Chapter Eighteen #2
He was there long before memory. As if he had been stitched into the fabric of her life. A thread steadily pulling her to him—woven before she was born, through time, distance, and generations.
Peculiar, isn’t it?
Returning to her task, she inspected the dish. Satisfied that it was turning out the way it should, she placed the lid over the pot and faced Matthew.
“Now all that’s left is for it to simmer.”
“For how long?”
“At least an hour,” she said. “Do we have enough time?”
Matthew opened his watch. “Plenty. It’s ten o’clock now, and you’re not due home until noon.” He closed the watch with a click and set it on the table. “And since we have an entire hour, I think it’s time you honor your promise to me.”
“Which one is that?”
“Give me lessons.” He gave her a debonair grin. “Teach me how to roll my r’s.”
Jasmine put a hand on her hip. “I don’t think I can teach you to make a sound.”
“Sure you can. Demonstrate it for me. Roll an r.”
“You say it as if it’s simple. You can’t just roll an r, you have to attach a word to it.” She paused and considered. How had she learned? The same way all children did, she supposed—one word at a time. “Let’s start with something simple. Red. Rojo.”
Her tongue rolled over the word, and he got closer, watching her mouth move intently.
“Rojo,” he repeated. “Rojo.” But his tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth. He said the word twice more with the same result. “I will feel like a fool if I have to repeat the same word for the next hour. What’s another one?”
“Perro,” she offered. “A dog.”
“Perro.” His mouth opened and closed, and on the third try, a slight vibration entered his tone. “I’m getting better at this. Now give me something really challenging.”
“Atormentar.”
“I know that word. That’s you.” His hands came to rest on the table behind her, bracketing her in his arms. “A tormenter. Atormentar.”
With his nearness, a hint of his pomade teased her nose. “Madera de cedro. That’s what you smell like. Cedarwood.”
“I wear it because you like it.” He nuzzled his cheek over hers, and he lowered his voice. “What am I doing now?”
“Me estás tocando… y me susurras al oído.”
“Tocando.” His hands found the back of her neck, threading through her hair, grazing fingernails over her scalp. Tugging lightly on her hair, he gave himself better access to her throat, then breathed, “Susurras.”
His breath cooled her skin, and a shiver ran through her. Holding onto her hip, he eased her until her body pressed flush against him. She gasped as his tongue rolled over her ear—teasing her with the tip. “Do you like when I touch you and whisper into your ear?”
Trembling, she held onto his shirt. “Yes.”
He cupped her cheek, and the pad of his thumb grazed her bottom lip. “Can you roll an r with your mouth full?”
She blushed as red as the sauce.
“I can try.”
“Try.” He aligned his mouth with hers and whispered, “Go slow. I want a thorough lesson.”
She lifted onto her toes and pressed her lips to his, dipping her tongue into his mouth.
His muscular arms wrapped around her, and a contented sound escaped her throat.
She rolled her tongue over his as he rolled his hips into hers.
His kisses became bolder. Deeper. He parted from her, and held her chin up with one finger.
Eyes trained to her mouth, he asked, “How do you say, ‘I want you’?”
In his eyes, there was a shadow of something primitive and dark. He looked at her as if he were starving. Reflected in his pupils, that same hunger flashed in her own. She flicked her tongue over his.
“Te deseo.”
His grip tightened, and he groaned, “Te deseo.”
He moved his mouth over hers fast, hard, and unrelenting.
Swept away, she held onto him while he took what he wanted from her.
With every deliberate stroke of his tongue, heat traveled down her spine, urging her closer to him.
She pressed her chest into his, and his hands rose, holding her ribs, teasing the underside of her breasts.
He growled into her mouth. The sound traveled down to her core, forming a fiery ache within—consuming her.
“Matthew,” she whimpered. “It feels—”
A sharp hiss filled the air, and a deep gurgle. The pot bubbled over, sizzling on the surface underneath. Moving quickly, Matthew reached for a towel, then lifted the lid. A cloud of steam wafted into the air around him as he transferred it to a back burner, off the heat.
Breathing hard, Jasmine placed a hand to her chest, as if she could calm her thundering heart. They had gotten so carried away she had forgotten they were cooking.
He gave her a lopsided grin. “Do you imagine it’s done?”
Recovering slightly, she moved to check. Thickened sauce faintly popped in the pan, settling as it cooled. As she stirred the dish, the chicken fell off the bone.
“It’s ready.”
Pleased to note that there was only a slight wobble in her hands, she plated the meal.
She speared a piece of chicken with a fork, twirled it around an onion and a pepper, blew on it lightly, then took a bite.
The meat dissolved in her mouth, followed by a spike of tart sweetness before leaving a peppery burn that warmed her from the inside out.
If she closed her eyes, it almost felt like being in her grandmother’s kitchen.
Using the same fork, she prepared a bite for Matthew. She lifted the fork to his mouth, cupping her hand underneath. As soon as his lips closed around the bite, his eyes widened.
She smirked. “Good, isn’t it?”
“Mhm,” he groaned. He took the fork from her, then ate another piece. “That is the most delicious thing I have ever tasted.” He winked at her. “Your abuela is wise. If you made this for me once a week, I would never complain about anything.”
He continued eating, eyes closed in rapture, and Jasmine couldn’t keep the smile off her face.
It would be hard to argue with a man who looked as happy as Matthew did in that moment, shoveling food into his mouth.
With passionate kisses and a well-fed, hard-working man, she could have floated up to the moon.
And this feeling, this warmth inside of her, it had to be love.
Abuela is wise indeed.
Jasmine took the fork back from him, took a bite, and scrunched her face. “This isn’t bad, but Abuela makes it better.”
“You’re lying to me. You mean to tell me that this”—he gestured to the plate with both hands—“gets better.”
“Yes.” She giggled. “Truly, it doesn’t compare.”
“You’ll need to prove it.” Matthew held her gaze. “What do you say to a Spanish honeymoon?”
Jasmine’s heart fluttered. “You want to honeymoon in Spain?”
“I do. Take me to Zarautz.” He reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I want to meet your grandparents. Eat your abuela’s cooking, taste your abuelo’s wine, and walk in the waters where your parents fell in love. I want to know that side of you.”
“I do too.” She laced her fingers tighter with his. “Yes, I’d love a Spanish honeymoon.”
As she leaned in to kiss him once more, an uneven thumping rocked against the other side of the kitchen door. Matthew moved to open it and turned the handle. Rose tumbled into the room, missing a shoe, with the buttons on her pink dress half undone.
She shrieked, “Uncle, help!”
“You little imp,” Matthew teased. “What are you doing down here?”
“Rose?” Cassandra called out from above the stairs. “Come here right now!”
“I’m in trouble.” Rose ran behind Jasmine and gripped her skirt. “Hide me!”
“No ma’am,” Matthew chided. “I can’t hide you, or I’ll be in trouble too.”
He pried Rose’s fingers from Jasmine’s skirt and lifted the child into his arms. She protested at the betrayal with a pitched squeal.
“I’ll take her back to Cassandra.” He tossed her over his shoulder and bent to kiss Jasmine’s cheek. “Keep everything the way it is. I want seconds.”
She gave a contented sigh as he closed the door, grinning wider than she thought possible days ago. With as good as Matthew was with Rose, he would be a wonderful father. What a day she was having! And to return to Spain so soon. Married. Possibly conceive their own children there.
She hid her face in her hands, cheeks burning.
Composing herself, she glanced around the kitchen, taking in the mess. Not wanting to leave such a disaster for another, she cleared the dishes and placed them in the washbasin. Her time there was drawing short, and soon she would need to go home.
But how much time did she have?
Curious, Jasmine reached for Matthew’s watch on the table, released the clasp, then flipped it open.
She blinked hard, as if she had imagined it. But when she opened her eyes, there was no denying it. On the lid of Matthew’s watch was a miniature painting, yellowed by time and frayed at the edges.
An old portrait.
Of her.