see you here. I’m with you.