StripperwithSpice (21 page)

“I missed you.” I mouth the words but no sound comes out.

His arms enclose me. “I missed you too,
querida
.”

We stand there for a long time, squeezing the breath out of
each other. We have a powerful connection. At least that much is clear.

He lets go of me. “I left some bags in the hall. I’ll go get
them.”

Bags? Is he moving in? I never know what to expect with
Carlos.

“I thought we could make some chicken fajitas,” he says
after carrying in the first bag.

“Sounds good to me.”

Food? He must not be planning to break up with me after all.
My tense shoulders drop with relief. How did he know how much I need to cook
right now? I didn’t even realize it. I’m also grateful the activity will keep
us busy and, hopefully, slice through the awkwardness between us.

He hasn’t kissed me yet, I realize as I help him bring in
the rest of the bags. While I pull out the pans we’ll need from my cabinets, he
lays out the ingredients in his usual methodical way. Maybe he plans to break
up with me or assumes I’ll break up with him. The thought burns my eyes.

“I snagged some marinated chicken and tortillas from the restaurant.”
He hands me an empty tortilla warmer. “I took this too, in case you didn’t
already have one.”

It’s time for me to apologize. Why can’t I? I’m so ashamed I
hardly know where to begin. Maybe I’ll wait until after we eat so we can focus
on cooking now. Hopefully doing my favorite activity will give me strength.

We both cut vegetables. He does the jalapeño and green
peppers while I do the onions and red bell peppers. Before long, the pungent
scents of raw pepper and onion juices fill the kitchen.

“How was work last week?” he asks.

“Very busy.”
Slice. Slice. Slice.
I can’t think of
anything else to say.

“I’m glad to see your hair is back to normal. Any problems
after the gala?”

My heart thuds and my fingers twitch around the knife
handle.
Apologize, Janice!

“No. Tiffin just asked me how much I paid you to be my
escort.”

He laughs. “Maybe that should be my new career. What did you
tell her?”

“That you’re my friend.”

The humor dies on his face.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
“Is
that what we are now? Just friends?”

I drop my knife on the cutting board. “You tell me. You’ve
been here for twenty minutes and you haven’t even kissed me.”

He drops his knife too. “Well, we can take care of that
right now.”

“You’re crazy,” I mutter, shaking my head when Carlos pops a
small slice of jalapeño into his mouth then chews and swallows it.

“Taste me, Janice.”

I hold up my hand. “I’d rather not now.”

But he doesn’t listen. Instead he clasps both sides of my
head and presses his mouth to mine—opening my lips with his scorching tongue and
sharing his heat with me. Within seconds, my entire mouth is aflame with the
essence of fiery pepper juice and need. The onslaught of sensations catches me
so off guard my arms dangle, forgotten, at my sides.

It’s the best kiss we’ve ever had—tentative and sweet, then
desperate and demanding. Every confusing feeling and unanswered question passes
between our lips in unintelligible moans and sighs. I ignore the little voice
that tells me he’s wrong for me and that we argue too much. The peppery heat of
our breaths ignites the air around us, making our eventual joining a foregone
conclusion.

“Carlos, I-I’m sorry…about the gala…about a lot of things.”
But he merely swallows my words with another kiss.

His restless hands travel down my face, through my hair and
over my clothes. I cling to his shoulders with both hands as a need so strong
it forces tears to my eyes rips through me.

My feet leave the ground as Carlos carries me to my
faux-antique couch. Despite our urgency, he lays me on it with surprising gentleness
and kneels beside it, pressing a series of small kisses to the base of my
throat.

“Wh-what about dinner?” I ask, arching my back when his
fevered tongue swipes the side of my neck.

“It can wait,” he mutters as he pulls off my shoes and jeans
and lifts my sweater and bra high enough to expose my bare breasts.

He palms the mounds, dragging across the aching nipples and
hardening them even more. My panties have never become so drenched so fast.
Clenching the damp cotton with my inner thighs, I writhe on the couch, needing
him to fill me. While he pulls a condom from his pocket, slides off his own
jeans and straddles me with one foot on the floor, I fumble with his shirt
buttons.

Answering my cry of frustration, he puts the condom packet
on the couch beside me and helps me with the shirt until he’s completely
unbuttoned. I whimper with joy as a child would after wrestling open a box of
candy. My fingers toy with the chain around his neck before dipping to the
satiny skin of his bronze chest.

Every touch joins us. Whatever came between us before—his
job, my job and stuff I can’t even remember now—evaporates from the heat of our
rapture. Never let this moment end. Let us always feel as close as we do right
now.

After sliding my wet panties off, he nudges my left foot to
rest on the floor, opening me to his hungry gaze. Never taking his eyes off me,
he yanks off his own underwear, releasing his musky, aroused scent and the
eager angle of his erection.

He wants me so much—as much as I want him.

Balanced over me with a knee on the inside of the couch, he
palms my swollen cunt and inserts two fingers so quickly I gasp. Within
seconds, unexplainable heat burns inside me, consuming my entire belly and
heightening my lust.

“I-I seem to be on fire,” I gasp.

“So am I.”

When I shift against his fingers, the movement only fuels
the inferno raging inside me. “No, it must be the peppers.”

“
¿Caliente?
” He grins, tearing open the condom packet
and sheathing his erect shaft. “Oops. I forgot to wash my hands after cutting
those jalapeños. Genitals are mucous membranes like the mouth.”

Beads of sweat form on my upper lip. “No kidding.”

Bending low over me, he whispers in my ear. “Have you ever
been fucked with hot pepper juice saturating your cunt?”

The words themselves almost bring me to orgasm. “No. Just do
it before I combust.”

To urge him, I kiss the base of his neck, sucking the taut
skin hard between my lips. His deep moan resonates through both our chests. The
mesquite-spicy scent of him, which has always enticed me, is doubly
intoxicating today.

I need to feel the bare skin of your pussy with nothing
between us.

His words from our gym date come back to me. Why not? After
all, it would only be fair to share this fiery pepper juice with him… But for
that level of intimacy to happen, there must be nothing standing between us.

He lifts my left thigh, which hangs off the couch, to rest
on his so he can penetrate me. I grip his shoulders and gaze into his eyes as
he slides into me. Bliss and a feeling of rightness enter my bloodstream,
rushing to every finger and toe. The torrid flames engulfing my cunt burn low,
momentarily quenched, and blossom again when he glides back out. Cool Hand
Carlos is a big glass of water and I’m dying of thirst.

“Carlos…” I can’t finish the sentence but I don’t need to.
Our bodies have the conversation our words can’t.

Each sweet, loving stroke tells us how much we missed each
other and how hard we have to work to make this right.

His strong hips are gentle but expert, guiding me to greater
and greater levels of pleasure. I touch his face and hair as if rediscovering
him all over again. Every ounce of work stress from the past week melts away.
We kiss, latching on to each other with lips, tongue and even teeth.

Each having a foot on the floor gives us extra leverage to
push into each other. I press my cheek against his, feeling the quick, warm
breaths of his passion against my skin. We press and press—cheek-to-cheek,
pelvis-to-pelvis, bone-to-bone, shattering one barrier after another.

While sweet sensations thrum from my core to my entire
being, I remember the first time we had sex. The passion we had then has only
intensified. Now there’s something else too, something stronger—an unbreakable
bond.

With his belly arched and flexing between the sides of his
open shirt, he reaches between us and rubs my clit with one finger. He knows
just how much force to use on my body, pressing hard on the sensitive bud of
flesh. Reality drifts away as lightning bolts of sensation zap through me.

Our legs are now completely on the couch, tangled together,
and I don’t remember how they got there. All I can do is thrust my hips with
complete abandon until the heavy fabric of the couch cushion rubs my buttocks
raw.

Carlos grips the wood framing the top of the couch to keep
us from falling out of it as my pussy convulses and splits apart under him.
Unable to control myself, I shriek his name.

“Carlos! Carlos! Don’t go,” I call out, my voice shaking.
“Please don’t go.”

“I’m right here,
querida
,” he croons. “Right here.
Always.”

“We have to stay together,” I whisper, “no matter what.”

“We will.”

His thrusts slow and deepen, penetrating so far I—for once
in my life—feel completely filled. A sheen of sweat blossoms across his face as
he grits his teeth. The old couch shakes on its legs from the straining of his
powerful muscles.

A breathy whimper escapes his parted lips, as if he feels
just as vulnerable as I do, before he shouts his climax. His yell is wordless,
one male bellow that reverberates against the living room walls.

Finally he collapses on me, languid and spent. Never wanting
to let him go, I wrap my legs around his hot, heavy body.

I wipe the damp hair back from his forehead. “We needed
that.”

He grins. “You aren’t kidding. I hate to say it, but I think
the best sex we have is this plain vanilla kind.”

“That felt much more than vanilla to me.”

“You’re right,
querida
. Vanilla isn’t the right word.
How about spicy?”

My sated cunt, which has finally recovered from the hot
pepper juice, would certainly agree, but the love we just made was both sweet
and spicy. Our relationship has many flavors too. What could be better for a
woman who loves to cook?

“How about multi-flavored?” I trace my finger down his
chain, the metal links slippery from the sweat of our lovemaking. “Thanks for
giving me the time I needed.”

He pulls out of my body and curls up beside me, pulling the
afghan over us. “I’m sorry I acted like a prick about your promotion.”

Sighing, I stare at the ceiling. “I almost wish I hadn’t
gotten promoted. There’s so much more pressure.”

His fingers, featherlight, explore my face from eyes to
chin. “You look really tired but not in a good way. You don’t have that glow
you had after cooking at my brother’s restaurant.”

He’s right about the glow. My job makes me feel as if I’m a
light bulb that might burn out at any moment. After our wonderful lovemaking,
it’s the last thing I want to talk about.

I glance toward the kitchen. “Speaking of cooking, we’d
better get back to it.”

After taking turns cleaning up in the bathroom, we go back
to the kitchen. Once we finish slicing the ingredients, we fry them in oil.
Closing my eyes, I inhale the aroma. Finally my kitchen smells like something
good instead of nothing. We each hold spatulas as we stand side by side in
front of the oven.

What could be better than this—doing what I love with the
man I love?

Carlos arranges the tortillas in a casserole pan, covers it
and puts it in the oven. “After the gala, I was sure you wouldn’t want me
anymore.”

A pang of guilt shoots through me, but my indecisiveness is
history now. I want this man.

“You? Cool Hand Carlos who could have any woman he wants?”

“That’s the problem. I only want one woman. My job hasn’t
been so easy lately either.”

“What happened?”

He dusts remnants of tortilla flour off his hands and
shrugs. “I think I’m losing my touch. When I gave a table dance to a lady the
other night, she said if I wanted a twenty, I was going to have to do a lot
more.”

I laugh but my smile dies at the serious expression on his
face. This is his livelihood.

“I hope the trouble between us last week didn’t affect your
job.”

He cuts some spring onion for the sour cream garnish. “It’s
more than that. To tell you the truth, I think I started getting sick of my job
a year ago.”

This is news to me. Barely looking at the frying pan, I turn
the vegetables and chicken to keep them from burning. We should have had this
conversation on the couch where I could give him my full attention.

He puts down his knife. “It seems like just yesterday I was
a rookie, struggling to make a few dollars after tipping out the DJ and stage
coordinator for the week. Each call for a strip-o-gram pumped me up so high I
could hardly wait to get there.”

I don’t want to interrupt him so I just nod.

“I used to be totally into the stripper lifestyle,” he
continues. “Now I’d rather be alone with you spending a quiet evening like
this. I used to yearn to please every woman I met. Now I just want to please
you.”

“I hope I’m not responsible for wrecking your career,” I say
in a small voice.

He touches my forearms. “Don’t say that. I think I need you
because I’ve changed, not the other way around. Five years ago, I can’t see us
being this close.”

When he drops his hands, he probably leaves remnants of
flour on the cashmere sweater I bought on sale to celebrate my promotion, but I
don’t mind. Luckily the vegetables and chicken are done frying.

“What are you going to do?” I ask.