Getting Even

Perfect, perfect night. Talking to Rafael about nothing in particular and yet everything. Matt and Romy laughing in the background. Having only one Kir Royale—her favorite cocktail—before switching to water because she wanted to remember losing her virginity. None of them wanting to call it a night at closing time. Going back to the three-bedroom town house Veronica’s father had bought to see her through university. Dumping coats and scarves, kicking off shoes.

She had a vague memory of Matt and Romy on the couch together, waging a battle over the sex life of Captain America. But the only sex life of interest to Veronica that night was her own, so she’d taken Rafael boldly by the hand and led him to her bedroom.

Almost before the door had closed, she’d been in his arms being kissed. She remembered him drawing back, asking her, “All right?” and waiting for her ardent “Yes” before removing her clothes. Kissing her mouth as each item came off. Murmuring to her in English and Spanish. Telling her how lovely she was—encantadora que eres. That he’d wanted her his whole life—yo te he querido toda mi vida. That he’d never felt so wild for anyone—nunca había sentido esto por nadie.

Then one more kiss. “Are you sure?” he’d asked and she’d taken his hands, put them on her breasts and nodded because her throat was too tight to speak.

He’d run his fingers over her skin—gently, reverently, as though he’d known it was her first time—before letting them settle between her thighs, stroking her there until she’d come. His tongue next, traversing the path his fingers had taken until he’d dropped to his knees to lick her, holding her hips steady as she trembled through the orgasm that took her over like a warm wave.

Only once the very last ripple had receded did he get to his feet. He’d stripped then—no fanfare, just getting his clothes out of her way. And then he’d taken her hands in his and put them on his lightly haired chest, mirroring the trust with which she’d placed his hands on her breasts, inviting her to touch anywhere she wanted—as much or as little, as hard or as soft, as fast or as slow. And while she did that, the pads of her fingers roaming at will, his fingers had returned to that throbbing place between her legs, slipped inside her, stretching her, preparing her.

Not until she’d sent her fingers down the narrow trail of hair below his navel and taken the hot girth of his cock in her hand did he stop her, his hand over hers. “No more until you’re ready for me to take you, mi vida,” he’d said, and she’d told him she was ready, so ready, so very ready.

He’d retrieved a condom from his discarded jeans, sheathed himself, taken her in his arms for a quivering moment before walking her backward to the bed, kissing her, kissing her, kissing her. And he’d pulled her down with him, taking her weight before rolling her beneath him, his legs going between hers, not to push hers open but to let her know, give her time, wait through it while he paused at the entrance to her body. He’d said he was sorry, so sorry, for the pain he would cause, and then he’d slowly entered her, his mouth covering hers to catch her gasp, to drink it in.

He’d thought it was a gasp of pain that had escaped her and he’d wanted to absorb that pain for her. But he’d been wrong. It was awe, wonder, reverence even—not pain. She’d felt so lucky, because she’d heard a million horror stories from other women about first sexual encounters—fumbling, impatience, discomfort, brutality, disgust—whereas Rafael had made it slow and beautiful for her. Empowering, too, so that she hadn’t been shy about telling him she wanted him again that night, and the next morning. And each time he’d given her something more than she’d known it was possible to want.

They’d spent Christmas texting and calling each other. When she’d arrived back in DC, he’d been waiting on her doorstep to tell her he loved her.

He’d moved in that night. An hour after that they’d had their first fight when he’d found out (a) her parents owned the place and (b) she wasn’t going to charge him rent.

The only way she’d been able to think of to get him to stay was to talk Romy and Matt into sharing the house, as well, so the rent could be split four ways to enable Rafael to afford what he deemed an equitable share of the market rate.

He hadn’t alluded to it again, even though she knew it burned him up that Romy had only moved in for her sake and Matt for his—which was crazy, because those two had become inseparable. (And, hello, look at them today!)

But if that crisis had been averted, the pattern of their first argument was to repeat itself over and over again. Disagreements about money and lifestyle squalling out of nowhere, passionate reconciliations, a cessation in hostilities, the war inevitably restarting. All the way through to the last night they’d spent together, the night before graduation, when they’d had a fight over nothing—a bottle of champagne and a teeny, tiny jar of caviar she’d wanted just the two of them to share before the full-on mania of graduation day when her parents and his mother would be in town.

“Why not hang a gigolo sign around my neck?” he’d demanded. “It’s what your parents think.”

The fight had spiraled, because she was tired of him misjudging her parents so willfully. She’d told him what her parents really thought was that unless he found a way to come to terms with her money, they were going to end up fighting their whole lives! In turn, he’d refused to accept her parents’ invitation for him to bring his mother to a celebratory dinner with them and Scarlett at Catch of the Day, because it was the most expensive restaurant in town. He couldn’t afford it, and he was damned if he was going to be paid for.