Chapter 19
Carlos
I lie in bed, an uncomfortable weight in my body.
I’m not thinking about Jade and our many antagonistic conversations. Nor am I thinking about the picture she shared tonight or the childhood she must have had with her illness.
No, I’m thinking about the way her mouth parted when I’d tugged her hair.
I hadn’t meant to pull it that hard. I was aiming to be teasing and friendly, but somewhere along the way, between when my fingertip first felt the graze of her hair and when I tightened my grip, I lost my mind.
Now all I can think about is what would have happened if I’d wound her hair up in my grip, all the way to the crown of her head where her hair band sat. What would she have done then?
I don’t know, I can only imagine, and for once my thoughts are pretty imaginative. Her eyelashes would flutter again, but this time they would stay lowered, barely gazing at me through a haze of lust. Her mouth would drop open, just inviting me to put whatever I wanted between her lush lips.
If I had pushed, would she have gotten on her knees?
In my imagination she does. And I unzip my trousers, the sound loud in the hallway of the hotel, and feed my cock to her.
In real life, lying on my bed, I grip myself through my underwear. I squeeze too hard, the pinch of discomfort an attempt at keeping me grounded, but I’m too far into this fantasy already.
Somehow, Jade has brought out a side of me that’s more imaginative than ever before. I’ve never thought about wrapping my fist in someone’s hair or getting sucked off somewhere we could be caught.
With our truce, our confessions over our dislike for each other, we’re suddenly in a space where my feelings have tipped over from dislike and wariness to . . . respect. And attraction.
I shove my underwear down my legs and begin to stroke myself. Jade’s always had a spark in her eyes—usually when she’s baiting me—but the heat I’m imagining is lust.
Lust while I lean against the door, her hands on my thighs.
Lust while she alternates hot, wet licks and soft kisses down my shaft.
And it’s an inferno of lust when I press down on my cock, grip her hair, and make her take me all the way down.
My whole body clenches as my hand works my length. I’m brutal with it, because I can’t believe I’m having this fantasy, but also because I need it to be done with. This guilty pleasure needs to get out of my system.
My hand is too dry. I slip into the bathroom and grab the hotel’s lotion. It’s too cool at first, I’m too impatient, and goosebumps break out when my slick hand makes contact with my heated flesh.
As it starts to warm up it feels better and better. More like what I have in my head; wet heat and steady strokes.
I use both hands, tightening and twisting, and because it’s just my hand, I can play out any filthy fantasy I want. My hand pushes Jade’s head deep, her nose buries in my hair while her throat works my head. Her fingers tighten around my thighs, and her moan pushes me over the edge.
Cum spurts across my chest, nearly to my nipples, and my hand keeps a steady rhythm, working every last lustful thought out of my brain.
I hope.
I stare at the ceiling, breathing hard, and the guilt crashes over me like a wave.
What am I doing?
Jade is my colleague. She’s leaving Madrid in two months—less than that now. She’s going back to Austin, back to her life there, and I’ll stay here with mine. With Fernando and Diana and Carmencita. With Izan. With my settled, comfortable, predictable life.
I don’t do casual sex. Not when Marisol and I agreed we could see other people. Not even after her death. I had needs, but more in a vague, chasing-release sense.
Not imagining my colleague sucking my cock.
The kiss was . . . I don’t know what it was. A moment of weakness? A mistake? We got caught up in the success of the presentation, in the intimacy of her sharing her story, in the way she looked at me in that hallway.
I reach for the tissues on the nightstand and clean myself off, mechanical, methodical. This isn’t who I am. I’m the professional one. The appropriate one. I don’t fantasize about colleagues. I don’t kiss women in hotel hallways and then jerk off thinking about them an hour later.
I’m fifty-six years old. A grandfather. And she’s—
I don’t even finish the thought. Just close my eyes and try to will myself to sleep, knowing I won’t be able to look her in the eye tomorrow.
Our train is late getting into Barcelona and Jade and I race to the hotel to get set up. Diana is in town, a quick work trip, and I was supposed to meet her for lunch but I have to reschedule to dinner and instead just focus on setting up and getting Jade ready.
She still needs a cold compress on the back of her neck and a few minutes to give herself a pep talk before we start.
When I see her backstage, my stomach knots. She’s adjusting her laptop cable, focused on the screen, and I force myself to approach.
“Jade,” I say, and my voice comes out too formal.
She looks up, and for a second our eyes meet. I see the memory of last night flash across her face—the hair tug, the kiss, the way our bodies pressed together. Her lips part slightly, like she’s going to say something.
I look away first.
“The presentation.” I clear my throat. “It will go well.”
The words come out stiff, awkward. Not at all like how we’ve been talking lately—easy, teasing, real. I sound like I did three months ago when I barely tolerated her presence.
Jade’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Okay,” she says slowly. “Thanks?”
I nod once and turn away, pretending to check something on my tablet. Behind me, I hear her exhale—frustrated? Hurt? I don’t turn back to find out.
“Don’t worry,” I say, leaning over just before she takes the stage. “You’re going to do great.”
Her eyes widen, and a guilty pang tugs at me. Have I never told her that?
The presentation goes better, just like the one yesterday. Jade’s still nervous, tripping over her words occasionally, but it’s a big improvement over what we did before.
I translate on autopilot, barely looking at her. Every time I do, I remember the fantasy from last night—her on her knees, my hand in her hair—and shame burns through me.
What was I thinking? What are we doing?
Diana finds me afterward, when Jade’s been waylaid by clients, and I hug her and kiss her cheek.
“Still on for dinner?” she asks.
“Yes, of course. This will be boring for you, I’m sure—more boring,” I amend at her crooked smile. “I’ll meet you in the lobby?”
“Actually, I need to pump.” Diana lifts the bag at her side, one of those insulated ones designed for breastfeeding mothers. “Can I use your room?”
“Of course.” I retrieve my key card from the inside of my jacket pocket.
“Room 308.” I walk her out of the room, my hand guiding her lower back.
As we navigate through the thinning crowd, I catch sight of Jade across the room, still talking to a patient.
She’s animated, smiling, completely in her element.
Diana is thirty-two. A mother. She fits into my life seamlessly. I have family dinners with her, Sunday park visits, and I help with Carmencita when she and Fernando need a break. She is my family.
And Jade is . . . what? A colleague on a temporary assignment? A woman who bought a riding crop on a whim and challenged every assumption I’ve ever made about what’s appropriate?
There’s a group of pharmaceutical reps talking loudly by the exit, so I lean in closer to my daughter-in-law. “Should I come up and get you when I’m done?”
“Sure.” She grins up at me and nudges me playfully. “Don’t take too long or I’ll eat all your minibar items. I’ll be starving by the time I’m done.” She pauses, twisting her lips. “Or I’ll be falling asleep.”
I smile down at her. “I know. I promised Fernando I’d feed you. I’ll see you soon.”
I glance back once more before leaving the event room. Jade is laughing at something a patient said, her whole face lit up. For just a second, our eyes meet across the room.
She smiles—tentative, questioning. Like she’s trying to figure out where we stand after last night.
I should walk over. Say something. Acknowledge what happened between us.
Instead, I turn and guide Diana toward the elevators, the weight of my phone heavy in my pocket. I could text Jade later. Suggest we talk. Figure out what last night meant.
But what would I even say?
Let’s upend both our lives for something that has no future?
I don’t want complicated. And Jade deserves better than me trying to recapture something I haven’t felt . . . maybe ever.
“Carlos?” Diana’s voice pulls me back. “You okay? You seem distracted.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Just tired from the presentation.”
She accepts this with a nod.
I’m happy with my life. I am.
I repeat it to myself like a mantra, willing it to be true.