His hand stays wrapped around my neck while his eyes soak in my body.

  “You like it...” he murmurs as if only to himself, his eyelids halfway down, his lips slightly parted as he pushes out a knowing smile.

  He strokes me again, indulging in my reaction, twitching against my hand.

  “You like it too,” I say seriously, the tone of my voice drawing his eyes to me.

  His grin fades away somewhat as we get caught in a beautiful moment of truth and vulnerability.

  The rhythm of my strokes slows down a little, my eyes staying locked with his as he pushes closer to me, hovers over me and connects his lips with mine. His motion is swift but smooth, his kiss deep as his body slide on top of mine, making me collapse against the pillow.

  His grip remains on my neck–– and it doesn’t slacken a bit, as he uses his free hand to keep teasing my clit.

  His kiss has now a different stroke and power and tension as well as a different cadence.

  He’s no longer soft and tender and enveloping.

  There’s harshness in him, and he gives me a taste of it.

  This is entirely new to me, and it’s completely enrapturing me.

  This makes me learn things that I didn’t know about myself.

  He traps half of my frame under his body while he keeps stroking my clit. He sure knows how to do it as it takes me only a few moments before I push my sex against his hand.

  He doesn’t allow me to grind against his touch, to take more than what he is willing to give me, and that’s why he clutches my neck a little harder.

  Breathlessly, I consume his kiss–– lips open, tongue dancing with his, my hand sliding up and down his hard length.

  He breathes fire into my mouth while he shifts his position again and crushes me beneath his chest.

  Enticed by the heat of his touch, I slowly lose myself to him.

  A moan crawls up my throat, dispersing across our tangled tongues and lips.

  He leads me perfectly, not losing control, not letting me wander, not allowing moments of hesitance or indecisiveness, nothing to slow or hinder or falter our journey.

  Everything about his kiss tells me everything about the man.

  There are no ifs and buts with him. He took his time and gave me space and let me come to terms with this, but once I did, he took complete control.

  And now he shows me that I’m his.

  Slowly, I soften under him, no longer chasing or fighting or being impatient.

  The moment I calm down, he gives me what I want, a passionate kiss, and smooth strokes on my sex, his fingers sliding, parting, rubbing, encircling, curling.

  His fingers entering me, not harsh or hesitant, not hard or without pressure.

  He thrusts. I tilt my hips. He slides them back, I kiss him harder. We get wrapped in this dance of lust and power before he smoothly slides on top of me completely.

  His muscular legs between my knees, my thighs spread open under him, his fingers buried deep in me.

  “I want to feel you,“ I say as he tears his lips away from mine.

  I grab his shoulders and hoist myself up against him. “I want to feel your body,” I say again, longing for that skin on skin feeling.

  Our hips connect after he pulls away his fingers, his hard crown sliding against my entrance.

  Propped on his elbow, he gives me enough room to breathe and enough body weight on top of me to revel in that feeling.

  “That’s good,” I say as I run my hands down his muscular back.

  My head tilts to the wall mirror on my left.

  Oh... That looks amazing. It feels fantastic, too. His eyes follow the direction of my gaze.

  Without the slightest hesitation, he stretches his hand out, grabs my phone from the nightstand, points the camera to the mirror, and takes a picture of us.

  “No, no... No,” I stammer as I try to take my phone away from his hand.

  “Yes, yes.”

  He gives me no chance, and I can’t win this battle as he takes a couple more.

  “Here,” he says, tossing my phone back to me. “You record a video clip now.”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” he says, grinning. “Why are you so afraid?”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Than do it.”

  I lift my phone and aim the camera to the mirror.

  The light is not that great, and not a lot of us is clearly visible.

  “Do it, baby, or I will,” he says as I hesitate. “You’re not much of a nude taker, huh?”

  “Nope.”

  “It’s a memory of us for you.”

  My eyes flick up.

  His words stir up a storm inside me. I love that he said ‘us’, but that word paired with ‘memory’ is not a great match, and it makes me shiver.

  “Unless, you don’t want it,” he says.

  It seems to me that our thoughts are a little different when it comes to this, so I go ahead and tap the screen, starting to record.

  Making sure my face is not in the frame.

  “Hold it steady,” he says as he lowers his lips to mine, and angles his hips.

  “Why?” I ask, completely unaware of what’s to come.

  He doesn’t give me an answer, just lets his lips slide onto mine and starts to kiss me slowly.

  It takes me moments before I realize that I have captured the entire scene on my phone.

  “Don’t stop,” I say as he breaks his kiss.

  “I have no intention to,” he mutters against my lips and then I feel him again, his heat igniting the most delicious pleasure in my body.

  The tip of his erection is now in.

  He slides it in, grazing my walls, burying it inside my deepest depths.

  “Aah...” I say, washed with revelation. “That feels really good.”

  He moves his body and the sensation grows.

  He rocks his hips and I forget about the phone.

  For a few more moments, I hold my arm high, capturing the image of him on top of me, entering me repeatedly, but after a while, I drop the phone on the nightstand, not caring if it still records or not.

  The sensation coming from his sex is that good.

  My arms go around his torso, and then my hands slip to his backside, and as I feel his muscles shifting under my touch and he fills me up with every move, I know exactly what he meant.

  He is bigger than everything I’ve had and he is so hard and fills me up so good. And I feel so guilty for feeling so amazingly good.

  He clutches the back of my hair with his free hand while he pins me underneath and keeps rolling his hips, and oh, how perfect it feels.

  In and out.

  Every time deeper, and every time harder.

  Every move testing my body, every thrust making me his.

  Time warps as the moments become minutes and I feel peace growing inside me, something that I’ve never felt before–– not when my center throbs with pleasure, and not when my heart pumps blood like crazy.

  I lift my legs and hitch them high on his thighs, clinging to him as he starts to pound me, removing the last shred of guilt away from me.

  3

  Eve

  The night flies by, the moments stretching or compressing as we navigate through them as if there is no time.

  The line between dream state, sleep, and full awareness becomes blurred as I slip in and out of it.

  A soft buzz pulls me out of my daze close to one o’clock.

  I push up to my elbows and look around. The sheer drapes filter in a white-grayish light, fog clumping on the buildings.

  It snows again–– I realize, as I push upright and glance out of the window. The room is warm, a reading light still on, sitting on the farthest nightstand.

  Conflicting thoughts come rushing at me at once.

  Wait a minute.

  I swing my eyes to the bed again and check the sheets and the pillow. I swear he slept with me last night or morning or whatever time we went to bed.

  I slip my hand to the soft sheets. Crisp cotton meets my palm. My side of the bed is warm. His side is cold.

  A bad feeling sweeps through me.

  I jerk off the bed and pull on a robe before I freeze for a moment and let the silence envelop me.

  He left.

  He fucking left.

  The thought doesn’t sit well with me at all.

  I dash to the main door and check it. The door is locked. He could’ve locked it without a key when he stepped out. I do it all the time.

  “Christian,” I call him with a shaky voice, hoping that I’m wrong.

  I near the bathroom.

  No noise comes from inside. I knock on the door and call his name again before I push it open.

  Everything is in order. You can’t even tell that he propped me against the shower stall last night and fucked me right there in the corner.

  “Christian,” I thunder as I spin around and go back to the hallway and the bedroom, searching for clues.

  How could he leave my place without talking to me? Without saying a word to me. The shock and surprise begin to taper off as fury sweeps through me.

  Is this for real? Is this happening to me?

  I rush into the bedroom and check my phone. There are no calls. No messages.

  Fuck.

  My fingers go straight to the recent calls, but just before I call him another thought makes me go back to the living room.

  I can smell his scent as I walk in. Or is it drifting from me? From my skin?

  Wait... What is that?

  I smell fresh coffee. Sniffing the air, I follow the aroma and enter the kitchen.

  The first thing I notice is that someone moved my espresso machine slightly to the right. I push it back to its place.

  I rarely use it, and now it’s warm. I spin around, still trailing the enticing scent.

  It smells like freshly brewed coffee and cake–– the aroma of vanilla, almonds, and sugar tickling my nostrils.

  A sticky note greets me from the fridge. I peel it off with a trembling hand.

  It’s a small drawing, a nude by all means, and it’s me–– that much I can tell, and next to it I find a few words.

  ‘Galao. Portuguese coffee with your almond cake.’

  I look around and search for it before I swing the microwave door open and find the cup of coffee next to a slice of cake.

  The coffee is warm and smells like heaven. I take a sip and let it roll over my taste buds.

  Mmmm....

  The mix of espresso, milk and melted sugar quickly affects my mood, making me smile.

  Slowly, I pull a chair back before I set the plate and cup on the table.

  His note still in my hand, my phone in my pocket.

  I pull out my cell and stare at it, remembering the buzzing sound that woke me.

  He must’ve set the alarm after he made my coffee and then he left. He probably walked out of my apartment minutes ago.

  Smiling, I lean back in my seat, a blank stare on my cup of coffee, but my glee is short-lived when it dawns on me that he left without saying goodbye.

  Suddenly, I feel down. And confused.

  A few more moments pass by as I absently stare at my phone, trying to come up with an explanation when the screen lights up with a message.

  I snatch the phone from the table.

  Christian: How’s your coffee?

  Me: Where are you?

  Christian: Taking care of some business.

  I turn to stone, my fingers refusing to type a reply, the seconds ticking by.

  Christian: It’s not women.

  Me: What makes you say that?

  Christian: That’s what you were thinking about.

  Me: Fair. What happens with the women?

  I press ‘send’ and wait, stiff like a piece of wood.

  Even I can tell that this is the worst moment to bring up this conversation.

  He’s gone. I’m here. He might be gone for good.

  The moments pull away from me fast. And then a couple of minutes.

  Christian: Don’t worry about the other women. I’m not seeing anyone but you.

  My mouth falls open in surprise. I laugh sarcastically. Do I look stupid?

  This can’t be the truth.

  No one has ever told me that, not even the men who were only seeing me.

  Me: How can I believe that, Christian?

  Christian: It’s the truth, but you believe whatever you want.

  My heart hits my chest hard.

  I sense the anger in his words, and then I feel this conversation slipping–– this moment, and him along with everything else.

  Stepping on my heart, and pushing to the side a mountain of doubt that I have to swallow, I convince myself to type again.

  Me: I believe everything you say as long as reality doesn’t prove you wrong.

  Christian: It won’t. Trust me.

  A few more moments of silence tick away.

  I take another sip of coffee and try to make peace with me, with my words, and the fears that flared up the moment he walked out of that door.

  I take a bite of cake as well.

  Oh... This is really good. The cake is fresh and rich and filled with aroma.

  It goes perfectly with coffee.

  I swallow the sweet treat and drink more coffee before I start typing again.

  Me: The coffee is good. And the cake is delicious.

  I stop, erase everything, and call him.

  He answers at the second ring.

  “Hey, baby,” he says with a smooth voice, a grin woven in his tone.

  “Are you buttering me up now, to get away with the fact that you left me without a word?”

  He laughs at the other end. I’m no longer mad at him.

  “The coffee is good. And the cake is out of this world,” I say as I break another piece and pop it into my mouth.

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  I munch on it slowly.

  “Tarta de Santiago. I love the name too,” I mutter after I try my best foreign accent.

  I no longer hear him laughing.

  “Christian? Are you still there?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” he says, his voice sounding so close to me. “Can you say that name again?”

  “Tarta de Santiago. Is my pronunciation wrong?”

  He says the name for me and I repeat after him.

  “It sounds better,” he says after I give him a sample of my linguistic proficiency.

  “It sounds so sexy when you say it,” I comment.

  “It’s sound amazing when you say it too.”

  He slips something in his words, an undertone. Something that has meaning, and yet it escapes me completely.

  “So... about tonight,” he starts. “There’s an Opera Gala I thought you’d like to go to.”

  My breath catches in my throat.

  I set the cup of coffee down.

  “How do you know I like Opera?”

  His answer comes after a moment.

  “It was a lucky guess,” he says, a smile lining his voice.

  “Okay... What do you have in mind?”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven. We eat first and then we go to the Opera,” he says with the most natural voice in the world as if we’ve been doing this forever.

  “Sounds good,” I say before I pause.

  A few moments of silence slip by.

  I hear the street noise in the background. It sounds as if he is on foot, going somewhere. I crush my curiosity and try not to make any assumptions.

  I also try not to drive myself crazy, guessing.

  “Thank you so much for the coffee,” I say with a softer voice. “And last night. It was great.”

  “It was great for me too,” he says with a different voice as well, a pang of sadness threading through his tone.

  I find it strange, and it fuels my doubts, but I push the thought back.

  I have to take this for what it is and be ready for anything.

  “Okay. I’ll see you tonight. I gotta go, now,” he says with a more upbeat voice as someone greets him in the background.

  I slap another question to the side before I say goodbye to him, and end the call.

  Oh, man... A sigh falls from my lips.

  This is going to be interesting.

  I barely put the phone down when another call flashes on the screen.

  It’s Andy.

  I let the call go to voicemail before I pick up my phone and pull up a bunch of pictures.

  Within seconds, I start sifting through the clips and pictures I took last night.

  The light in the photos is not that great, but it’s enough to get a glimpse of us in my bed. Him on top of me, his muscular back arched, his chiseled arms propping his body, my hair splayed on the pillow.

  I can’t see much of his face, and his face is what I crave the most right now.

  I enlarge the picture as much as I can, zooming in on his features, longing to fill my eyes with him.

  Life is so strange sometimes.

  What were the odds to find someone who looks so much like James?

  From another folder, I pull up a different batch of photographs, go through them and find a close up of James’ face.

  It’s a picture I took at his birthday party this past summer.

  We were all on the patio. Grinning, he observes Rain who sits next to him and tells everybody a story.

  I remember that moment, the expression on his face, her cheeks glazed with a blush as she was talking to all of us, yet she exulted in the attention she received from him.

  I zoom in on his face as well.

  What prompted me to take that picture was my blind hope that I could capture the invisible thread that always connected them.

  Somehow, I managed to do that.

  Even now as I stare at the image, I get a sense of that ineffable bond that they’ve always had. No matter what they did or where they went or how many obstacles they had to overcome, that connection was always there and nothing could sever it.

  Not time, or the distance.

  It felt like a magic imprint they had in their souls, a piece of timeless knowledge that revealed itself the moment they looked at each other for the first time, helping them recognize what they were for each other.

  I shift my focus entirely to James. Enlarging the picture, I start studying the man’s face.