13: The Latina Inquisition

The Rivera living room smelled of lemon oil, cumin, and the faintest trace of lavender perfume. The sofa cushions had that faint give of a home lived in, loved in. Along the wall, school certificates were framed with care — Marisol’s math awards, her track ribbons, even a faded honor roll mention from middle school.

Marisol and Bharath sat side by side on the couch. Her hand rested lightly on his thigh. He was doing everything to pretend he wasn’t still recovering from their dinner inquisition.

From the kitchen, Maria grumbled about cumin.

“I told her yesterday,” Marisol whispered.

Bharath was about to rise and help when a voice slid like silk down the hallway.

“Que guapo! So this is the famous boy?”

Marisol flinched. “Shit. No.”

The hallway parted like a curtain, and in strolled Mia Rivera — seventeen and unreal. Her tank top was snug, her jeans painted on, and her skin practically glowed. Her hair was perfect, her lips glossed, her lashes long enough to fan air.

Bharath blinked.

For a full second, he forgot how to breathe.

Because if Marisol was fire, Mia was the sun. Radiant. Dangerous. Impossible to ignore.

And she knew it.

Mia’s eyes swept over him, hungry and amused. “Well, well. You weren’t lying, Mari. He is cute.”

Bharath stood awkwardly. “Hi. I’m Bharath.”

Mia tilted her head, smiled sweetly — and didn’t take the offered hand. “I’m Mia. M-I-A. Which also means ‘mine’ in Spanish. Just saying.”

Marisol groaned, already burying her face in her hand. “Here we go.”

Bharath’s lips curved into a confused smile. “Oh. I didn’t know that. That’s clever wordplay.”

He sat down again, visibly trying not to stare.

Mia, used to turning heads, noticed the flicker of admiration — and then the puzzling nothing. No follow-up flirtation. No stumble. No “you’re hot too.” Nothing.

She narrowed her eyes, perched on the armrest like a cat about to pounce.

“So,” she purred, “Mari says you’re smart.”

“I try to be,” Bharath said.

“And humble too.” She leaned closer. “Do you work out?”

He blinked. “A bit. My friend Jorge and I go to the gym.”

Mia raised her brows. “You don’t look it.”

Bharath nodded. “Yeah. I think I’m still not there yet. But I’m working on it.”

There was no self-deprecation. No false modesty. Just ... honesty.

Mia frowned slightly.

Weird.

“What music do you listen to?” she asked.

“Mostly A. R. Rahman. And Ilaiyaraaja. Indian composers.”

Mia blinked. “I don’t know who that is.”

“I can share some cassettes,” he said.

“You still use cassettes?”

Marisol muttered, “He’s a dinosaur. He barely discovered Napster last week.”

“I like things I can hold,” Bharath said, smiling sheepishly.

Mia tilted her head again, studying him. No chains. No posturing. Not even a hint of effort to be cool.

And that... confused her.

She’d expected the kind of guy who could captivate a woman as hot as Marisol would puff his chest and start bragging. Or at least flirt back a little.

But this boy?

He just looked at her like she was a person. Not a prize. Not a threat. Just ... someone else in the room.

“I have a boyfriend,” she said suddenly.

Bharath nodded. “That’s nice.”

Mia blinked. “You didn’t ask if I did.”

“I figured it didn’t matter. You’re not interested in me.”

Marisol laughed into her hand.

“Oh, he’s good,” Mia muttered. “You’re good. You’ve trained him, Mari.”

“Nope,” Marisol grinned. “That’s all factory setting.”

Maria’s voice called from the kitchen. “Mia, are you helping or just talking nonsense?”

“I’m interrogating!” she yelled back.

Maria entered with a dishrag slung over her shoulder. Her gaze flicked to Mia, to Bharath, to Marisol’s hand on his leg.

“Mia,” she said slowly. “You look like you’re about to commit a sin.”

“I was just observing, ” Mia said.

Bharath stood. “Do you need help with anything, ma’am?”

Maria blinked. “You cook?”

“I can boil things. Very carefully.”

Marisol snorted. “He makes a mean cup of chai. And he says he knows how to cook. I plan to make him show me very soon.”

“Sit,” Maria said. “You’re a guest.”

Mia flopped into a chair. “You know, for a guy who just survived a Riveran gauntlet, you’re still very boring.”

“I’m not boring,” Bharath said with a smile. “Just ... consistent.”

“And you don’t blush.”

“I do,” he admitted. “Just not because someone’s pretty.”

Mia’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“What does make you blush?”

Bharath glanced at Marisol, smiled faintly and winked. “Private things.”

Marisol covered her face. “Oh my God.”

Maria crossed her arms. “At least he’s honest.”

“Too honest,” Mia muttered.

Bharath shrugged. “I get that a lot.”

“You’re still a little weird,” Mia said, staring at him. “But ... not in a bad way.”

Maria narrowed her eyes at Mia, then looked at Bharath. “I’ll be honest. I thought you were going to be someone else entirely.”

“Sorry,” he said.

“No — I mean that in a good way.” Maria paused. “I expected ... I don’t know. Some player. You’re not that.”

“No, ma’am.”

She looked at him long and hard. Then nodded, almost imperceptibly.

In the hallway, Mia leaned back, her gaze lingering on Bharath’s profile.

She didn’t get him.

At all.

But maybe ... that was the most interesting thing of all.

The dessert was nothing fancy for Mia — just tres leches in chipped porcelain bowls — but in the Rivera home, food was still a kind of sacred activity. The clink of cutlery, the muted hum of the ceiling fan, and the faint scent of lavender from Maria’s apron mingled with cinnamon and sweet milk.

Mia, however, had declared war.

She sat across from Bharath, elbows resting lightly on the table, the candlelight flickering against the delicate gold chain nestled just above her cleavage. Her tank top — innocent in theory — had clearly been chosen with intent. One strap had already slipped halfway down her shoulder, exposing a smooth expanse of skin and the faintest edge of a lacy bra cup.

She dragged her spoon through the soaked cake, slowly — torturously — then lifted it to her lips, letting the milk drip onto her tongue before sucking it clean with a soft, deliberate pop.

Bharath’s hand paused mid-air. He blinked, and for the first time all night, his composure frayed — not broken, but teased apart like fine silk under tension.

Mia’s smile was lazy, predatory.

Marisol didn’t miss it. “Mia,” she warned, voice dry as a Georgia summer. “It’s dessert, not foreplay.”

Mia didn’t flinch. Her eyes never left Bharath. “Relax, hermana. Just tasting. I thought you said your man liked sweet things.” Her voice curled around the words like a cat around a sunbeam.

Maria returned from the kitchen, oblivious to the silent standoff unfolding at her table, and sank into her chair with a sigh. “This boy eats like a bird,” she muttered, reaching for her glass.

Mia realized that Bharath was looking at her but not in a lustful way as she was normally accustomed to but really seeing her. Not just her beauty, which was staggering in a way that demanded acknowledgment, but something else. Her pride. Her challenge. The way she kept leaning forward just enough to test him, but not enough to fall over the line.

And she could tell.

That was the most maddening part. He noticed — oh, he noticed everything. The cut of her top, the slight push of her breasts as she folded her arms under them. The way her long hair spilled over one shoulder. His eyes betrayed him in flashes — flickers of heat buried beneath layers of restraint.

He was a breast man, she’d bet money on it. Her body didn’t lie. Boys fumbled when she walked past. Men forgot their wives. Even professors occasionally lost their train of thought when she leaned in to ask a question.

But this boy ... this shy little saint ... was built different.

She blinked. Her spoon scraped the edge of her bowl, the motion unsteady for the first time.

“You’re weird, you know that?” Mia said suddenly, setting her spoon down. “Most guys by now are sweating. You’re just ... what? Meditating through it?”

Bharath smiled faintly, looking at his bowl. “Just trying to enjoy the cake.”

His voice was low. Calm. Infuriating.

She leaned in again, breasts pressing just slightly against the edge of the table. Her voice dipped to a whisper. “So you’re not even a little tempted?”

He finally met her gaze, steady now.

“I didn’t say that.”

There was a pause. A charge. Like lightning caught in a bottle.

Mia’s breath caught — not that she let it show. But inside, something fizzed.

Marisol let out a dramatic sigh and stood to clear her bowl. “I swear, this house should’ve come with a spray bottle for her.”

Maria, sipping her tea with one eyebrow raised, finally looked up. “Mia, cariño, let the boy finish his dessert before you eat him alive.”

Mia threw her hands up in mock surrender. “I was just being friendly!”

But even as she stood, she threw one last look over her shoulder — slow, sultry, and deliberate.

And Bharath? He looked down again. But this time, he was smiling.

He glanced up, cheeks just a shade darker than before, and said quietly, “This is very good. Did you help make it?”

That wasn’t the reaction she expected.

“Yes,” she said, surprised by her own honesty. “I help with dessert on weekends.”

He smiled at that. Not at her cleavage. Not at her pout. At that.

“You’ve got a real eye for balance,” he said. “The sweetness, the spice — it’s not overwhelming.”

“You like balance, huh?” she asked, playing with her spoon again.

“I think everyone needs it. Especially smart people. You strike me as someone who needs a lot of stimulus.”

Mia blinked. Her spoon paused mid-air.

Maria and Marisol were chatting about laundry or something equally forgettable, and suddenly Mia felt like they weren’t even in the room.

“What makes you think I’m smart?” she asked, genuinely puzzled.

He tilted his head slightly. “You’re testing me. That’s not the mark of someone who’s bored. That’s the mark of someone who’s used to disappointment and wants to know if there’s anything underneath.”

Mia stared at him. Her heartbeat stuttered.

“No one’s ever said that to me before,” she murmured.

Bharath gave a soft shrug. “Maybe they weren’t looking at the right things.”

She dropped her spoon into the bowl with a soft clink and leaned forward across the table.

“You are weird,” she whispered. “And dangerous.”

Marisol glanced up. “If you’re threatening him, I get to throw the first slap.”

“I’m not threatening him,” Mia said, her voice still low. “I’m just ... confused.”

“You and me both,” Marisol muttered, but even she was watching them now.

Maria raised an eyebrow, her tone distracted. “What are we talking about?”

“Dessert,” Mia replied breezily — too breezily. Her eyes flicked to Marisol, daring her to contradict her.

But Bharath didn’t smile. He didn’t play along. Instead, he looked at her with something closer to curiosity — or was it pity?

“Mia,” he said, voice low and careful, like he’d just stepped onto thin ice, “what do you want people to see when they look at you?”

It hit her like a whisper through a crack in the armor.

Her spoon paused mid-air.

She hadn’t expected that. Not from him. Not here.

Her body went still, except for the small twitch of her jaw. “I don’t know,” she said before she could catch the words. The admission slipped out, raw and exposed, like a wire sparking in the dark.

A long breath dragged through her nose.

Fine.

Enough was enough.

He wanted real? She could be real — in her own way. In the way she knew worked. No man had ever lasted when she touched them — not the football captain, not the physics tutor, not the thirty-year-old barista who used to flirt with her during study breaks at the coffee house.

Time to see if this monk was made of flesh or marble.

Like a sleight of hand, she rose from her chair with the practiced grace of someone who knew how her body moved in space — every sway calibrated, every angle intentional. Maria was reaching for a napkin, fussing about the condensation ring under her glass. Marisol was frowning, suspicious.

But Mia’s target never moved.

She walked slowly, barefoot on the cool tile, around the table. And then — with the theatrical precision of someone born for the stage — she stopped behind Bharath’s chair.

He didn’t flinch.

She leaned in, letting her chest ghost just above his shoulder, close enough for him to feel her presence but not touch. Her breath skimmed his hairline. And then, she laid one perfectly manicured hand on his shoulder.

His skin was warm beneath his shirt, and she felt the faint rise and fall of his breath. A subtle shift. A flicker of tension under his muscles. Not retreat — but bracing.

Her fingers trailed lower. Slowly. Lower.

To the edge of the gauze just peeking out under the collar of his t-shirt.

Bharath flinched.

Not violently. But sharply. Like a live wire had been touched.

“What the hell—” Marisol stood up.

Bharath’s face paled.

Mia stepped back instantly. “What ... what is that?”

“Nothing,” Bharath said, too fast.

But Mia’s hand had felt the bandages. The heat of a healing wound.

Maria stood now too. “What are you hiding?”

Marisol stared at him, suddenly serious. “Bharath.”

He exhaled slowly, looking at all of them, then at Mia.

“You touched my stitches.”

The room fell into stillness.

Marisol’s breath hitched. “Your ... what?”

Mia’s mouth was slightly open, her fingers curling slowly as if trying to take the touch back. “Wait. Are you serious?”

Maria’s hands went to her hips, eyes narrowing. “Stitches? What stitches?”

Bharath shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, no,” Marisol snapped, standing now. “You don’t get to say that. You were supposed to be taking it easy.”

Mia looked between them, blinking fast. “You weren’t kidding. What happened?”

Bharath looked at Marisol. He didn’t want to make a scene. But the truth had found its way out — in the most unexpected way.

“Can I borrow yesterday’s AJC?” he asked softly.

Maria, still fuming, gestured to a stack of papers on the sideboard.

“Third page. Local section.”

He got up carefully and flipped through the newspaper. Then, without a word, he laid it flat on the table and pointed.

There were no names. Just a sketch of the MARTA station. A brief mention of a man in his late teens sustaining non-critical injuries after fending off two attackers. One of them had a knife.

Maria read the article slowly. Her fingers trembled as she folded the paper. Mia picked it up to read whatever had shaken her mother to her core.

“This is you?”

Bharath nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And Marisol?” she whispered.

“She was with me,” he said.

Marisol stepped closer, voice softer now. “We were walking to the MARTA station at night for Marisol to return home when Sarah — the girl who was attacked — was getting mugged. It all happened so fast.”

Maria’s face went pale. “And you didn’t come home because...”

“I stayed with him,” Marisol admitted. “At the hospital.”

There was a silence that felt like a weight pressing down on everyone in the room.

Maria sat heavily in her chair, staring at the story again.

“You ... you could’ve died,” she murmured.

“I’m okay,” Bharath said gently. “It was just a shallow cut. Nothing major.”

Mia hadn’t moved. She just stood there, eyes locked on him.

The story in the paper was short. Sparse.

But the reality — the blood, the fear, the choice to step into danger for someone else — that hung in the air.

“You didn’t even know the girl,” Maria whispered.

Bharath nodded. “Didn’t matter.”

“Why?” Mia asked, her voice cracking slightly. “Why would you do that?”

He looked at her — at the way her teasing armor had cracked open — and said simply, “Because someone had to. Because she screamed.”

The silence deepened.

And then Maria exhaled shakily. “You’re not like Ricardo.”

Bharath blinked. “Ma’am?”

“My ex husband,” she said, her voice hollow. “He liked to pretend to be brave. But when things got hard, he ran.”

Bharath looked down. “I’m not brave either. I was scared.”

“But you didn’t run,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

Mia moved toward him again — not flirtatiously this time, but almost reverently. She sat beside him, not touching, just close enough to look into his face.

“You really got hurt for a stranger?” she asked quietly. “And you still came to dinner.”

He shrugged. “Marisol said your mom was scary. I couldn’t say no.”

Even Maria cracked a smile at that.

Mia was quiet for a long time. Then, in a voice so soft it could’ve been mistaken for awe, she said, “You’re kind of ... magnificent.”

Bharath blinked. “I’m really not.”

“You are,” she said. “You just hide it with that dorky face.”

He laughed, a little awkwardly.

Maria stood, wiping her eyes with the edge of her towel. “I still don’t know about this ... relationship. But I’ll say this — you’re not what I feared.”

Marisol moved behind Bharath and slipped her arms around his shoulders, her chin resting gently on his head.

“He’s the best,” she said simply.

Mia watched them. And for the first time in a long time, she felt jealous of her sister.

The porch light flickered softly overhead as Bharath stepped out onto the stoop, the humid Georgia night wrapping around him like a warm shawl. Crickets chirped in the bushes, and the air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and garden soil. Maria followed just a step behind, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“You’ll come again, Bharath?” she asked, not quite a question, not quite a command.

Bharath turned and nodded earnestly. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for dinner. Everything was ... perfect.”

Maria studied him for a long second. Then she reached up and patted his cheek lightly — almost maternally.

“Next time,” she said, “you’ll bring stories. Maybe teach us some words in your language, huh?”

He smiled. “I’d love to.”

She nodded, then tugged Marisol by the elbow as Bharath stepped down toward the curb where Tyrel’s pickup truck waited.

Once they were alone on the porch, Maria lowered her voice. “Mija, I meant what I said earlier. He seems like a good boy. Sweet, honest — and I like that he doesn’t try to charm me.”

Marisol grinned. “He doesn’t know how.”

Maria rolled her eyes, then sighed. “But you’re still young. Both of you. Love feels real when you’re in it, but life...” She looked off into the darkness. “Life can change everything.”

Marisol nodded solemnly. “I know, mamá. But I also know what this feels like.”

Maria looked at her daughter, at the fire in her eyes, the softness in her cheeks. “Then just don’t let it blind you, mi corazón. That’s all I ask.”

The porch light above flickered once — not enough to go out, but just enough to shift the shadows across the yard. Bharath stepped toward the pickup truck, trying to look anywhere but at the way Mia stood at the top of the steps, framed by the door like a siren carved out of moonlight.

She was ... devastating.

The shape of her was impossible to ignore — all curves and confidence, hips cocked slightly as she leaned against the doorway. The cotton of her tight tank top clung to her like a second skin, and her jean shorts did nothing to hide the lithe strength of her legs. The way the porch light haloed around her body made her look almost unreal — like a fever dream conjured by a lonely man.

She followed him down the steps and leaned casually against the passenger side door, right before he could open it. Bharath paused, not knowing if he should move her aside or wait her out.

“You really didn’t have to come tonight,” she said, twirling a loose strand of hair between her fingers.

“I wanted to,” he replied honestly. “It was important to Marisol.”

“It was important to mamá too,” she added. “She just hides it under ten layers of suspicion and salt.”

He chuckled softly, hand brushing the edge of the truck. “She was kind. Direct. I respect that.”

Mia tilted her head, eyeing him in that way again — not the overtly seductive look from earlier, but something stranger. Studying. Prying.

“You’re weird, you know,” she said.

“You’ve made that clear a few times tonight.”

“Not in a bad way,” she added, biting her lip. “Just ... different.”

Then she leaned in a little.

And Bharath’s breath almost hitched.

She wasn’t trying to do anything, not exactly. But the neckline of her top was low, and the way she angled her body — one arm draped along the window — sent her chest forward in a way that made it impossible not to notice. Her scent — something sweet and citrusy — mingled with the humid night air.

And her voice dropped, just a shade softer. “You’re ... brave. What you did for that girl. I don’t think I’ve met anyone who’d do that.”

He tried not to react. Really tried.

“Anyone would’ve stepped in,” he said carefully.

“No, they wouldn’t have,” Mia whispered.

Her hand briefly brushed his forearm, and the warmth of her touch sent a jolt through him. He tried to think of anything — circuit diagrams, spicy food, the smell of diaper pails — anything to pull his mind out of the heat of the moment.

He cleared his throat. “You said you’re into science, right? That’s what you’re focusing on?”

Mia blinked, slightly thrown by the pivot. “Uh ... yeah. STEM magnet program. I want to go into computer science or biomedical engineering. Haven’t decided.”

“That’s amazing,” he said, genuinely impressed. “My cousin back home is studying biotech. She’s brilliant.”

Mia shifted again, crossing her arms — which only made her breasts rise. Bharath forced himself to look her in the eye.

“You really care about that?” she asked. “What I want to do?”

He nodded. “I care about what matters to people.”

For a second — a real second — Mia’s facade cracked. Just a hairline fracture. And underneath the teasing, flirtation, and glossy charm was a girl who was never asked that question by anyone who wasn’t trying to get into her pants.

Bharath looked out across the yard, trying not to focus on how beautiful she looked, silhouetted like a goddess under the porch light.

“I don’t think I could handle two Riveras being this intense,” he said, half-joking.

Mia smiled, softer this time. “We’re a lot. You sure you’re built for it?”

He looked back at her. “You’d be surprised what I’m built for.”

Her lips parted slightly. “Dios.”

And then — mercifully — the front door creaked open, and Marisol stepped out with a bag slung over her shoulder.

“Did I miss something?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Mia backed up from the truck with a sigh. “Just your boyfriend being a monk.”

Marisol slid into the driver’s seat, smirking. “Verdad? That’s not what he was earlier in the afternoon with me.”

Bharath groaned and dropped into the passenger side of the bench. “Please drive.”

As they pulled away, Mia stood on the porch, arms crossed over her chest, watching them disappear down the block.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like the center of the universe. But Mia could now understand why her sister seemed to think he was hers.

The truck rumbled to life with a low growl, headlights sweeping the quiet street. Marisol shifted into gear, her hands on the wheel.

Bharath sat beside her, spine rigid, trying very hard not to look out the passenger window—because Mia was still on the porch, leaning in with a wave, her silhouette backlit and borderline biblical.

He adjusted his seatbelt.

Marisol clocked the movement with a raised brow. “You okay over there, mi corazón?”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

“Oh yeah?” she said, voice teasing. “Then why is your pant tenting like that?”

He glanced down and groaned. “Kadavule...”

“Uh huh.” Marisol made a sharp turn off the main road and into a quiet tree-lined lane that smelled faintly of pine and honeysuckle. “Poor baby. That bad, huh?”

Bharath rubbed his forehead. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” Her voice dropped. “You sat there looking like a damn saint while Mia tried every trick in the book. That’s what did it for me.”

He turned to her, stunned. “You’re turned on?”

Marisol slammed the brake, pulled the gear into park, and leaned over, her lips suddenly inches from his.

“I’m fucking soaked, baby,” she whispered. “Watching you be the only man on earth immune to my sister’s nuclear-level tits? That did it for me.”

He was still panting when she climbed onto his lap.

“You sure about this?” he gasped. “In Tyrel’s truck?”

She grinned wickedly. “Tyrel will never know. Unless you fog up the windows like Titanic.”

“Then we’ll just have to try hard, won’t we?”

“Hold up,” Marisol whispered, breathless and glowing in the dim light. She had one hand pressed against Bharath’s bare chest, the other bracing herself on the dashboard as she caught her breath. “Your stitches. Shit.”

Bharath blinked, still dazed from the way she had just climbed over him, all hips and laughter and that maddeningly sinful tongue. “They’re fine,” he muttered, already leaning in for more.

“No, they’re not. You’re pulsing so hard I can feel it in your ribcage, and not in the fun way.”

He groaned, tossing his head back. “I’m fine.”

Marisol gave him that look — half amused, half exasperated — then gently cupped his cheek. “I’m not taking chances with my man. You got stabbed, remember?”

“Worth it,” he murmured, grinning.

She grinned back. “Good. Because now I’m going to take care of you. My way.”

Before he could ask what that meant, she slid down, her palms grazing his abdomen as she repositioned herself between his legs, careful not to jostle his side. The shift in temperature — from humid Georgia night to the heat of her breath on his skin — made his entire body tense.

“Marisol...” he whispered, half prayer, half warning.

“Hush, baby,” she whispered back. “You’re about to get an American education.”

Her fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down just enough to free him. She paused, her eyes widening slightly — and then she bit her lip, smiling with a kind of reverence that made his blood roar in his ears.

“Dios mío,” she murmured. “She really did a job on you mi amor. I’ve not seen you this hard before without us doing anything.”

Bharath let out a strangled laugh — but it died the moment she leaned forward and licked a slow, teasing line up the underside of him.

His whole body jerked.

“What ... what is this...” he gasped.

Marisol giggled softly, swirling her tongue around the tip. “This, papi? This is a big deal in America.”

He blinked down at her, wide-eyed.

“There are movies, jokes, music videos. Pop culture is obsessed with blowjobs in cars. It’s practically our second national anthem.”

“I—I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think your sweet Cuban-American girlfriend would be the one to teach you?” she said wickedly.

He whimpered as her lips closed around him.

“No ... I just ... aaaaah!”

She hummed, and the vibration made him curse again — in Tamil this time, untranslatable and raw. Her rhythm was slow, luxurious, teasing. She alternated between long, swirling sucks and soft kisses, her hands stroking what her mouth couldn’t reach.

Bharath was trying so hard to stay still — to keep his hips from bucking and his side from tearing — but she was making it impossible. Every flick of her tongue, every satisfied moan from her throat drove him closer to the edge.

Marisol looked up at him, her lips damp and eyes gleaming with a teasing glint, but also something more tender — something reverent. She wasn’t just touching him to arouse him. She was memorizing him. Worshiping him in her own way.

Bharath’s breath hitched as her fingers brushed his thighs, slow and purposeful, grounding him in the moment.

“Relax, baby,” she whispered, her voice low and intimate, like a secret between lovers. “This is about you. Let me take care of you tonight.”