Nacho Figueras Presents (8 page)

I
s there another piece?” Sebastian asked hopefully.

“You've had four!”

“And you've had three,
linda
.”

“I've had two and a half!” Kat shook her spoon at him. “And it is not polite to count.”

He moaned as he ate the last bite in his bowl. “It's just so good. If I had known that your mother could cook like this, I would have fired her as our housekeeper and settled her in
la cocina
ages ago.”

“Can't your mother cook?”

“
Sí.
She is a magnificent cook. But she doesn't make this peach—what did you call it again?”

“Cobbler.”

“Yes.” He sucked his spoon. “Cobbler.”

She sighed and sat back in her chair. “I did miss my mother's cooking. Not that there isn't great food in L.A. but—”

“No cobbler.”

She laughed and then looked at him. “So why do you still live with your mother?”

“Why do you?”

“Touché.” She clinked her spoon against his as if they were wielding tiny swords.

He pushed his bowl away. “I live with
mi
mamá
because that's what is expected,
sabes
? I'm unmarried. She's a widow. And there is plenty of room, of course. Even Alejandro and his wife and children still live in the
hacienda
when we're in Wellington. They have their own places in Argentina and New York, though.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Three houses?”

He shrugged. “The family travels a great deal. That's what we do. Follow the stick and ball. It's easier if we don't have to rent every time we move.”

“But you could move out if you wanted to? Have your own place?”

He nodded. “I suppose. But why would I?”

She stood up and cleared their dishes off the table into the sink. “It's just very different than how most people do things here. As soon as I hit eighteen, I was out the door. I couldn't wait to leave.”

He looked around the snug little cottage. It seemed cheerful and warm in the early afternoon light. “Was it so very bad here?”

She shook her head. “No, not at all. I love my parents. They're great. But you know, big dreams and all that. Couldn't make movies in Wellington.”

He nodded. “I suppose it's different when you always know you're going to join the family business.”

“You always knew it would be polo?”

He smiled. “They put me on a horse before I could walk.”

“I'd like to see you ride.”

He laughed. “You're one of the few people I know who hasn't. It's rather a refreshing change actually.”

She sat back down at the table. “Why? Don't you like polo?”

He considered this. “Like it? Sure. Of course. I just sometimes wonder what it would be like to do something else.”

“Like what?”

He shrugged. “I was born a Del Campo. I'm not sure what else I'd be good at, honestly. But I wasn't ever given much of a chance to find out.”

“The way you talked about it last night, I thought it was your passion.”

He thought for a moment. “I love the ponies, of course…but passion? Like putting my whole heart into it? I honestly don't know.” He felt surprised by this realization. “It's Alejandro's passion. That is certain. Which is funny because I'm actually—” He stopped himself.

“You're actually what?”

He laughed ruefully. “I was going to say that I'm actually the better player. But that's not really true. I have…more natural talent, I guess you could say. Polo has always come very easily to me. But Jandro works harder and cares more. So he's better when it counts,
sabes
?”

He shrugged and pulled the pile of journals over. “Anyway, shall I read you some?”

She nodded.

He opened the top book on the stack and gazed down at the first page. He smiled as he recognized his grandmother's distinctive slanted script. He remembered countless birthday cards and notes she had sent him over the years. He had been a terrible grandson who rarely, if ever, wrote back, but she never seemed to hold it against him.

He squinted for a moment, translating in his head.

“Ah, this is very early. When she was sixteen. She is writing about selling flowers in the marketplace in Argentina. I should explain to you that my grandmother and grandfather came from very different backgrounds.
Abuelita
was a
campesina
, you know, a country girl. Very poor. And
mi
abuelo
—my grandfather—was
un ladino
. His family was mainly European and came from great wealth. And according to the family story, they met at the market.”

He scanned the page. “Yes, here it is. She is saying that a handsome older boy came to the market and bought out all her roses and then gave them back to her as a gift. But she says she had to give away all the flowers but one before she went home that night because her parents would wonder why she'd sold so few…Ah, and look!
La rosa!
”

He showed Kat a brown, crumbling flower pressed between the pages.

Kat gasped and reached out to touch it. “That's amazing.”

“
Sí.
” He bent his head to the pages again. “She says that she hopes he will come back to the market tomorrow…” He turned the page, and yet another dried rose fell out. He chuckled. “Which, apparently, he did.”

Kat took the journal from him and carefully flipped through the pages, counting under her breath. “Twenty-five roses. Oh my gosh, Sebastian,” she said. She looked up at him, a dawning look of wonder on her face. “I think we just found the title of the movie.”

K
at went to her room for paper and a pen to take notes, and Sebastian followed her. She riffled through her desk as he threw himself upon her bed and lay, sprawled out, curiously looking around the room.

She couldn't help feeling a little thrill, seeing him on her bed.

“So this is the make-out den where you brought all your high school
novios
, eh?” he said, raising a brow.

She laughed. “Sure. If by ‘all,' you mean none.”

“Your parents were strict?”

“Um, no. I mean I had no high school boyfriends.”

Sebastian made a face. “That's ridiculous. Of course you had boyfriends. Look at you.”

She smiled and shook her head, picking up a framed photo off her desk and showing him. “Yes, look at me.”

Seb took the photo. It was a picture of her and Camelia—arms around each other. Camelia looked almost exactly the same—wide, dark eyes and a mischievous smile. But Kat had braces and a regrettable hairstyle. Above her smile, her eyes looked distant.

“Hot, eh?” said Kat.

Seb cocked his head. “You look sweet and innocent and like you're just counting the hours until you can get out of town.”

She nodded. “You got it.”

“And I'm sorry, but you were a knockout even then.”

Kat snatched the photo back. “Don't be ridiculous.”

Seb laughed and leaned back on the bed. “There's nothing like a beautiful woman who doesn't have a clue how gorgeous she really is.”

“Oh, for Pete's sake,” said Kat. “Really? Do you honestly think there is a woman on earth who isn't excruciatingly aware of just how attractive or unattractive society deems her to be?”

He blinked. “But you just said—”

“I'm not an idiot, Sebastian. I know that I no longer look like”—she shoved her finger at the photo—“that. I'm fully aware of the fact that I'm not a total troll anymore.”

“You never looked like a troll.”

She shook her head. “You didn't know me then.”

He sighed. “Fine. What I meant to say is that there is nothing like a woman who is fully aware of the incredible power she wields over nearly every man in the room.”

“You're the only man in the room.”

“I rest my case.”

She snorted and went back to looking for a pen.

He smiled and looked around some more. “So it's always been movies, eh?” he said, taking note of her wall of tickets. “Just like for me, it's always been polo.”

“Well, except no one expected me to make movies. I wasn't raised and groomed for Hollywood. I just really liked film.”

“I like it, too,” he said. “Jandro complains that I spend more time watching movies than I do on horseback.”

“What's your favorite?” she said.

He wrinkled his nose, thinking. “I like big, epic films.
Lawrence of Arabia
.
Doctor Zhivago
.”

“So you're a romantic.”

“No. No. I'm a realist. But I like to escape.”

She smiled dubiously.

“Come on,” he said. “What's your favorite then?”

“I have too many to choose.”

“That's not fair. You made me pick.”

“Yes, but you don't make movies for a living.”

He sat up in her bed. “But I practically do. Remember what Alejandro said.”

She laughed. “Do you want to watch a movie right now? I have kind of an amazing collection.” She walked to the closet and pushed open the accordion door. Instead of clothes, there was a wall of VHS tapes, all arranged in alphabetical order.

Sebastian whistled and came over to look closer. “Wow. Who has tapes anymore?”

“I couldn't throw them away. This was my film school before I went to film school.”

He looked closer and wrinkled his nose. “I think you have every single John Hughes film ever made.”

She laughed. “Oh, I know I do. Want to watch
Pretty in Pink
?”

He glanced back at her. “No. I definitely do not.”

She bent over, squinting at the titles. “Well then, do you want to watch—”

“
Linda
,” he said, cutting her off. His voice sounded dangerous. “For how long will we be alone in this house?”

She looked at him. “Why?”

He returned her gaze. “Because I want to know if I have enough time to properly make love to you.”

“Oh,” she said softly.

“So how much time do we have? An hour? Two?”

“Um…” Her eyes darted to the clock radio by her bed. “Um, more like four or five.”

He smiled. A slow, satisfied, devastating smile. “Take off your clothes,” he said.

She swallowed. “All of them?”

“Si, toda.”

She felt a rush of heat that started at her cheeks and flooded to her toes. “Is there any particular order you'd like me to go about this?”

He bit his lip. “I'll let you choose.”

She took a deep breath and reached for her shirt, unbuttoning the top button. “Like this?”

His eyes went dark, and his nostrils slightly flared. He nodded slowly. “Yes. Like that. Now do the next one.”

She undid the next one, and then another, relieved that she was wearing a pretty bra underneath. “How's that?” she asked. Her voice was trembling.

“Take off the shirt.”

She slowly slipped the shirt off, then met his eyes again.

“Now the bra.”

She unhooked her bra and dropped it to the floor.

He stared at her. “Katarina,” he said hoarsely, “you are so beautiful.”

She could barely breathe. “Sebastian, I don't want to—I need you to…”

He moved across the room toward her with what felt like lightning speed. He crushed her into his arms and then he was kissing her—deeply, passionately, as if he couldn't get enough. He ran his hand through her hair, over her cheek, down her neck, and then cupped her breast, stroking her nipple with his thumb.

She gasped and felt him smile against her mouth.

He continued to tease her—splaying his hand over her breast, catching her nipple between his fingers, sending thrills throughout her body as he tantalized her with his expert touch. She arched against him, wanting more, and he broke the kiss with a moan and lowered his mouth to her breasts, ravenously licking and kissing until she couldn't stand it anymore.

“Please, Sebastian,” she groaned, and then he took her nipple into his mouth and softly sucked, using his tongue to torment her until she cried out with desire and thrust herself at him.

He lifted his head. “It kills me,” he said in a hiss, “not to have both my hands. All I want to do is touch you everywhere, to run my fingers through your hair, down your body, to put my fingers inside you where I know you are so soft and wet—”

“If this is what you can do to me with just one hand,” she said breathlessly, “I'm not sure I could survive two.”

He grinned and returned his attention to her breasts. She sighed and then pushed him away so she could unbutton his shirt, baring his glorious chest. His skin was golden and smooth. His muscles were so hard and defined that she actually stopped for a moment and laughed at his perfection. He was so beautiful.
Who actually looks like this in real life?

She thought of the actors on the movie sets she'd seen getting airbrushed and made up, the lighting, the wardrobe, the digital enhancement…Sebastian looked better, standing here, half naked in her childhood bedroom, than any movie star she'd ever seen, on or off the screen.

His beauty made her greedy. She fumbled at his jeans, popping open the button at his waistline, yanking off his pants, and then taking a step back—holding him at arm's length—wanting to see him in all his masculine glory. He stared back at her, his eyes burning as she found herself actually walking a slow circle around him, absorbing the width of his shoulders, the ropes of muscles on his back, the sharp, strong curve of his behind, his powerful thighs and calves.

She took a deep breath as she slowly reached out and touched the hardness of his pecs, felt the bud of his dark brown nipple rise to her touch, traced the striated lines of abdominal muscle that stretched, quivering, across his stomach, the dark, rough path of hair that led southward. And then she took his cock into her hand, feeling the pulse of velvet over steel, listening to his breath hiss out, watching his eyes clench shut.

“Katarina,” he whispered hoarsely.

She sank to her knees, placed her hands on the hard contours of his behind, pulling him toward her, as she took him as far into her mouth as she could, her tongue tasting the salt and copper tang of him, her body clenching with pleasure as she heard him moan, and his hips rocked, slowly pushing himself in and out of her mouth.

Then he froze, and his hand clenched into her hair. “
No más
,” he said. “It feels too good.” He pulled her up, roughly stripping off the rest of her clothes in what felt like seconds, and then, oh mercy, he swept her up with just one arm, and carried her to her bed, spreading her thighs and kissing the very core of her.

She groaned, and the groan almost twisted into a scream as white-hot flashes of pleasure rocketed through her with every flick of his tongue, every slow, swirling lick, every deep kiss, every pulsating sensation.

He paused and looked up at her, his green eyes shining. “You taste so sweet,
linda
,” he said wonderingly. “I've never tasted a woman as sweet as you.”

He buried his face back into her and then reached up to hold her breast, softly pinching her nipple between his thumb and finger while his tongue continued to swirl round and round, and suddenly she was tumbling over the edge, a hot, dark, brutal feeling pulsing through her, stars exploding behind her eyes, the sweet agony rolling through her with the unstoppable force of thunder, her whole body melting into liquid. And she lost her breath and she lost her sense of where she was or who she was and all she could think of was
him
. Sebastian. The man who was making her feel things she had never felt before.

She shuddered with loss as his mouth left her. She heard the sound of a condom wrapper being ripped open. Then his lips were on hers, hot and strong, and his tongue pushed into her mouth as he settled himself between her thighs and slowly thrust up into her. And she was peaking all over again as his body pressed against hers. He filled her and teased her and thrust back into her, over and over again as she was driven to greater and greater heights. Until she felt that she might not ever regain her breath, it was all so much.

And finally, she felt him shake and buck and call her name and say things in Spanish that she understood without translation, and she was filled with one last burst of pure, aching sweetness—a feeling so strong that she felt lifted out of her own body, couldn't find where she ended and he began. Then, with a deep moan, he fell against her, deliciously crushing her under him, as she lay there in his arms, trembling and breathless and in awe of the searing power of what had just passed between them.