Sombra: Book Two in the Love in Translation series
From the shadows, he emerges. The small pool of olive oil on his hands glistens in the candlelight and drips on the tile floor through his fingers.
I glimpse up at his face as he approaches the bed, and he’s grinning wickedly, his hair messy and wild. Bare feet on a cold floor. Shirt off. Jeans unbuttoned, with a thatch of groomed pubic hair peeking up, his root showing.
A shiver of anticipation runs through me making goose flesh erupt on my nude arms and legs.
His appraising eyes slowly, languidly, take in my form.
And I love it. I absolutely love the way he looks at me, like he’s appreciating every freckle, every hair follicle, every curve. My painted toes. My voluptuous calves. My ample thighs. And on up.
Another drip of olive oil plops on the floor. Part of me thinks it’s a waste. The other part of me loves this game.
The wait, the watching, makes me begin to pant. My stomach goes up and down, taking in breaths faster and faster, my skin glowing in the half light of his room.
What surprise does he have for me this time?
The mystery. I love the mystery. Knowing that I don’t know what’s coming next. That it’s not all planned for me.
That I have no idea what pleasures are in store for me tonight, but I’m sure they’re coming.
He knows what he does to me. He knows I’m resisting writhing on the crisp, rough sheets, which are crackly from drying on a line out back in the cold, wintry Andalusian sun. We’ll soften them soon enough when our bodies join together, but right now they’re almost like brittle sandpaper, chafing my skin.
With a bite of his lip, trying to control his smile, he rubs his hands together, making a suction sound from the lubrication. The oil smells fruity, green—if you could smell a color—and bitter.
I’ve licked it enough times to know its taste. The complexity of the flavors. How just a drop on the tongue can make me want so much.
I love it, even though I shouldn’t.
My eyes stay on his hands. I’m obsessed with them, especially his callouses. Over time, they’ve built up on the pads of his palms, right next to where his fingers begin. The telltale sign of a life lived working outside, even if it’s not what he wants. Sometimes his rough patches crack and bleed, a hazard of using a rake to beat the olives out of the trees.
A hazard of using his hands.
Those scratchy callouses now skim down my naked body, half-lit in the dark room, leaving a trail of oil. My new haircut is splayed across the pillow. His light touch makes my nipples point up. Blood floods my body. I arch up into his fingers, wanting more. Needing more.
We shouldn’t be doing this. This isn’t how my life is supposed to be.
But nothing can stop our desire.