Chapter Forty-Two

Ben

God, her lips.

As soft and sweet as I remember. Even more so. My cock responds, aching in my jeans.

I pull back, ending the kiss before it even starts.

Tessa widens her eyes, her lips still parted and glistening from the kiss.

She looks beautiful. She’s dressed in a sky blue tank top that hugs her curves—and her nipples are hard against the fabric.

Her feet are bare, and it’s incredibly erotic.

I want to throw her up against the wall and fuck her into it. I want to fuck her in the shower, on the couch, on the dining table, on the kitchen counter, on her bed, on the floor, against the wall. Especially after the day I’ve had.

But I can’t. I have to behave myself. I have to do this thing right.

“Sorry,” I say.

She pulls away, smiling. “I don’t think I was complaining.”

“I had a shitty afternoon, Tessa, but that’s not your fault.” He caresses my cheek. “I should have come in, said hello first.”

“I’m sorry you had a bad afternoon.” She hugs me and presses her cheek to my chest. It feels so good, so comforting, and so… “You want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.” I inhale. “Something smells amazing in here.”

She waves toward her small kitchen. “I know we just had Mexican food yesterday at my father’s funeral, but I felt like cooking my mother’s recipes. Which is odd, because I’m not a cook and haven’t made anything for myself since…well, before Garrett.”

I hold back a wince at her mention of Garrett. I’ll have to pay a visit to the little leech, make sure he and Dirk’s brother stay far away from my woman.

My woman?

My God…

I’ve only kissed her, and now she’s my woman?

I’m fucked in the head. So fucked in the head that I’ll protect her at all costs. I’ll bulldoze Boston to the ground if I have to.

Fuck. I rake my fingers through my hair. I’ve never felt this way about any woman before. Hell, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.

I breathe in. “I love Mexican food. I can eat it seven days a week.”

“I’m glad, because I made it from my favorite of my mother’s recipes. Cheese enchiladas with homemade red sauce.”

I inhale again. “It smells amazing.”

“Come in. I’ve got some chips and salsa set out. And I made margaritas.”

I can’t help smiling at her. Not my favorite, but for Tessa I’ll happily drink battery acid.

“I know it’s not Wild Turkey but—”

“Tessa, a margarita sounds delicious. Normally I don’t go for the sweeter drinks, but with Mexican food, it feels right.”

“I haven’t made margaritas in a long time.” Her lips tremble slightly. “I haven’t drunk a margarita in a long time.”

“You told me it’s your favorite drink.”

“It is.” She kneels and scratches her dog behind her ear. “I named Rita after a margarita.”

I smile. “That’s so adorable.”

“I don’t know about adorable, but I think I’d like to have a margarita. Jamaica was the first time I drank anything alcoholic since…well, you know. I felt like I wanted one tonight.”

I follow her into her small kitchen. She pours the margaritas into a shaker. Then she strains them into two lowball glasses with salted rims and hands one glass to me.

“Cheers,” I say, clicking my glass to hers.

“Cheers,” she echoes and takes a sip.

I smile then because what I see is pure sunshine and goodness. Tessa’s face lights up like downtown Boston during the holidays.

“Good?” I ask.

“So good.” She licks a few grains of salt from her lips. “The salt, and the tangy sweetness of the lime, and the smoky tequila… I really forgot how much I love margaritas.” She sighs. “I seem to have forgotten a lot of things.”

“You’ll remember.” I take a sip. The lime and salt are tangy on my tongue, and the tequila has a bite that I like. Much better than the one in Jamaica. “This is delicious. What kind of margarita mix did you use?”

She scoffs. “Margarita mix? That stuff’s awful. I make my own simple syrup, and I use the juice from fresh-squeezed limes. I use reposado tequila, and I also use Cointreau instead of a cheap triple sec. If I’m really feeling excited I use Grand Marnier, but I don’t have any.”

“I can honestly say this is the best margarita I have ever tasted.”

“I imagine it’s one of the only margaritas you ever tasted.”

“Now that’s not true. When I was young, I preferred sweeter drinks over straight bourbon.” I stop abruptly.

Not a great time to think about when I was young. Tonight can’t be about anything except Tessa and me.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. But I don’t want to think about my younger days right now.”

In fact…

What I want is to kiss her again.

I take another sip of the margarita, and then I set it down on her small counter before taking hers out of her hand and setting it beside my own.

I cup both her cheeks. “God, your skin is like silk.”

She moves her hands upward, covering mine with her own.

Then she parts her lips.

I wait.

I wait for her to say something.

But she doesn’t.

So I kiss her.

I kiss her, and the sweetness of her lips infuses me, takes me to a place where everything is okay.

She doesn’t resist, not at all.

So I deepen the kiss.

I touch my tongue to hers, swirl it around, tasting every part of her mouth.

She tastes of lime and sugar and tequila and salt.

But she also tastes like Tessa. A sweetness that doesn’t come from the margarita.

A sweetness that’s all her own.

She moves her hands from mine and wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me close to her.

I’m already hard, and our bodies are touching, so she can feel my arousal.

But it doesn’t seem to bother her.

We kiss, my heartbeat becoming rapid, my need transforming to pure yearning.

All that energy—the tension that has been inside me since my meeting with Dirk—I let it go in this kiss.

I move my hands from her face, grip her shoulders, slide one hand into her beautiful hair, and pull the band out of her ponytail, letting her hair flow around her shoulders.

Then I grasp a handful of it, yanking her head back as I break the kiss, trailing my lips over her silky neck, kissing her, moving my lips to her ear, and tugging on her lobe.

“Tessa…” I growl into her ear.

“Ben…” she replies on a soft sigh.

“I…”

“I know,” she says. “Me too.”

I’m not sure she knows what I mean. What I mean is that I need her. I want her. I ache for her right now.

I want to fuck her into next Tuesday. My cock is hard as granite and yearns to be set free.

All this time I tried to go slow, not kissing her until the time was right—yesterday in the rain.

God, it was so right.

And now I want it all. To sink into her lush body and lose myself.

But no.

She cooked me an amazing dinner.

I can’t… I can’t…

“It’s okay,” she says. “Please. I want to.”

I turn her around so she’s facing her counter, my bulge hitting her lower back.

“Be sure, Tessa,” I whisper against her neck. “Be sure, because if we start this, I’m not going to want to stop.”

“I’m—”

The kitchen timer clangs.

“Crap,” she says.

“What is that?”

“The enchiladas. They’re done.”

I move away from her, chuckling. “Saved by the bell, so they say.”

She turns around, swallows, and meets my gaze. “I don’t think I wanted to be saved that time, Ben.”

I lean against her kitchen counter. “It’s not a bad thing. It will give us both a chance to cool off. You went to the trouble to make dinner, and I plan to enjoy it.”

She smiles. It’s a weak smile, but a genuine smile. Different from the other weak smiles I’ve seen on her beautiful face lately.

She grabs a couple of potholders and pulls two pans out of the oven.

“Cheese enchiladas and refried beans,” she says. “They’ll need a few minutes to cool.”

I inhale the spicy and robust aroma. “Smells delicious.”

She picks up her margarita and takes a sip. “I hope so. I’ve never made these without my mom’s help. Like I said, I’m not really a cook, other than a killer guac. But I felt like making my mom’s recipes today.”

I squeeze her arm. “Probably because you’re missing your dad.”

She nods. “He loved my mom’s Mexican food. He said he could eat it every day.”

I pick up my margarita and drain it.

“You want another?”

“No.”

She frowns.

I hold up a hand. “No, it’s not that I didn’t like it. I just don’t want to have more than one drink tonight. I want to have all my faculties about me, because when I kiss you again, Tessa, I want to be fully aware of everything I’m doing. I don’t want a buzz to keep me from enjoying our time together.”

She smiles again. It’s weak but genuine. “Okay. Have a seat.” She motions to her small table where two place settings are set.

Glasses of water are already poured, and she picks up my plate, serves me some enchiladas and a glop of refried beans, and sets it back down. She serves herself and sits down across from me. She closes her eyes for a few moments, then opens them.

“Dig in,” she says.

“Were you…praying?”

Her cheeks blush a bit. “Yes and no. I already told you I left my parents’ religion long ago, but I like to always express gratitude before I eat. I’ve gotten out of the habit, but it seems more important than ever now that I express gratitude for everything I have. I want to remember that no matter what struggles I’m having, my life is actually pretty darned good, and I’m grateful.”

“Your heart still beats,” I say softly.

“Yeah.” Her brown eyes are warm as she looks at me. “You told me that on the plane going to Jamaica.”

“I did.” I pick up my fork and look down at my plate. “Something I have to remind myself of a lot. Especially lately.”

“Something going on?”

I smile. “No. Everything’s fine.”

I can’t burden her with my problems. I could make them go away in an instant with money, at least for now, but then they’d only come back to haunt me again.

I have to figure out a better way.

“Tell me more about your religion while you were growing up,” I say.

She lifts her eyebrows. “Are you sure you want to hear more about that?”

“You look surprised.”

“I am. You don’t seem the religious type.”

“I’m not, but I find it interesting. I told you we went to church on Christmas and Easter before my mom passed away, but that was about it. I believe in a higher power, but I don’t follow any particular religion. So yeah, I’m interested.”

“My parents were very devout Catholics,” she says. “They were both raised in religious families. Irish Catholic and Mexican Catholic. And then there was my grandmother.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I told you about her altar. She studied all the saints, taught me a lot about them. But there was also a mystical side to her religion. She used to say it was Santeria.”

“I’m not sure I know what Santeria is.”

“I’ve never quite understood it. It literally means ‘the way of the saints.’ Her mother—my great-grandmother—was Cuban, and she practiced Santeria, but what Nana did was really Catholicism with some mystical stuff thrown in. She sought personal relationships with God and the Blessed Mother and the saints through prayer mostly, but also through some divination. But she didn’t worship other gods.” Tessa smiles. “I remember one time she thought the remnants of enchilada sauce on her plate was an apparition of the Blessed Mother.”

“You mean the Virgin Mary?”

“Yeah. I thought Da was going to pee himself right at the dinner table, he laughed so hard. Nana didn’t speak to him for twenty-four hours after that. But she loved my father. Absolutely adored him. She forgave him.” Tessa laughs, but then her face twists slightly. “I haven’t thought about that in forever. His humor was so much a part of him. I miss him so much.”

Her laugh pleases me, but I feel the pain of her missing her father. “I know. I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “I’ll be okay. He’ll always be here.” She places her hand over her heart. “But anyway, Nana didn’t indoctrinate me into religion or anything, but she and I were very close. When I was little, I thought it was really cool to watch her light her candles, pray to the saints, do her rosaries.”

Her stories warm me. “I’m glad you were so close to her.”

“Yeah. I never really knew my grandparents on my father’s side. They both died when I was quite young.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She shrugs. “I suppose you can’t miss what you never had. Anyway, my grandmother was always my safe space. When I sat on her lap, no harm could come to me.”

“And you were named after her.”

“Right. Teresa Maria.”

“It’s a beautiful name.”

“I always kind of hated it.” She chuckles. “Even though I loved my grandmother who also had the name. But I like the nickname I got—Tessa. It was different and unique. I’ve never known another Tessa in all my years of going to school and in being in the workforce.”

“It is unique.” I gaze into her eyes. “And it’s beautiful. It suits you.”

She looks down, her cheeks turning a beautiful rose. “Thank you.”

I finally take a bite of enchilada. The flavor explodes on my tongue—the creaminess of the cheese, the smoke and spice of the sauce, and the subtle sweetness of the corn tortilla. “My God,” I say. “This is delicious.”

“Better than Aunt Lily’s at the funeral?”

“Doesn’t even come close.”

“Aunt Lily uses this exact recipe,” she says. “But she was cooking for a large crowd, and that’s different.”

I take another bite, relishing the deliciousness.

“I have flan for dessert,” Tessa says.

I nod.

But I already know what I want for dessert.