Chapter Forty-Three
Sunshine
Open up.
I answer the door, and my jaw nearly drops to the damn floor.
This woman is going to be the death of me.
Elise is standing in the hallway outside of my apartment with her silky dark strands cascading over her shoulders.
Her athletic frame is draped in a short black trench coat, and her mile-long legs are lightly tanned and bare beneath the coat.
Those cool blue eyes of hers are even more striking framed by thick, dark lashes coated in a thin layer of mascara, and the rest of her face is completely free of makeup.
She’s stunning. Always is, but especially when she doesn’t have anything covering the light dusting of freckles over her nose or her otherwise luminous complexion.
She bats her lashes at me, stepping forward, and purposefully allows the bottom of the coat to gape between her thighs.
Drool is pooling in my mouth, and I release a long groan, squeezing my eyes shut and dropping my head back.
“You’re killing me, woman,” I whine, my fingertips tingling with the need to tug on the belt looped around her waist, undressing her like my very own present.
She steps past me, doing a little twirl before turning her back to me. She unties the coat, splays it wide open, and looks over her shoulder at me, clocking my expression. My cock twitches in my sweats, and it’s killing me not to launch myself at her and fuck her right here over my coffee table.
But then she drops the coat, and my brain does a double take.
A loud laugh bursts from my mouth, and I keel over, my hands on my knees as laughter billows out of me.
Her giggles join with mine, and when we’ve gotten it all out, she stands and straightens the oversized t-shirt she had tucked into hot-pink baggy sweatpants she has cuffed all the way up to the tops of her thighs.
“Sorry, unless you’re willing to ride the red river, I’m not here for sex,” she says, chuckling. “I’m on my period, and everything aches, so I’d rather not do anything tonight if that’s okay.”
I approach her, gathering her against my chest, and press a kiss to the top of her head. “Of course that’s okay. I’m glad you still came. I like seeing you,” I admit, nuzzling into her hair, her warm fragrance wrapping around us.
I hoist her up and enjoy how quickly she wraps her legs around my waist as I carry her into my bedroom, where Mrs. Purrito is resting on my bed, exactly where she’s not supposed to be, but this damn cat doesn’t listen to anyone.
I set her down beside the offending fur-ball, and she rolls over, picking her up and resting her on her chest. Mrs. Purrito revs her engine, purring so loudly the sound is vibrating Elise’s tits, which I gladly take note of through her thin cotton top.
“I’m going to make us something to drink. Want a snack?”
She nods. “Popcorn, please.”
“You got it.” I head into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with two hot chocolates, a bag of cat treats stuffed in my pocket, and a massive bowl of popcorn.
We lie in bed, watching old reruns of some show called “Being Human”, which she refused to watch the UK version of, saying that while American TV is rubbish by comparison as a generalisation, the American version of this one show is far superior.
I think she might just have a thing for Sam Witwer and his strangely endearing butt chin. That said, I’m annoyed to say she may have been right.
“It’s okay, Rafa. You can tell me I’m right at any time. I’ll wait,” she taunts, her lids growing heavy and her small smile beginning to slip.
I lean across her, grabbing the remote and flicking the screen off before turning the bedside lamp off and dragging her body against mine. She lets out a relieved sigh and curls into me, hooking a leg over my hip and burying her face in my chest.
There’s light seeping through my window blinds from the buildings surrounding us.
It’s not enough to disturb our sleep but just enough to see the curve of her high cheekbones, the way her bottom lip juts out further than the top.
How her thick lashes fan out across her cheeks, even now that she’s washed the mascara off from earlier.
I’ve studied her face so many times, I also know exactly what I can’t see in my dark bedroom.
I can’t see the tiny white scar in the corner of her mouth from when her sister, Rachelle, was trying, and failing, to learn to play football and shot the ball right into Elise’s face.
I can’t see the dusting of minuscule freckles over the thinnest part of her nose or the small pink birthmark in her hairline which she swears is nothing more than a blob, but I stand by my observation that it’s a tiny heart.
She tilts her chin up further, smacking her lips together, making an obnoxious kissing sound, showing me what she wants rather than telling me.
An almost crazed smile spreads across my face, and I cup her cheek, dragging her lips to mine.
She kisses me a dozen times, just quick little pecks, but this new development is an intimacy I’ve never experienced with anyone before.
Instead of being afraid of what that might mean, I’m actually afraid that I am not afraid. Because with Elise, it feels like I can manage just about anything so long as I’m with her. And what happens if she leaves?
I heave out a sigh and push the thought away, focusing on the stunning woman in my arms rather than the weight of the “what ifs.”
“Goodnight, mi vida ,” I whisper.
“Goodnight, Rafa,” she says, her voice thick with sleep as she latches onto me.
I stare at her until I’m unable to keep my eyes open any longer, finally whispering into the dark room, “You were right, but not about the telly.” Sharing my emotions with someone does feel good, and it has me craving more.