Escape from Cuba

The limestone walls of the museum seemed to press inward as Santi and I finally emerged into the humid, salt-heavy air of Havana. The sun was beginning its descent, casting long, bruised shadows across the cobblestones that felt like stains on the city's vibrant facade. We wandered aimlessly for a while, the silence between us thick and suffocating.

"You're awfully quiet," Santi remarked, his voice tight with an edge of defensive guilt.

"I’m disappointed in you," I replied without looking at him. “We fucked and you weren’t bothered to tell me that you have a very pregnant girlfriend.”

We eventually stumbled upon a hole-in-the-wall Cuban Creole bar tucked into a narrow alleyway. It was a dimly lit sanctuary that smelled of charred cedar, garlic, and decades of stale tobacco smoke trapped in the rafters. Hunger was a dull ache, a necessary distraction from the cold knot tightening in my chest.

"Let's just order," he muttered, pulling out a heavy iron chair that scraped harshly against the floor. “We don’t need to talk.”

We ordered without much enthusiasm. For drinks, the waiter brought two Cancháncharas—potent mixes of aguardiente, honey, and lime served in traditional clay pots. The sweetness of the honey did little to mask the medicinal burn of the alcohol as it slid down my throat. When the food arrived, it was rustic and rich: Ropa Vieja with the flank steak shredded into tender, savory ribbons in a deep tomato and pimiento sauce, served alongside Moros y Cristianos—black beans and rice seasoned heavily with cumin and bay leaves. There were also golden, fried plantains, their edges caramelized to a sugary, blackened crisp.

The clinking of silverware against ceramic was the only rhythm we shared for a long time. The announcement Santi had made the previous day—that his pregnant girlfriend would be arriving the following morning—still vibrated in the air like a physical blow.

I set my fork down and finally met his eyes. "I need to know the logistics of the evening, Santi. Are you spending the night with me, or will you be spending it in your own hotel room?"

Santi didn’t meet my gaze. He traced the condensation on the rim of his clay pot with a calloused thumb. "I think it's better if I spend the night in my own room, Imperial Highness. Given everything."

"Given everything," I repeated, my voice a flat echo. I nodded once, a sharp, clinical movement. "I see. A sudden bout of propriety."

"It's not about that," he started to argue, but I cut him off with a raised hand.

"I don't need the explanation. I’ve had enough of those lately."

I simply continued to eat, the flavors of the Creole spices turning to ash in my mouth. When the last of the black beans had been pushed around the plate, he signaled for the bill. He paid in silence, the transaction feeling final. We walked back to the hotel through the gathering dusk, two shadows moving in parallel but never touching.

As soon as we crossed the threshold of the lobby, the cord was cut.

"Goodnight, Highness," he said, hesitating at the elevator.

"Goodbye, Santi," I replied, walking toward the stairs instead.

When I entered my room, I found a neat, brown paper bag resting on the bed, containing my freshly washed and folded clothes. The scent of neutral detergent was a small, clinical comfort. I pulled my heavy leather duffel bag onto the mattress and began to pack with a methodical, almost frantic precision.

I reached for my phone and called Marlon asking him to my room. He arrived a few minutes later, knocking with a rhythmic, cautious cadence.

"You look like a woman who's already halfway out the door," Marlon said, leaning against the doorframe as he watched me shove a sweater into the bag.

"I am," I said, smoothing out a silk shirt before tucking it away. "I need a favor, Marlon. I need you to hand Bob a note from me. Personally. Not left at the reception desk."

Marlon’s brow furrowed, his eyes scanning the room. "What’s in it, Deppgrl? If I’m carrying messages, I should know the weight of what’s in my pocket."

"I can’t and won't disclose that," I replied firmly, stepping closer to him. "I don’t want you caught in the crossfire of Cuban officials if things go sideways. If you don't know the contents, you can't be an accomplice to the words. I just need to get out. Now."

He searched my expression for a long moment, then gave a slow, understanding nod. "You always were good at the vanishing act. Write your note and I’ll finish packing these bags so you can focus."

I sat at the small desk, the hotel stationery feeling flimsy under my pen. I wrote with a hand that didn't shake.

Bob,

By the time you get this, I’ve left Cuba and am using my third passport to get out of here. Please let everyone know that I needed to leave and it had nothing to do with them. Tell Boris to move on as I don’t think that I’ll ever remarry—Xavier’s fault, of course. You have my blessing to marry Polina, but I know you would even without my blessing. Sera and Elena will let you know where I am when it’s time. Oh, and don’t give Marlon shit once you’ve read this.

Love you forever, bro.

Marie Alexandrovna.

I folded the paper, slid it into an envelope, and sealed it with a firm press of my thumb. On the front, I wrote Bob’s true name: Duke Artem

As I handed the envelope to Marlon, the weight of the secret I had been carrying felt too heavy for the flight ahead. I looked at him as he saw Bob’s real name.

"Marlon, before you take that, there’s something you should know about who Bob and I truly are. We aren't just tourists or trust fund babies."

He paused, the envelope halfway to his pocket. "I gathered that much."

"We are descendants of Tsar Alexander III," I said softly. "We are some of the last of the Romanovs.”

Marlon’s jaw tightened in visible shock. He looked at me as if a ghost had just materialized in the center of the room. "Romanovs? I didn't think there were many of your line left outside of European. I thought the history books closed that chapter."

"The books only close the chapters the public isn’t allowed to read," I told him. "Considering what happened to my distant relatives one hundred eight years ago, Russia leaves a bad taste in our mouths. We’ve learned to be ghosts because it's safer than being icons."

He nodded, the gravity of my heritage finally sinking in. "I’ll get this to the Duke. You have my word." He turned and slipped out of the room.

I pulled out my phone. There was only one person who could facilitate a disappearing act of this magnitude. I pulled up my encrypted messages with Sera.

”Sera, how soon can you get here? I need to get back to my second home,” I sent.

The reply came almost instantly, flashing on the screen with cold, military efficiency.

“Elena and I will be there in five minutes. If you’re not down in six minutes, we won’t be here.”

I shoved the phone into my back pocket. I did a final sweep of the room, ensuring that Marlon and I hadn't left a single trace of my existence behind. I grabbed my duffel and my smaller bag then headed for the stairs, avoiding the lobby cameras as much as possible.

The night air hit me like a wall of wet velvet as I stepped onto the curb. Sera and Elena’s car was idling in the shadows, its engine a low hum. The trunk was already popped and a back seat door was already opened for me.

"You're at five minutes and forty seconds," Elena said as I was throwing my stuff in the trunk. "Cutting it close, Marie."

"I had a lot to pack," I replied, tossing my bags into the trunk.

I slammed the trunk shut and slid into the back seat. The moment the door latched, Sera shifted into gear.

"No more distractions?" Sera asked, looking at me through the rearview mirror.

"No more," I said. "Just get me to the airfield."

The tires screeched against the pavement as we tore away. Sera didn't look back. She simply steered us toward the local airport, leaving the ghost of Santi and the weight of Havana behind in the rearview mirror.

Sunburn and secrets

I stripped and hopped into the shower again, needing to wash the morning’s sweat, sun, dust and pollen off of me as well as washing the weariness of the travel off. As the water hit my skin, the lukewarm spray felt like a relief. It was the first time in a long time that I didn’t have to look after my shoulder. The freedom of moving without having to be careful or guard myself  felt like a weight was being lifted from me. I knew that I had more work to do with leaving the work of other governments behind me but Russia was my biggest adversary.

"Need some help with that?" Santi asked, stepping into the shower a few minutes later, the steam swirling around us in the small space.

I turned slightly, letting the water run down my tits briefly. "I think I can manage, but I won't say no to the company."

He reached out to touch my arm, intending to pull me close, but he paused. His eyes scanned the heat radiating from my back, noting the angry red hue.

"Deppgrl," he murmured as he leaned in and kissed the back of my neck, his breath warm against my damp skin. "You're really red. I don't think shower sex is something that would be good for your skin at the moment. Your skin is sensitive from that sunburn."

I chuckled and agreed, leaning my head back against his shoulder as the water ran over us. "I think you're right," I said. "It’s definitely not the time for that. As much as I’d like to, I think the friction might make me cry."

"Then let's just focus on getting you clean," he whispered, picking up the soap.

We took our time showering, enjoying the quiet proximity and the slick slide of soap over skin, and when we finally got out, we toweled off.

I threw on one of the casual outfits that I just purchased—linen shorts, a cotton shirt, and cute sandals. Santi dressed in jean shorts, a polo shirt, and sneakers. As we headed downstairs, we stopped at the desk and asked reception to have our bedding changed and the room cleaned.

"We can certainly do that for you," the clerk said, looking up from his ledger.

"If I gathered my clothing, would you wash those for me as well?" I asked.

"We would," the clerk replied, "but please add them to the bag that designates items are personal so they stay separate from the in-house laundry."

"I'll be right back down," I told Santi. I headed back up to the room to gather my clothing. Once I had everything, I tossed my clothing in the bag mentioned by the clerk. It was a tight squeeze, the fabric bulging against the drawstrings, but it was fine. I knew that some of my clothing was extra dirty and needed a thorough cleaning, but at the end of the day, I was grateful that my clothing was getting cleaned.

When I got back downstairs, Santi was waiting by the door. We decided to take a cab to a local museum. Even though we knew that the cabs didn’t have air conditioning, we were okay with that as the cabbies drove with the windows open in the summer which made the air a little cooler as we moved.

In no time, we arrived at the museum. We thanked the cabbie and paid him well, then entered the museum after paying an entrance fee. The air conditioning felt great on my burned skin, instantly taking the sting out of the heat. It was only a few dollars for each of us but since we both cherish museums and appreciate history, we paid a few dollars more.

"We want to pay a little bit extra in case someone can’t pay," I told the employee as I handed over the extra bills.

The museum employee looked surprised and grateful for the extra money and the employee was clearly thankful for it. They knew that there are some locals who come to the museum to get out of the heat and the cold but don’t have the money to enter.

Santi and I spent the next few hours in the museum and lost track of time. The museum had wonderful displays, it was well organized, and we were blown away with the artifacts that it held.

"Look at the detail on this," Santi said, pointing to a centuries-old carving. "It’s incredible it’s survived this well."

"It really is," I replied, though my mind was already shifting to my plan. I knew that I would step away from Santi—claiming to need to use the bathroom—but rather than heading there, I wanted to head back to the museum employees accepting payment to make a donation.

"I'll be right back," I told him. "I just need to find the restroom before we move to the next wing."

"No problem," Santi said, smiling. "I'll start looking at the colonial era exhibit."

I excused myself and headed back to the employees. I found the one that accepted the payment for Santi and I then explained to her what I would like to do. She was happy that I was making a donation.

"What is the largest donation amount you are aware of?" I asked her.

She said that it was two thousand Cuban pesos. I knew that was approximately equivalent to ninety-five dollars from many other countries. I looked at her and told her that I would like to donate forty-five thousand Cuban pesos—the equivalency was about one thousand nine hundred dollars from many other countries.

The employee was stunned, her mouth opening slightly as she processed the amount. She was incredibly grateful for the generosity.

“What name can I put down for the administration?” she asked. “They like to know who donated so they can send a thank you note."

"It’s an anonymous gift," I said, wary of the possible real reason why the administrators needed my name. “No note necessary.”

She nodded her head to acknowledge what I said. I smiled and thanked her after providing the money.

As I left her to head to the bathroom, I took out my phone and texted Sera, my spy friend and former lover. I knew at this point, I was asking for far too much.

"Hey, Sera. I know you know where I am. I just made a large cash donation at the museum. It’s heavily guarded with security cameras. Can you please do your magic and make me blurry for my most recent interaction with the staff?" I sent.

I waited by the sinks for a moment. The phone buzzed.

"Of course. Give me five to ten minutes. Cuba’s cameras are old technology and hard to manipulate but I’ll get it done for you. Elena sends her thanks for your generous gift that was delivered and released me from dog house. She said that you’re welcome to text us any time you need us," Sera replied.

I put my phone away, went to the bathroom, and headed back to where I left Santi. Once he saw me, he smiled, walked over, and kissed me.

"Did you miss me?" I asked, looking up at him.

"I did," he said, his voice warm, then kissed me again.

I smiled a little bit. I had some guilt, though. I was enjoying my time with Santi when Boris wanted to spend the time with me as well, and I did wonder why he wasn’t fighting Santi for time with me.

As we walked, I decided to ask Santi that. "Santi, why isn't Boris fighting you for time with me? It feels strange that he's just letting us have this time without an argument."

Santi slowed his pace, his expression turning thoughtful. "He realized that you were right, Deppgrl," he said quietly. "We both did. You’ve been through so much in such a short amount of time. Having confirmation twice now of who you truly are, it's a lot for anyone to process. He understands now that marriage to anyone isn't in your best interest at the moment."

I looked at him, surprised by the sudden clarity.

"Boris does love you very much," Santi continued. "He does want to marry you and have kids with you, eventually. But he knows that right now, you need space to breathe and just be. He’s willing to give you that space, though he did make one thing clear—he won't wait for you forever."

I nodded my head.

Some time to myself

The air in the hotel suite was heavy with the scent of expensive linen and the lingering warmth of a few hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep. Beside me, Santi was a still, dark shape against the white sheets, his breathing rhythmic and heavy.

I stayed there for a moment, pinned by the weight of his arm across my waist. It felt grounded—a sharp contrast to the frantic, fleeting existence I’d led for the last fifteen years. Slowly, I eased out of his grip, inching toward the edge of the mattress until the cool air hit my skin. He didn't stir, only let out a low, sleepy mumble that sounded like a question he wasn't quite awake enough to ask.

I escaped into the bathroom and turned the shower on as hot as I could stand it. I stayed under the spray until the tiles sweated and my skin turned a flushed pink. There was a nagging fear that if I stayed in there long enough, I’d drain the hotel’s entire reservoir of hot water, but I couldn't bring myself to step out. So, I did what I went into the tub to do, I showered. I washed and conditioned my hair, scrubbed the sweat and smell of sex off of my body and shaved my legs.

Finally, the guilt of the utility bill won out. I climbed out and cocooned myself in a pair of heavy, plush towels—one for my body, one twisted into a precarious wrap for my hair.

Back in the bedroom, I moved like a ghost. I knelt by my bag, wincing as the zipper gave a sharp skree in the silence. My wardrobe was pathetic—the curated kit of someone who had learned to live out of a single carry-on at a moment's notice. I dug past a thermal layer and a tactical belt until I found a silk skirt, panties and a fitted low cut shirt that didn't look too wrinkled. I knew the shirt was two sizes too small and I knew that my tits would be falling out if I moved the wrong way.

I retreated to the bathroom to finish up getting ready before leaving for the morning. I applied deodorant, a vigorous brushed of my hair, brushed my teeth and applied lotion, completely forgetting the sunscreen that I bought the other day with my brother. I looked at myself in the mirror—not a shadow, not an asset, just a woman in a hotel.

I hung the damp towels neatly, then found a notepad in my bag. I scribbled a note for Santi.

Santi, the sun is up and it’s getting warm out. I’m going to run a few errands before the heat hits. Back soon. Don't worry.

Once I completed the note, I left it under his phone. I grabbed the plastic keycard, some money, a rubberband to wrap around the money and the keycard and my sunglass then I left the room as quietly as possible.

The Havana morning was already humming when I stepped out, the humidity pressing against my skin like a damp palm. My first stop was a small café tucked into a colonial-era corner, with fans whirring overhead and the smell of strong tobacco and roasting beans.

"Un café cubano, por favor. Y la tortilla con hierbas," I told the waiter. A Cuban coffee, please. And the herb tortilla.

"¿Fruta también?" he asked as he wrote down my order. Fruit too?

"Sí, gracias, Señor." I said. Yes, thank you, Sir

I sat there for an hour, nursing the syrupy, potent coffee and ate the herb tortilla as I watched people who weren't looking over their shoulders. It was a luxury I wasn't used to. Afterward, I ducked into a pharmacy. The fluorescent lights felt clinical, grounding.

"Necesito la pastilla del día después," I said my voice steady despite the internal riot. I need the morning-after pill

The pharmacist was an older man, his spectacles perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. He moved with a glacial pace that grated against my ingrained sense of urgency. As he rang me up for the pills and the juice, I stared at the small sign on the counter from The Church stating that they disown those who use emergency contraceptive, condoms and prescription birth control methods.

I was lost in thought when the pharmacist repeatedly told me the total: Santi was wonderful, and waking up in his arms felt like a miracle, but I knew my own limits. I needed a mountain of therapy to untangle the knots Russia had tied in my psyche before I could even think about the permanence of marriage or the vulnerability of a child. I was still learning how to be a person; I couldn't be a mother yet. The same goes for whomever I’m sexually active with.

A long, audible sigh of frustration escaped him.

"¿Problemas con el sistema?" I asked, snapping back to the present, trying to keep my voice light even as my pulse began to tick in my jaw. System problems?

"No, no estabas prestando atención, señora. No es culpa mía que los rusos no puedan prestar atención.”  he muttered. No, you weren’t paying attention, lady. It’s not my fault Russians can’t pay attention.

"Lo siento mucho. Perdón por la molestia," I said. I'm so sorry. I apologize for the inconvenience.

"Esta bien," he grumbled, though his face remained pinched. It’s ok/

When the pharmacist sighed in frustration again, I apologized profusely and paid the total. "De nuevo, mil disculpas. Gracias por su paciencia."  Again, my sincerest apologies. Thank you for your patience.

"Vaya con Dios," he replied, already turning away. Go with God.

I grabbed the paper bag and left, finding a quiet area on the streets to take the pills in semi-private. I ducked into a small, shaded alcove near a crumbling stone archway—a sliver of shadow away from the main thoroughfare. My hands shook slightly as I cracked the seal on the orange juice and popped the blister pack. I swallowed the pill with a large gulp of the tart juice, the cold liquid sliding down my throat.

I spent the rest of the morning at a nearby department store, a sprawling palace of glass and chrome that felt like a different world from the crumbling beauty outside. I bought things that weren't practical. I bought a dress that wouldn't fold into a hidden compartment and shoes that weren't designed for running. I also bought more practical clothing and footwear that would help ease me into blending in with the locals of this beautiful island.

By the time I sat down for lunch at a paladar across from the park, my feet were aching and my shopping bags were heavy. I checked my phone. No frantic messages from the Kremlin. No missed calls from handlers. And nothing from Sera; not even passing on a thank you from Elena. Just the smell of fresh bread and the feeling of the tropical sun on my neck.

For the first time in years, I wasn't a ghost. I was just a customer waiting for her food.

When the carne asada arrived, the meat was tender and full of flavor. I ate slowly, forcing myself to taste every bite, to exist entirely within the four walls of the patio. My training screamed at me to identify the exits, to catalog the faces of the men at the bar, but I pushed it down. Eat the food. Watch the pigeons. Be here.

My phone vibrated against the wood of the table. It wasn't a burner, and the notification wasn't encrypted. It was a text from Santi.

The bed is cold. Where are you?

I stared at the screen for a long beat. In my old life, a message asking for my location was a demand for accountability, a precursor to a debrief or a scolding. With Santi, it was just a man who missed a woman.

I typed out a reply, my thumbs hovering over the glass. At lunch. Bought some clothes as my stockpile was limited. Be back in a little bit as I’m enjoying the sun.

Bring me something sweet besides you, he replied instantly. And don’t stay in the sun for so long….you’ll burn.

I’m in some shade, I said as I tried to be a little mysterious of my exact location. You might have to join me in the shower when I get back. It’s hot outside.

Santi sent the little heart emoji. If I knew anything about him, he, like me, has a very high sex drive and won’t turn down sex often.

I paid the bill, the colorful Cuban pesos feeling like play money in my hand. On the way back to the hotel, I stopped at a small stall and bought two pasteles de guayaba, the flaky crust still warm through the paper bag.

The walk back felt different. The humidity didn't feel like a weight anymore; it felt like a blanket. I passed a group of children playing with a deflated soccer ball. I just watched them play.

When I reached the hotel suite, I let myself in quietly. The room was flooded with the midday sun now, the harsh light revealing the dust motes dancing in the air. Santi was sitting up in bed, a book discarded on his lap, his hair a mess of dark curls.

He looked at the shopping bags, then at the grease-stained pastry bag in my hand, and finally at me. A slow, easy smile spread across his face—the kind of smile that made my chest ache with a terrifying sort of hope.

"You're back," he said, his voice still thick with the remains of sleep.

"I'm back," I repeated. I dropped the bags on the other chair and sat on the edge of the bed, handing him a pastry. But as I watched him take a bite of the guava tart, I knew one thing for certain, we’d enjoy each other in the shower.

Anchor in the dark

The town square was a wash of deep shadows and flickering yellow streetlights, the air thick with the humidity of a Cuban night. We could still hear the band playing a low, distorted bolero, the sound drifting through the open shutters of the surrounding buildings.

Marlon stood near the edge of the plaza, his shadow stretching long against the uneven cobblestones. His eyes kept darting toward the dark entrances of the narrow alleys that fed into the square.

I stepped into his line of sight, forcing him to stop.

"Marlon," I said, my voice low but vibrating with an edge he couldn't ignore. “How did you find me?”

“I know that you have a weakness for good food, good drinks and good music,” he said. “Xavier couldn’t get Santi to share anything about how you were and wanted me to make sure that you’re ok.”

"Look at me. My ex-husband doesn’t have the right to know where I am. He doesn’t have the right to know if I’m eating, if I’m sleeping, or if I’m even still alive. To Xavier, I am a dead woman. Do you understand that?"

Marlon squinted at me, the orange light making the hollows of his cheeks look like deep bruises.

"People like him don’t stop looking because they’re a narcissist and want control,” I snapped. "If I hear that Xavier gets so much as a whisper of any information of me, I won’t just come for the person who leaked it. There will be hell to pay, Marlon. Total, unmitigated hell. I will burn everything down before I let him find me."

Marlon watched me for a long beat. The skepticism in his eyes was replaced by a sharp, sudden caution. He saw the fire in my eyes and realized I wasn't just talking about him—I was talking about the world.

"I hear you," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Good," I said, finally letting a breath out, though the knot in my stomach remained tight. "Because as far as he’s concerned, I no longer exist."

I turned and walked away without looking back, leaving Marlon standing in the town square. My pulse was still hammering against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that the stagnant night air couldn't soothe. I headed back toward the bar where I'd started the night, desperate for the burn of a cheap rum to steady my hands and quiet the noise in my head. But as I rounded the corner, the hope vanished. The heavy wooden doors were already shut, the vibrant music and laughter from earlier replaced by a hollow silence.

With the bar closed, I made my way through the labyrinth of quiet, moonlit streets. My footsteps echoing against the salt-stained walls until I reached the hotel. As soon as I entered my room and the door clicked shut behind me, I pulled out my phone and messaged Santi.

Me: Come to my room.

Santi: I'll be there momentarily.

A few minutes later, a rhythmic knocking sounded against the wood. I moved quickly to unlock it and let him in. Before I could even say a word, Santi reached for me, pulling me into his arms with a desperate strength. He leaned down and claimed my mouth in a crushing kiss, his heat cutting through the chill of my lingering fear. His hands were broad and warm, anchoring me in the present.

When I pulled back for air, I told him what I wanted.

"I want you to fuck me, Santi."

“That’s what I was hoping you would say,” he said, his voice rough as he pulled me closer. "I've been thinking about this since I saw you at the plaza."

We pulled apart just long enough to strip, our clothes discarded in a heap on the floor and we moved to the bed. As I lay down on my back, I spread my legs for him, inviting his weight. He moved over me, his muscles taut, and mounted my pussy.

The night became a blurred sequence of frantic motion and heat. We didn't stay on the bed for long; the urgency between us was too volatile to be contained. We fucked on the couch, the worn fabric rough against my back while he drove into me with a raw, relentless rhythm.

"Right there," I gasped, my head falling back against the cushions. "Santi, please."

"I can't get enough of you," he strained out, his forehead pressed against mine as he moved. "The way you feel... it's driving me crazy."

I clung to his neck, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders as our breaths hitched in unison. He moved me against the wall, his hands pinning my wrists above my head as he fucked me standing up, the friction sharp and constant. The solid weight of him against me was the only thing that kept me grounded.

"Is this okay?" he asked breathlessly, his eyes searching mine.

"Don't you dare stop," I breathed out, my body arching into his, feeling the cool plaster of the wall against my skin and the furnace of his body in front of me.

In the bathroom, he had me bent over the cold marble counter, the stark contrast of the chilled stone against my stomach heightening the heat as he pounded into me from behind. I watched our reflection in the steamed-over mirror, the sight of his dark hair against my skin making my heart race even faster.

"You're shaking," he noted, his voice vibrating against my spine.

"Because of you," I whispered back, gripping the edge of the sink until my knuckles turned white.

Between the bursts of movement, his fingers were constantly on me, rolling and tugging at my nipples until they were sensitive and aching, drawing low moans from deep in my throat. Every touch was deliberate, every pull a reminder of the fire he was stoking.

We moved out onto the patio, the humid air slicking our skin and making every touch feel electric. The distant sound of the ocean provided a backdrop to the quiet sounds we made in the dark. I bent over the railing, my waist pressing against the cool metal as I gripped it for leverage, looking out at the dark, white-capped water. Santi stood behind me, his hands firm on my hips as he moved into me, the salt air mixing with the heat radiating from his skin.

We moved back inside to the floor in front of the unlit fireplace, our bodies moving with a desperate, unspoken understanding. He pushed me down, his weight a heavy, welcome anchor. The room felt smaller, the air tighter. Every time he reached his climax, his body tensing with the effort of holding on, he gripped me tight and came in me, again and again. We drifted from one surface to the next, driven by a need to stay lost in the sensation, before we finally collapsed back onto the bed, tangled and exhausted.