Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
They’d taken the video call in Rafael’s home office, which in hindsight might’ve been a mistake. His screen was massive. Ultra-high-def, surround-sound, fully immersive. The faces of all four of their parents were life-sized, and somehow larger than life in opinion, volume, and bandwidth.
On the left, Leon and Selene Griffin sat framed by orchids and marble in their Malaysian hotel suite, like the final bosses of luxury. On the right, Umma and Papa sat in their Toronto dining room, twin tea cups and an aggressively floral tablecloth between them.
Rafael sat beside her in a long-sleeve army-green henley, one hand on her thigh as though this were a casual catch-up and not a multi-continent broadcast.
“How do you feel about a combing ceremony?” Selene suggested, and it was not even the weirdest thing she’d been asked in the conversation.
“You have one of those, too?” Umma straightened like she’d just spotted a rival dish at a potluck.
“We brush hair, give blessings, pin something symbolic in,” Selene answered. “Leon’s mother did it for me.”
“We have something similar in Korea,” Umma said.
Selene leaned forward. “Then I propose a merger.”
“We do together?” Umma asked, intrigued.
Bea was starting to feel like a Barbie caught in the middle of an elite international styling challenge, except she actually liked the stylists and trusted them not to give her bangs. She raised a hand like she was in a lecture. “Umm, this is all before the actual ceremony?”
“Yes,” both mothers said in perfect sync.
Selene turned to Leon. “Darling, do you remember that small silver olive-leaf piece your mother wore?”
Leon nodded. “She wore it to Mass every Sunday. And to yell at us in the car afterward.”
“I still have it. It would look beautiful in your hair, kopela mou.”
Bea smiled. “That sounds perfect.”
Umma’s voice cut in gently. “Will you wear the hanbok?”
“Yes, Jisoo, I was waiting for you to ask.” Selene smiled.
“I’d actually prefer to wear white,” Bea said carefully, hoping she wasn’t disappointing her mother too much.
Umma didn’t miss a beat. “What about Abuela’s mantilla, for your veil?”
Papa gave an approving grunt. “Mama would’ve liked that.”
Bea had seen that in old photos of Umma and Papa’s wedding. It was her turn to wear it. “That I’d love, Umma.”
“You could change into the hanbok for the reception if you wanted to.” Selene lit up at the idea. “A second look.”
“She gets a dozen looks if she wants them.” Rafael kissed her temple. “It’s her call.”
Leon raised a brow. “If your budget’s open season, son, let’s do a dozen pigs. Half the islands we deal with see that as the ultimate symbol of blessing.”
Papa perked up like a man who’d just been handed a quest. “You ever had it done over hardwood coals?”
“We did one outside Cebu last year—wrapped in banana leaves, low and slow,” Leon answered. “Heaven.”
Papa leaned in. “That’s how we do it in Valencia. Except no banana leaves, only a metal cross and salt rub. My cousin turns it by hand with a beer in the other.”
“If we let you two near the menu, we’ll need liability waivers and a fire extinguisher,” Rafael said dryly.
Bea watched their parents with open amusement. The last time they’d been physically in the same space, she and Rafael weren’t even official. But they were clearly already deep into the kind of rapport that came from overlapping book recommendations and incomprehensible shipping talk.
Selene clapped once. “Jisoo, Pepe, no hotels. You’re staying with us when you return to the UR.”
“Oh no, Selene, we can’t impose,” Umma said. “Rafael’s already booked something in Northgate.”
Selene turned her blues eyes to her son like he’d brought shame to the bloodline. “Nonsense.” She waved a manicured hand. “You’ll stay with us. The pool house is divine. Ocean views, not a glass skyline.”
Leon sipped his wine. “I don’t want to meet the father of the bride in a lobby. I want him on my terrace with a cigar and strong opinions.”
Papa chuckled. “Careful. I’ve got no filter once the cigar’s lit.”
“Arguments make the wine taste better,” Leon said.
“Mama,” Rafael said evenly, “they’ll want to be near the rest of their family.”
“We are going to be family, too, are we not?” Selene demanded.
Bea was going to referee but the pads of Rafael’s fingers had started tracing slow nonsense against the soft skin of her thigh. Whatever point she’d been forming dissolved.
“Split the difference, Pepe,” Leon said smoothly. “Give my wife her victory and your family their time.”
Papa looked at Umma, who shrugged helplessly. Rafael’s parents were a force. “We’d be honored. I’ll bring the wine. Rioja red good with you?”
When the screen finally went black, the clock on Rafael’s wall was nudging one. Their parents had hurled a hundred ideas at them with heartwarming enthusiasm. Bea had mentally saved two, forwarded three to Adriana, and torched the rest.
“It’s late,” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder so she didn’t have to look at him. “You must be exhausted.”
She felt him nod.
“Don’t you run early?”
“At dawn.”
“Maybe,” she said, triple-guessing herself, then saying it anyway, “I’ll just…stay?”
“That’s not something you ever need to ask me.”
Bea licked her lips. “But there’s only one bed.”
“We survived Westhelm.”
He was right, they’d technically done it before. She’d spent three nights in his arms, pretending that was enough. They could probably do it just once more.
“I don’t have pajamas here.” She was still in the dress she’d worn to dinner.
Rafael caught her hand and pulled her up. “Use mine.” His bedroom was just across the hall. Five steps.
The second she was inside, she knew this was one of her more harebrained ideas.
Six weeks since she’d last been in that enormous bed.
Her body remembered all of it: her fingers knotted in his hair, her back lifting off these sheets while he brought them both to oblivion.
She was standing with a lit match, pretending the fire wasn’t going to spread.
She wanted to anyway.
“Having second thoughts?” There was the slightest taunt in his tone.
“Not second thoughts,” she whispered.
“Dirty ones?”
She lifted her hand to smack him, half-hearted.
It never landed. He caught it and kissed her hungrily, like he couldn’t not.
One hand curled behind her neck, the other gripped her waist and pulled her in hard.
She responded with equal need, going up on her toes, trying to get closer.
He made a low sound and she felt it vibrate through his chest and straight between her legs.
Then suddenly, he tore his mouth from hers. “Don’t move,” he muttered. “I’ll find you something to wear.”
I don’t want clothes.
Bea stayed where he left her, breath unsteady, fingers curled at her sides while he disappeared into his wardrobe.
She wanted him back here, in front of her, doing something other than exercising self-control.
Abstinence had made her restless and needy, all sensation and nowhere to put it, and she didn’t know how much longer she could keep pretending this was character-building.
“Get changed, little Bea,” he said when he returned. He looked marginally more in control.
Ten minutes later she stepped back into the room wearing only his shirt. It was long enough to reach mid-thigh. His gaze dropped instantly, following the line of bare legs. “You left the shorts off.”
“They didn’t stay on,” she said, barely audible. It was true, and yet it still felt like she was provoking him. Maybe she was.
Bea slid beneath the covers while he watched. Then he reached past her, switched off the lamp, and settled beside her. She stared at the ceiling and started counting her heartbeats. The soft cotton chafed her skin.
This was unbearable.
“Goodnight,” she said.
He didn’t answer. He seemed determined to mimic a statue.
That should’ve been the end of it. Except…she rolled toward him. Her knee brushed his thigh and she felt his whole body go taut, as though one more inch would undo him.
In her defense, his mouth was right there, close enough to taste. So she leaned in for a tiny, harmless goodnight kiss.
And that’s when it broke.
His hand caught her jaw and his mouth took hers. She made a noise that embarrassed her because it sounded as desperate as she felt. His lips dragged down to her throat and bit down hard enough to make her gasp.
“I want—” It came out as a whimper. Her searching fingers wandered to his waistband, slipping just beneath until she brushed the spot that always made him flinch.
He took control in a breath, flipping her beneath him, driving her down into the mattress. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” she gasped.
“You have me,” he said roughly. “What do I get to do to you, little Bea?”
His fingers slid higher on her thigh, electrifyingly close to where she needed them.
“Touch me.”
She almost wept when his hand diverted, skimming with excruciating slowness around the curve of her hip, finding instead the underside of her breast. His thumb grazed her nipple lightly, and it shot sparks all the way through her.
“Last chance,” he warned. “Say the word, and I’ll stop.”
She arched into his hand.
RAFAEL
He could’ve had her in seconds. Pulled her under, driven deep, and lost himself inside her. Her thighs were already parted, her chest rising fast beneath his shirt. Every sound she made cut into him, and the ones she swallowed were worse—it made him want to wring them from her.
Rafael knew where she wanted to be touched. His hand drifted lower, watching the minute changes in her expression, until it circled the thin fabric separating him from her heat.
“You’re already this wet and I’ve barely touched you.”
She chased his hand. “Please.”
Her desire, the way her voice broke, made him feel immortal. He caught the thin strap at her hips and peeled it down her legs.
“I know what you want, baby,” he said. “But tonight, I’m giving you what you need.”
His mouth found her collarbone and lingered there, feeling her pulse jump beneath his lips. He followed a path down, then took the tip of her breast into his mouth and sucked.
“Rafael,” she cried out.
On his fingers was proof of how quickly her body answered to him. He drew in a breath and held it, steadying himself at the brink of what he wanted most.
They’d drawn a line. He meant to keep it. He wouldn’t let her enter their marriage with even the smallest regret. He also couldn’t do nothing. Not with her trembling beneath him, asking.
His lips trailed lower. Navel, waist, to the place between her thighs where her skin turned butter-soft and dangerous. “I won’t take your wedding night from you,” he said huskily. “But you’re still going to come for me.”
He’d only given this to her once before, their very first time. Every time since, need had driven him to one place: inside her.
He started slow. Just enough to taste her.
She jolted beneath him, a sharp gasp tearing out of her. “What are you doing?”
In answer, he blew lightly and felt her shiver.
She tried to push up. “Wait.”
Rafael steadied her hips, holding her exactly where he wanted her. “Stay still.”
“I’m trying,” she breathed helplessly. She scrabbled for the sheets, gripping like they were the only thing tethering her to Earth.
His tongue worked her in short, precise motions that made her sob. Sweat bloomed across her skin as her body climbed upward. He felt it, knew the signs, so he pulled back at the last second, letting her feel the drop.
“More,” she rasped. “Please.”
The plea hit him like a command. He gave her what she asked for. She writhed under him, trying to outrun the intensity, but he held her through it. Her breath turned ragged, breaking into sounds she couldn’t swallow.
And then all at once she broke, a cry wrenched from her chest. Rafael looked up in time to watch her fall apart. His shirt was twisted above her ribs, his handprint bloomed faintly on her hips. He had done that to her.
He should have stopped. Instead, he lowered himself again. His mouth returned, extra gently, reading every twitch, skimming just shy of where she was most sensitive.
“I can’t,” Bea whispered, hand curled into his hair, tugging, her breath hitched in something like panic. Her hips kept trying to tilt away, then returning just as fast. He kept going, testing but not pushing. Letting her decide.
When she stilled, it was with full-body trust. One arm dragged across her face like she couldn’t bear what was coming again.
His mouth curved with dark satisfaction into her skin. The taste of her was sharp and addictive. Firm now, he wound her patiently, ruthlessly, all the way back up. Then she shattered a second time. Harder. Her thighs clamped around his head, and the sound she made held nothing back.
Rafael climbed back up her body, desire rough in his throat, admiring his handiwork as she lay flushed and twitching with aftershocks.
He was so hard it bordered on painful. His hands dug into the mattress on either side of her head and clenched against the temptation to take his own relief. He counted to ten, then again.
Bea’s eyes blinked open, soft and dazed. “You kept your promise.”
“Of course I did.”
“I could help you.”
His jaw flexed. “Not tonight.”
“You sure?” she whispered, fingertips drifting over his nipple. She bit her lip. “I want to.”
He caught her hand. “I know. But if you do, I won’t stop.”
She waited, watching, giving him a chance to change his mind.
Seeing he wouldn’t, she said finally, “It’ll be worth it. Our wedding night will be special.”
Rafael almost laughed. She was thinking candles, music, maybe flowers.
He bent low, breath brushing her ear. “Just so we’re clear, baby, romance is what you’re waiting for,” he murmured. “I’m waiting to wreck you.”