“Do you?”
He got the hint. If I wasn’t coming, he wasn’t, either. “I promise, I’m not trying to torture you. It’s just that I—” He pressed the sheathed tip of himself to my opening. “Want to come—” He drove into me. “With you.”
“Oh, god.” I moaned for the way he filled me, for his impatience, for the mere thought of our mutual climax. “Sebastian.”
He closed his body over mine, propping a hand on each side of my waist. As he let go, his thrusts hard and deliberate now, I writhed under him. My clit throbbed with pleasure as I ground into the pillow while he took me from behind.
“I like when you talk to me,” he said. “Tell me how to fuck you, Georgina.”
“Just like that,” I said, and thank god it was true—I couldn’t articulate anything more. “Just . . . like . . . that.”
“Don’t fall without me, understand?”
I gripped the top of the mattress, half holding on, half using it as leverage against the pillow. “I’m almost there.”
“Good girl,” he murmured. “That’s good—but not until I say.” He grabbed onto my shoulder the way I held the bed and pulled me back into each plunge. He lost any restraint, working himself into the same frenzy I was trying to hold off. I wanted to come with him as much as he wanted it, so I thought of anything not to finish.
Baseball diamond. Dirt-caked cleats. Second base, third, a fucking home run. Fly balls, leathery gloves, a girthy, wooden bat as thick as—
“Now,” he commanded, lowering his mouth to my ear as he slammed into me. By some miracle, I’d held off nirvana just long enough. “Come, Georgina.”
I pressed my cheek into the bedspread and stopped fighting. I tumbled into my orgasm as Sebastian groaned behind me, pleasure washing from him onto me. It felt so good, so right, so hard-earned to have him come apart on top of me. He collapsed over me, pressing me into the mattress. After a few labored breaths, he shuddered and nuzzled my neck. “Tell me you’re here with me.”
I emptied my lungs in a long, satisfying sigh. “Where else would I be?”
It was only when he rolled to the side that I realized we were both sweating. He rubbed my back, gathering my hair off my neck and holding it off my skin. “I think I’m actually looking forward to winter for once.”
I turned my head to rest on the opposite cheek and face him. “How come?”
He tied off the condom and tossed it on the floor. “An excuse to stay indoors and sweat with you.”
I hoped I was warm enough to hide my blush. Winter wasn’t far off, and yet in terms of our relationship, it seemed like ages. I’d been brave earlier because I’d wanted him at any expense. But did I really have what it took to tame a Manhattan player?
By the way he looked at me, it was possible. Maybe even likely. “I’d like that,” I said. “Although Bruno usually keeps me warm.”
“I don’t doubt that.” He leaned on his elbow, his head in his hand as he watched me. “You might have to upgrade your bed to a king to fit us all. Or we can go to my place.”
“I get to see your place?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He hesitated. “Except I’ve been thinking of putting it on the market, actually.”
“How come?”
“Compared to this, it feels . . . I don’t know. Stark. I like it here, where there are pictures on the walls and plants and—”
“Fraying fabric on the couch, drawers dedicated to poop bags, vomit stains on the carpet—”
“Height charts on the windowsills and fresh flowers from the community garden.” He smiled. “I mean, I’m clearly not suggesting we move in together after our first date—”
“Also known as our faux date,” I inserted.
“But I think I’ve outgrown my bachelor pad.”
“If you have a revolving bed or Marvin Gaye on tap, I won’t hesitate to make fun of you just because we slept together.”
“You’ll have to come over and see for yourself. How about next weekend?”
The abruptness of his invitation stunned me into silence. This seemed like seventeenth date territory for someone like Sebastian. I hated to turn him down, but I had to. “Can’t,” I said. “I have plans.”
“Can you cancel?”
“I already promised my parents I’d come home. I have a standing date in Buffalo each month to play gin rummy with my grandad.”
I braced myself for Sebastian’s teasing, but truthfully, I didn’t care. I’d lost time with my family while I was with Neal. He hadn’t liked to visit them and didn’t want me to leave him on the weekends. Forget holidays. Since we’d broken up I’d been making an effort to drive up there at least once a month. Canceling on them for a guy was out of the question.
“You play gin rummy . . . and call him grandad?” Sebastian laughed, but not in a mocking way. “Cute,” he said, tucking a pillow under his face. “You are such a good girl, Georgina. Good, and cute, and beautiful ad infinitum.”
Describing me so eloquently would’ve sounded sarcastic coming from Neal. Sebastian and I had had our moments, but in this one, he wasn’t joking around. It felt good. Maybe too good.
“As much as I’d like to keep you in bed next weekend,” he continued, “there’s nothing more important than time with family.”
That wasn’t quite the response I’d expected. Teasing, yes, and maybe reluctance to let me go. But not something as emotionally adept as encouraging me to spend a seemingly dry afternoon playing cards with my grandad. I thought of how fondly he’d spoken of his mom, sister, niece and nephew. Did family come before anything else for him too? I moved from my stomach to my side, readjusting my pillow to look him in the eyes. “What about your dad?”
“Never knew him.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Who was he?”
He hesitated. Just as I worried I’d pushed too hard, he said, “Some teenager from San Francisco visiting Mexico City with his family. My mom chose Boston because it was about as far as she could get from California.”
That must’ve been why Sebastian didn’t talk about him. With a family as supportive as mine, I couldn’t imagine not having my dad to rely on. “Quintanilla was your mom’s maiden name?” I asked.
“Yeah.” Something like frustration flickered in his eyes, but eventually, his shoulders relaxed again. “My sister, Libby—or Libertad as she goes by now—started using Quintanilla again at eighteen. She accused Mom and me of trying to erase history. I only ever used my full name officially, like on college apps, which, ironically, helped me. Otherwise . . .”
I bit my lip, waiting. This must’ve been the source of whatever had crossed his face just now. “What?”
“I liked being a Quinn. I know it’s fucked up, but Mom was right. It was easier.”
“It’s okay to want easy,” I said, “especially when you didn’t have that growing up.”
He shook his head. “I’m ashamed to admit it. I am proud of my heritage, and yet, I haven’t even claimed it in the most basic way. I’ve thought a lot about changing it back, but I’m afraid now I’ll draw attention to the fact that I hid it.”
“We can do it if you want,” I told him, letting my enthusiasm through. “I can spin it, no problem. You don’t need to be this version of yourself anymore, Sebastian. You just told me there was no divide between George and Georgina, nor should there be one between Quinn and Quintanilla.”
“I don’t want to risk involving my family in all the bad PR this job has brought on.”
I put my hand on his chest, and he covered it with his. “I’m sure your mom was proud of the work you did,” I said.
He shook his head. “At the end of her life, all the things I’d done for the magazine . . . all the things we’d printed . . . just felt trivial.”
I fought the urge to comfort him with a kiss in case it turned into more. Who knew how long it might be before I could get him to open up like this again. “And what about since?”