Chapter 1: Riding the Storm
The ocean breeze cut through the villa, smelling of salt and damp earth. It pushed the sheer linen curtains inward, where they floated and settled like exhausted ghosts. Abella watched them for a second, the rhythm of their movement matching the pulse between her legs. Then she looked down at Mateo.
He was different. Quiet. His hands, currently resting on her bare hips, were calloused in a way that had nothing to do with a keyboard. She’d slept with tourists before—the type who thought a week in Havana made them deep. Mateo wasn’t like that. He watched her like he was trying to translate a complex text.
“You think too much,” she said, her voice a low hum. She shifted, rolling her hips in a slow, testing circle. Beneath her, he drew a sharp breath.
“I’m paying attention,” he said. His English was unaccented, but the words came out measured.
Abella smirked. She lifted herself up, the damp heat of him leaving her for a second, then sank back down, taking him in completely. A controlled, punishing drop. Her head fell back, her dark curls brushing the small of her back. The breeze kissed her sweating skin. She began to move, a practiced, precise rise and fall, her thighs gripping his sides for leverage. Her breasts, free and heavy, swayed with the motion.
She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest. His heart thudded against her palm. “You like to watch,” she whispered, her lips close to his ear. “I can feel it. You’re letting me do all the work.” She nipped his lower lip, not quite a kiss. “Mejor que te pongas al día, papi. You’d better keep up.”
She felt a tremor run through him. Then his hands, which had been so still, moved. One slid up her spine, tangling in her hair, not pulling, just holding. The other stayed low on her hip, his thumb pressing into the bone. He wasn’t guiding her; he was anchoring her.
His eyes, which had been dark and observing, flashed with something hotter. Definite. “You talk a lot,” he said, his voice rough.
Before she could retort, before she could adjust her rhythm to punish him for the comment, he moved.
It wasn’t a gentle shift. It was a surge of coiled strength. The hand in her hair tightened just enough, the arm around her hip locking like a vise. In one fluid, shocking motion, he flipped her.
The world spun—ceiling, curtain, window, sky—and then her back was in the soft linen sheets, cool against her heated skin. He was above her, caging her, his body between her thighs. The position was utterly reversed. The control, wrenched from her hands.
She gasped, more from surprise than anything else. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She stared up at him. His quiet was gone, replaced by a focused intensity that was like a physical weight.
“Mateo,” she breathed, the challenge still in her tone, but it was thinner now, mixed with a sharp, unexpected thrill.
He didn’t smile. He just looked at her, really looked, as if seeing her for the first time. Not Abella Anderson, the persona. Just her. The moment stretched, filled only by the sound of the waves below and their mingled breathing.
A slow, appreciative whistle cut through the silence from the doorway.
“Well,” Lucia said, her voice rich with amusement. She leaned against the frame, one ankle crossed over the other, already unbuttoning her vibrant floral blouse. “This is a new look for you, mi vida. Usually you’re the one on top.” Her sharp eyes scanned Mateo’s back, then found Abella’s face. A knowing grin spread across her features. “I like it. Room for one more?”
Abella couldn’t answer. She was still pinned by Mateo’s gaze, by the startling solidity of him, by the realization that the script she’d written for the afternoon had just been torn up. The familiar craving for connection, which she usually buried under performance, surfaced with a sudden, desperate ache. This wasn’t part of the act.
Mateo’s thumb brushed her cheekbone, a strangely gentle gesture. He finally smiled, just a little. It didn’t reach his eyes, which were still serious. “You still want to do all the talking?” he asked quietly.
From the doorway, Lucia laughed, the sound bright and clear as she let her blouse fall to the floor. The story, Abella realized, was just beginning, and she was no longer directing it.