Spanish Pirate: A BWWM International Legacies Romance Page 8

  I pop a meatball into my mouth and eye the sangria with suspicion.

  “Don’t worry, I’m the one driving, so feel free to indulge. Or we could spend some time out there in the water. It’s nice this time of year.”

  My eyes once again fall to the group of girls topless on the beach. How do they have the nerve? It’s one thing swimming naked when I’m alone—and fully expected to remain that way.

  But this, right here in full view of everyone? There are children on the beach. And old men leering at them. And young men leering at them.

  Maybe that’s why?

  Or maybe they just don’t care?

  Oh, to be that carefree.

  I sip my sangria and eye them with envy. I could never.

  Could I?

  If Dad ever found out…

  The sangria goes down hard, like a liquid boulder in my throat.

  Before I take another sip, I consider that.

  Dad has no idea where I am. Hell, Mother Agnes probably hasn’t even told him I’m gone yet. Not until they do a thorough search of the island.

  There goes my secret lagoon.

  She’ll probably have the cave leading to it sealed up. No more escapes to go skinny dipping. In fact, I’ll probably be kept on an even tighter leash. Sister Ana will have a field day bossing me around.

  I sip some more sangria.

  It does a fine job of bringing me back to the present. Where no one knows who I am. And no one knows where I am. And no one has to know what I do.

  A smile curls my lips and I look at Ricardo with eager eyes.

  The wicked grin he returns tells me he reads my mind perfectly.

  “Well, let’s go then.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Enrique

  The sangria definitely did the trick.

  I don’t mean in terms of heading out to the beach, though that certainly sweetens the deal.

  I now know someone is after her. Just as it was for my mother and me, Santa María de Atlántica Convento is a refuge from danger for her.

  The only question is, who is after this one?

  I catch Julio’s attention to pay for the meal and drinks.

  “Can you watch my things? We’re going out to the water,” I ask in Spanish as he clears away the plates.

  He grins and nods.

  One thing the Americans have taught me is that tipping well, even in a country where it isn’t standard, pays for itself in dividends, especially at a place I frequent. This is a favor I’ve asked of him before if someone in particular at the bar or the beach catches my attention. A little fun in the water, a casual suggestion we take it back to their place. It’s always a nice way to treat myself after another successful pirating adventure.

  Though this time, I have come away with more than I bargained for.

  Still, strike while the iron is hot. And that sangria has turned the temperature to sweltering. Maybe the water will finish the job and get her to talk.

  I pour the last of the sangria into her glass. She gives me a scolding look as though she knows exactly what I’m doing, but drinks it all the same.

  While she finishes her glass, I walk over to the bar and pull out my wallet, keys, and phone to hide in a cupboard. Although the bar is set to close down until reopening at eight this evening, I’ll be able to slip back in and rescue my things before then.

  By the time I make it back to the table, she’s finished her drink and is already out of the chair. She reels, looking amusingly surprised at her inability to stand.

  “Cuidado,” I caution, as she grabs the edge of the table to steady herself. “Perhaps we should save the beach for another—”

  She angrily glares at me, then sets her mouth into a firm, determined line and straightens up.

  A smile comes to my lips as I watch her carefully try to walk her way out of the bar. It’s a good thing she has such sturdy shoes. I’m sure that’s the only thing keeping her from toppling over.

  My smile fades as I follow her out to the beach. Once again, my mind goes to work.

  Who the hell would be after a twenty-year-old American?

  Is it something she’s done? Seen? Or is it just a matter of who she is?

  And why the hell would she pick Santa María of all places to hide out at?

  She walks a few steps into the sand before realizing that it would be much easier without the clumsy shoes on. She nearly topples over as she tries lifting first one leg, then the other to remove them, then continues on. Winding her way through the crowd, she finds a spot about two meters away from where the water gently laps in small waves against the beach.

  I remain a few meters behind her, just waiting to see what she does. The shoes slip from her hands and fall with a plop onto the sand. My brow rises when I see her hands come up, presumably to unbutton the shirt. It lowers when she opens it and allows it to slide from her shoulders down her arms to join the shoes on the sand.

  Maybe the sangria worked a little too well.

  Being in her bra and underwear isn’t a problem. The demure, white cotton covers as much as anything anyone else is wearing here, probably more.

  I swallow hard when her hands come back behind her to undo her bra. Not even an hour ago, she was appalled at the idea of going topless at this public beach. Now, she might as well be under some type of trance, considering how she’s undressing without any hesitation.

  I’m completely mesmerized. Nothing is left but a stretch of dark, coppery skin that glows in the sun, separated by a triangle of white cotton. Her thick mass of curls stirs in the mild breeze.

  From behind, she looks like some sea goddess.

  Scratch that. There’s something a little too mortal about her. But she is a hypnotizing figure, the kind that could easily draw men to their doom.

  I’m annoyed to note that I’m not the only one who seems to be under her spell as she slowly walks to the water. Young men who should be focused on the group of topless girls next to me. Older men who should be watching their kids. Much older men who should know better, but are beyond caring. Even boys who are probably getting their first taste of puberty as they steal surreptitious glances her way.

  But this mermaid is mine. I’ve already claimed her.

  I quickly step out of my shoes and remove everything save for the black briefs I have on. By the time I head for the water, she’s already dived into the waves.

  It doesn’t take me long to catch up to her. I dive and easily find her in the crystal blue water ahead.

  I break the surface and find her standing there looking out to sea, the water rising to just above her waist, enough to lift her body slightly with each swell of a wave. She has her hands crossed over her chest as she turns to face me.

  As soon as I stand to my full height, almost a head taller than her, she laughs and twists around to dive back into the sea like some playful water sprite.

  My brow furrows with irritation for some reason, and I dive in after her. This time when she comes up for air, the water is just high enough to reach her naked breasts. She uses her arms to keep herself steady as the water rocks her back and forth. Her hair spreads across the water like twisted seaweed.

  I’m more steady, and some impulse has me pulling her in closer, my hand coming out to her lower back. Just as instinctively, her arms come up around my neck like I’m a buoy keeping her from drifting away. The tips of her breasts graze against my chest, stirring something in me that’s much more active than the waves passing by us.

  The rest happens so naturally, I almost don’t realize I’m doing it. My hand slides down to cup her ass through the soaked fabric of her underwear. Her legs come up to circle my waist. My free hand slips in between us, creeping past her waistband. Her eyes close in anticipation of what’s coming.

  I find the tiny bundle of nerves hidden in the private depths underneath that cloth, and she throws her head back. I stroke, slowly at first, watching her nostrils flare, her throat pulsate, her lips tremble. Her thighs clench around my
waist, spurring my finger on. The water splashes over her dark nipples as they harden before me.

  A low gurgle sounds in her throat as she starts to come. The quake of her orgasm causes the heat surrounding my fingers to intensify. My breathing grows heavier with excitement.

  I want more.

  My fingers slip further, sinking lower into that warmth until I find—

  Her head pops back up, eyes wide as she stares at me in shock. The first probe of my middle finger causes her to gasp.

  So she is a virgin.

  “Dime.” I growl. “Tu nombre.”

  At this point, I want her to give me her name more than ever.

  Her only response is one heavy exhale through parted lips.

  I press harder, testing her. Although her eyelashes flutter like the wings of a butterfly, she sucks in a breath rather than talk. In fact, her thighs press harder into my waist. Her fingers dig into the lower part of my neck where she grips tight.

  I break the threshold, slipping into the tightness beyond.

  That earns me a gasp of shock.

  “Dime. Quién eres?”

  I sink further in, and feel her body go taut. When I gradually force another finger in to join the first, she hisses in pain. Her insides clench around my fingers, vibrating against the intrusion with tiny quivers.

  My body is just as reactionary, but I stay focused. I can sense that I’m on the cusp of…something. My thumb comes up, returning to her clit, just to add more incentive.

  Although her mouth releases a series of noises, none of them are coherent enough to give me an answer.

  I curl my finger inside of her, massaging at just the right spot. Combined with my thumb-work, her cries are louder now, enough to sense her losing control. She rocks her body against me, moving in waves that rival the ocean.

  “Dime,” I urge when I feel the first wave about to break.

  She opens her eyes wide, and as the orgasm hits her, her lips part just enough to say one word, whispered into the air.

  “No.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Leira

  I let go of him, even as he grips tighter.

  But that one word was enough to temporarily weaken his strength. I’m able to kick away from him, swimming for the shore again.

  Stupid, stupid!

  He’s quick though. In no time, he catches up to me, reaching out to grab my arm. The feel of his touch seizes me, causing my body to react almost as hard as it did when that hand was between my legs.

  I still feel the mild ache of what he did throb in dangerously sensual pulses throughout my body. It’s a delicious kind of pain that only hints at a promise of what the real thing would feel like.

  I hate myself for wanting it so badly.

  The sangria still flowing through my veins doesn’t help. It only spawns more confusion in my head, sending my thoughts sideways and upside-down. I don’t know what’s right or wrong or what I should and shouldn’t want anymore.

  I’m in shallow enough water to stand up so it only reaches to my waist. I jerk my arm but now his grip is tighter. He uses me as leverage to stand up, then twists me around to face him.

  He’s angrier than ever now.

  Funny how one word can do that.

  But I don’t miss the way his eyes involuntarily flicker across my breasts, then down where the clear water reveals the area he just violated.

  Something about that gaze has me heady with pleasure and power. No wonder Dad had me hidden away at a convent. If just looking at a woman’s body can make a man this weak and senseless, it’s a dangerous thing.

  My father is the perfect example of a man’s need for control.

  That thought irritates me enough to try escaping the grip this man has me in. I’m so sick of having my actions dictated by the opposite sex—dictated by anyone.

  “What is it?” He hisses. “Who are you hiding from?”

  That question quells my struggle. I stare at him in surprise.

  How the hell does he know?

  “Just as I thought,” he confirms.

  I scowl at him.

  The sangria. That’s why he plied so much into me. I know for a fact that I didn’t say a word, but he obviously picked something up in response to that incessant line of questioning.

  “I can’t keep you safe if you don’t tell me.”

  I sneer at him, making damn sure he understands the hypocrisy of that statement.

  “You’re stuck with me,” he warns. “You can either be stuck and protected against whoever is after you or you can make us both vulnerable.”

  This time my expression gives him a firm, thanks but no thanks.

  I twist out of his grip and wade my way back to shore. I’m filled with anger and frustration and other emotions I’d rather not think about, but not enough to miss the reaction of more than a few sunbathers.

  When I stripped down to my underwear, I made sure I was close enough to the water not to catch anyone looking at me. I didn’t want it to erode my confident determination to follow the example of the topless girls on the beach.

  Now, even they stare at me with open awe as I emerge from the sea. The stares cause my skin to prickle and my nipples to harden again. Recalling what just happened with Ricardo in that water, our scandalous actions hidden just beneath the surface, just causes me to shudder with self-disgust and wild pleasure. The mixture is enough to make me come all over again.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  I snatch up my bra, and that’s when my eyes drop enough to see that my underwear, normally as chaste and modest as, well, a nun’s, are now perfectly transparent. My dark skin only makes it more obvious. I can even see the slit that Ricardo’s fingers slipped past to explore virgin territory.

  No wonder everyone is staring.

  I drop the bra and quickly scramble for his shirt instead. I fumble my way into it, turning to face the safely nonjudgmental waves of the ocean as I do. My face heats up with the same embarrassment I felt when Ricardo snatched the sheets away from me in his boat. And yet again, it’s still coated with that infuriating glaze of pleasure.

  Definitely not the sort of thoughts a good Catholic girl should have.

  With no towel, the shirt clings to my wet skin. It’s not as bad as my underwear, but I still feel vaguely on display.

  When Ricardo reaches me, the lines of his face still hardened in anger, I welcome his presence. Mostly because of the way he looks storming toward me in nothing but his dark underwear has to be at least as distracting as I was. Even I can’t pry my eyes away from every ripple of his abs, bulge of his shoulders and arms, thick cords of muscle lining his thighs.

  What a picture the two of us must present.

  I fully expect the sound of sirens from police cars that surely everyone on the beach must have called by now.

  But this is Ibiza.

  Apparently, almost anything goes. By the time Ricardo has wordlessly changed back into his clothes, grabbed his shoes, and stormed off toward the bar, I see that most of the spectators have already lost interest. I reach down to grab my bra and shoes and quickly run after him.

  Inside, he walks behind the bar and grabs his things from behind the counter. He’s kept his shoes off to let the sand dry so he can wipe it off later, and carries them in his other hand.

  I linger in the doorway, watching him. My feet are too sandy to put my shoes back on either. Besides, the clunkiness of them makes me feel silly. There’s also the fact that they are the last remnants of my life as a “postulant.”

  After what just happened, it would feel sacrilege to don even the harmless shoes.

  When he comes from around the bar, he stops long enough to stare at me with barely contained frustration.

  Considering what we did in the water, I get it. It was my introduction to the pleasures of the flesh, and it left me filled with turmoil. I can only imagine what it would be like for someone who was used to all the wicked delights that lay beyond that threshold.


  “We should head back,” He says as he sits in a chair to put on his shoes. “We leave for Barcelona first thing in the morning. We might as well get our rest.”

  At least he’s not asking any more questions. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I’m hoping his lack of curiosity is due to exasperation rather than having enough information to satisfy his needs.

  I follow him out of the bar and up the walk toward his scooter. The ground is just hot enough to have me reconsidering going barefoot. I suppose once I get on the bike, I’ll have to put these shoes on, if only to keep my hands free to hold onto him as we wind our way back up to his sparse apartment.

  “Well, well, it seems I’m not the only one who decided to stick around!”

  I stop in surprise at that announcement. Ahead of me, Ricardo seems even more surprised—and pissed the hell off. The angry look on his face disappears as he turns to greet the same man I’ve turned to stare at.

  The man is good looking in a way that would probably fit in well in Southern California. With his shaggy blonde hair, tanned skin, and a shit-eating grin that hints at trouble, definitely more Venice Beach than Malibu. The two girls on either side of him only prove the point as they giggle in uninhibited delight just being pressed into his well-defined sides.

  Despite how perfectly they fit the mold of hot-and-willing American coeds, his eyes still land on me with undisguised appreciation. Something about it has me wishing I had taken the time to put my bra on.

  His eyes roll over to Ricardo, now accompanied by a teasing smirk.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Enrique

  As if this late afternoon couldn’t get any worse.

  This is a monkey wrench in the works I definitely don’t need. That instinct I had not to tell him about my little treasure here kicks in once again, this time with warning bells.

  “I thought you were leaving on the afternoon ferry?”