Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ALEJANDRA
Itold Clara I’d be home by four, but it’s already six and I’m only now walking through the front door.
Today’s shoot was a mess. One of the makeup artists showed up late, and one of our models didn’t show up at all. To top it off, I was unexpectedly slotted in for an interview with Limon right in the middle of my day. I had to pause the shoot for an hour to do it, then jump right back in.
Luckily, I managed to align it with our lunch break, so the day didn’t stretch out even longer than it already had.
In short, to say I’m tired would be a severe understatement.
I take my shoes off by the door and call out, “Clara?”
The house is darker than usual, and when I step into the dining room, I stop dead in my tracks.
She’s set the table for two. A flicker of candlelight dances on the glasses of red wine already poured, and plates of steaming pasta sit waiting.
Clara is standing at the far end, arms crossed loosely, watching me and smiling.
I open my mouth to apologize for being so late, but the only thing that comes out is, “Clara . . .” Without thinking, my feet move toward her.
I wrap my arms around her and kiss her. The chaos of the day melts away, and all I feel is the overwhelming warmth of this perfect, perfect human.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi,” I breathe, burying my face in her neck.
She pulls back slightly, brushing her fingers through my hair.
“You look exhausted. Sit. I ordered your favorite,” she says sweetly, pointing at the chicken Alfredo before guiding me toward the table.
I let her lead me, my hand still in hers.
The creamy smell hits me, and my stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten since this morning.
We sit and eat as I tell her all about my day, and she shares the conversation she had with my mom.
“I can’t believe Diana caught us and then tattled to Mom!” I say.
“You should have seen Mama C’s face. Her eyes were giant.”
I laugh, picturing the exact expression.
After dinner—and a serving of chicken Alfredo so large I know I’ll be in pain for the rest of the night—I change into something soft and oversized—a pair of baggy sweats and a thick button-up pajama shirt.
When I head back into the living room, Clara’s already curled up on the couch, blanket draped over her.
I lay beside her, sinking into the cushions.
She pulls me close, one arm wrapping snugly around my waist, her face nuzzled into my neck.
We put on a new true crime documentary, but I can’t stay still.
No matter how I sit or lie, I can’t get comfortable.
The day’s stress clings to my shoulders.
I roll them, trying to work out the tension that’s settled, but I think it’s making it worse.
Clara picks up on it, like she always does, and shifts beside me.
“You want a massage?” she asks, her hands lightly digging into my back.
I lean into her touch. “That sounds amazing.”
She scoots closer, and I turn so she can reach my shoulders. Her fingers work into my muscles, gentle at first, then harder, coaxing the stress from my body, loosening knots I didn’t even know I had, and I melt under her touch.
Her hands glide lower, across my back, and my skin burns under her fingers, a slow ache blooming alongside the relief. I try to ignore the electricity, but it’s impossible.
“I—” I clear my throat, trying to sound casual. “You can go under the shirt if that’s easier. Better leverage . . . I think.” It’s a thin excuse, and I feel almost silly suggesting it, but I want to feel her hands on my skin.
“Oh, um . . . sure,” Clara says.
Her fingers find the hem of my shirt, and then, slowly, she slips her hands beneath.
My breath leaves in a sharp exhale as her fingers come in contact with my skin, and I lean into the contact, needing it like air as her fingers continue to work magic through my muscles.
She presses harder into the knot on my shoulders, and it slowly unravels.
A soft moan slips out of me. Clara’s fingers stop.
I glance back to find her eyes wide and her lips parted. She swallows, then clears her throat and continues, but her touch is different now, more hesitant.
“Is this okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, that’s perfect.”
God, I need her. So badly it hurts. But the last thing I want is to move too fast, to push when she might not be ready. She’s never done this before, never dated anyone, and I have no idea what she’s thinking right now, or how slowly she wants to take things.
“Clara?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think we should set some rules?” I turn to face her, watching her closely.
“Rules?” she echoes, eyebrows lifting slightly.
I nod sheepishly. “Yeah, I know you usually have all these rules with the women you’re sleeping with.
And, well . . . I know this isn’t the same, but since you’ve never dated like this before, I don’t know what your boundaries look like.
” I pause, trying to read her face, but she’s giving me nothing.
“I want to know where you stand on everything, how slow you want to take things. I want to make sure we’re going at your pace. ”
“Oh, um . . . I didn’t think we’d need any. But if you do, then we can.” She reaches for a strand of her hair, twisting it between her thumb and index finger.
Fuck, she’s nervous. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought this up so soon. I start fidgeting with the ring on my index finger, trying to figure out a way to change the course of the conversation, but I quickly realize there’s nothing I can do now but keep going.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I just . . . I don’t want to mess this up or scare you, but I feel like I already did.”
“You didn’t.” She brings my hand to her lips and plants a soft kiss on my knuckles. “How about . . . no rules, no timeline. We follow whatever feels right.” She laces her fingers through mine. “If something ever feels off or uncomfortable, we talk it through, like we always have.”
I let out a small breath and smile, giving her a nod.
Clara tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, her fingers brushing gently against my skin. Then she leans in, her lips barely grazing mine, a whisper of a kiss, but it strikes like a spark.
My eyes flutter shut for half a second, savoring it. When I open them, she’s watching me with a smile.
“Turn back,” she murmurs. “I found another knot I want to get.”
I should let her keep going, let her hands work their way down my back. But that’s not what I want. Not now.
Instead, I lean in, my eyes meeting hers before they drop to her lips.
My hand finds her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, and I kiss her deeply.
Her lips part under mine, surprised. Panic flares up inside me.
She’s not kissing me back. I start to pull away, heart pounding, but before I can fully break the kiss, Clara’s hands find the back of my neck, and she pulls me in, kissing me hard.
It’s so fierce it’s almost painful, but in the best way possible.
My hands find her waist, and I pull her in, until there’s nothing between us but heat and want.
I’m digging into the fabric of her shirt so tightly my fingers ache, but I don’t let go.
I lean into her, craving her in a way I’ve never known before.
I want to consume her and lose myself in her completely.
Clara’s lips move with the same intensity, her hands sliding up my back, anchoring me. When we break apart, it’s only for a breath, and even that feels too long.
She presses her forehead to mine before whispering, “You okay?”
“Yeah. I just . . . don’t want this to stop.”
Her thumb brushes my cheek, and she smiles. “Then it won’t.”
Clara kisses me again, slower this time, like she wants me to feel every second of it. And I do. I drink in the taste of her mouth, the fire in her hands, the way she presses closer like she’s claiming me whole.
My hands slide up beneath the hem of her shirt, fingertips grazing warm skin. She exhales softly against my lips, and I pause, searching her face, needing to be sure. She nods once, barely, but it’s enough.
Clara guides me into her lap, and I go willingly, settling over her. Her hands slide up my back, her nails biting into my skin as I fist a hand in her hair, tugging enough to make her gasp. Clara’s soft moan sends a white-hot blaze racing through my veins. Every inch of me tightens with need.
Her fingers slide from my waist to the edge of my sweats, barely grazing, teasing along the waistband, making me suck in a desperate breath.
“Still okay?” she asks.
Still okay? I’m coming apart. Burning from the inside out.
All I want is for her to keep going, to push deeper, take more, but the words don’t come.
My throat is tight with need, my thoughts tangled in heat.
So I pull Clara’s mouth back on mine, letting my tongue trace the shape of her lips, savoring her, and losing myself in the exhilarating sensation of her.
Hoping this communicates how okay this is.
Her lips drift down from mine, planting soft, teasing kisses along my jawline until her mouth finds the sensitive skin at the curve of my neck. My pulse thrums beneath her mouth, and she lingers there.
Her tongue is like velvet and fire, flicking and tracing a slow, delicious path over my skin, teasing, sucking, then biting until I’m barely breathing through the need.
“Clara,” I gasp, my voice breaking around her name.
Her fingers tighten in my hair, and I groan, the sound torn from somewhere deep.
Every lustful, needy, aroused feeling I’ve ever had pales in comparison to what I experience as Clara’s hand drags slowly down my throat, moving lower, until her palm flattens against my chest. The contact, even through my shirt, punches the air from my lungs.
“Want to stop?” she murmurs, not even pretending to hide the smirk in her voice.
I want to say “Don’t you dare,” but my jaw is tight, and I’m too far gone to speak. I shake my head desperately.