When I was a teenager—exactly how old is a secret I'll keep for now—my family embarked on a trip to visit relatives nestled deep in the countryside. The estate was breathtaking, with sprawling hills and whispering trees, but it wasn’t the scenery that left its mark on me. It was someone else entirely. Among the small circle of people not related to me was a boy with golden eyes, the kind of striking, smoldering gaze you might expect to see in a telenovela. Enrique.
His mother, a regal Mexican-Spaniard, had given him the kind of features that made people stop and stare: a strong jawline, sun-kissed skin, and a height that cast shadows over everyone else in the room. But it wasn’t just his looks—it was the way he moved, with the ease of someone who could tame wild horses and take you on a ride faster than your heartbeat could catch up. He didn’t balk at my enthusiasm for speed, risk, or adventure; instead, he matched it, unflinching and bold.
The first week was polite, surface-level. My mother introduced us, declaring with maternal certainty that we’d get along famously since we both liked “weird stuff.” For her, that meant my collection of Anne Rice novels and my fixation on New Orleans lore and art. Enrique’s version of “weird” ran deeper, darker, more magnetic. He was older by two years, already sipping tequila at family gatherings with a casualness that made me feel younger than I cared to admit.
There were other young people around to play tennis with or splash in the pool, but somehow, he and I kept gravitating toward one another. By the second week, we’d traded books and music, and I was critiquing his artwork, offering tips he seemed to take more seriously than I deserved. One afternoon, on horseback, he leaned in and kissed me—my first taste of betrayal toward the boyfriend I’d left behind. But I didn’t feel guilty, not for a second. That kiss was lightning.
Enrique had a way of undoing me, starting with my ponytail. He’d tug at it with an amused grin, freeing my long, brown waves to cascade around my shoulders. He claimed it was teasing, but I knew better. His fingers lingered, touching strands as though they were silk. It wasn’t just play; it was an intimacy that slipped between us like a secret.
I liked him more than I should.
One evening, as I sat in the dimly lit library talking on the phone with my boyfriend—his voice a distant hum in a foreign language—Enrique walked in. I was wrapped in a satin gown, my hair falling loose around my face. The way he looked at me made my pulse quicken. His playful smirk deepened as he tried to make me laugh, silently mouthing exaggerated expressions, knowing full well that I couldn’t give him the reaction he craved with my boyfriend on the line.
When I refused to break, he knelt in front of me. I was curled into the chair, my knees hugged to my chest, toes peeking out. His eyes—those impossible golden eyes—flickered with mischief as he caught my gaze. My breath hitched when he took my foot in his hand, pressing his lips to my skin with a reverence that sent a shiver up my spine. My boyfriend’s voice in my ear faded into static as Enrique’s mouth found my toes, kissing them gently, tasting them.
I froze, caught between disbelief and the undeniable thrill coursing through me. His lips were warm, his touch intoxicating. I tried to pull away, shaking my foot as a silent protest, but he didn’t stop. When his tongue brushed against me, I clenched the phone tighter, my voice betraying nothing. The thrill of forbidden pleasure, of the boy on his knees before me, burned hotter than shame.
“Are you going to bed soon?” my boyfriend asked on the other end of the line, his voice sharp and unaware.
“Mhm,” I managed, my words a fragile thread holding me to the reality I was supposed to belong to.
The moment the call ended, I laughed, bursting with a mix of nerves and exhilaration. Enrique rose, his grin unfaltering.
“What is wrong with you?” I demanded, though the heat in my cheeks betrayed my indignation.
“Not a thing, Missy.” His voice was low, almost a purr. “Everyone’s asleep. Don’t worry.”
I was barefoot, small beneath him, and painfully aware that I wasn’t supposed to be alone with a boy at night, especially dressed like this.
“I should go upstairs,” I whispered, but I didn’t move.
He stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. “Was that your artist boyfriend?”
I nodded, my lips parting as the memory of what had just happened flickered in my mind.
“Has he ever kissed your feet?”
I shook my head, breathless as his question hung in the charged air between us.
“What was that?” I finally asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all week,” he said, his smile shifting into something darker, something that promised I didn’t know the half of it.
“You’re so weird, Enrique.”
“You have no idea.”
The next morning, breakfast was an indulgent symphony of senses. The fresh bread was still warm, its crust crackling beneath my fingers, and the juice—sweet and tangy—tasted as though it had been squeezed from paradise itself. Yet, it wasn’t the food that kept my heart racing. It was Enrique, seated across the table, his gaze locking onto mine like a silent invitation only we could hear.
Everything about him seemed amplified that morning, as if my awareness of him had been dialed up overnight. The way his lips moved when he spoke, deliberate and almost hypnotic, made it hard to focus on anyone else at the table. His dark hair, casually tousled yet impossibly perfect, caught the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, giving him an almost cinematic glow. I couldn’t look away.
After breakfast, a trip to the river was suggested, and Enrique and I found ourselves leading the pack. The air was heavy with summer heat, the kind that clung to your skin and made everything feel alive. I’d seen him in a swimsuit all week, but today, the sight of him felt different—charged. His lean, muscular frame moved with the kind of grace that made the water seem like it was waiting for him, not the other way around. My stomach fluttered, though I didn’t fully understand why.
“My mom advised not to swim here,” I said as we reached the riverbank, my voice uncertain. The water was clear, but its swift current promised it wasn’t as innocent as it looked.
Enrique rolled his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips. “Your mom’s not here, is she?”
I shook my head, though her presence felt omnipresent, a looming specter of maternal omniscience. “She’s cool, Ricky, but I’m not a strong swimmer, and this river has a reputation for sweeping people away.”
He looked at me then, his golden eyes steady, brimming with an almost unnerving confidence. “I won’t let that happen,” he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Do you trust me?”
I laughed, but he didn’t. His question lingered in the air between us, heavier than it should have been. He took my hand, kissed it softly, and for a moment, I forgot the river, the danger, and even my mother. There was something intoxicating about the way he touched me—like he’d been waiting for the chance, like he’d already imagined it a hundred times.
Against my better judgment, I nodded. His hand tightened around mine, and we stepped into the water together. The current was fierce, but Enrique was stronger. He guided me effortlessly, keeping me close, his body a shield against the river’s pull. At one point, he let me rest against a smooth rock, his arms bracketing me as the cool water swirled around us. The sound of the river and the symphony of nature filled the silence between us, but my heart was louder.
I leaned forward and kissed his neck, barely brushing my lips against his skin. He froze, and for a split second, I regretted it, but then he turned to face me, his expression unreadable.
“Someone could see us,” I said, my voice a breathy whisper. My heart pounded, not just from the fear of being caught but from the reckless thrill of the moment.
“You can say it was my idea,” he replied, his tone light yet daring. “And that you were afraid to say no.”
I laughed, but the sound was nervous. “Have you met me? My family would never believe that.”
He rolled his eyes, dismissing my protest as though it were trivial. “Then my mom will gift your mom something nice, and we can all move on.”
His casual confidence made me bolder, or perhaps it was the way his eyes never wavered from mine. Before I could respond, he asked, “How’s sex with your boyfriend?”
The question landed like a thunderclap. My face flushed, and I shook my head, stammering, “That’s none of your business.”
He arched an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “I don’t have sex with my boyfriend,” I admitted, the words spilling out before I could stop them.
His laughter was loud, rich, and surprised—until he realized I wasn’t joking. “Wait, are you serious?” His gaze turned curious, then something softer, more intimate. “How does he resist?”
I met his eyes, my heart racing. The way he looked at me then, like I was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen, made me feel both powerful and vulnerable. “Are you a virgin?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost reverent.
I nodded. He grinned, though it wasn’t mocking. “I can’t believe it,” he said, shaking his head. “You exude sexuality.”
I rolled my eyes, scoffing. “I’m a kid, Enrique.”
“So am I,” he shot back, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked suddenly, the question hanging in the air like a challenge. I hesitated, my mind racing, but my body betrayed me. Slowly, I nodded.
His lips met mine, slow and deliberate, as if he wanted to memorize every second. His hands cupped my face, grounding me, yet the kiss was anything but innocent. It was fire and tenderness, a contradiction I didn’t know I craved. When he finally pulled back, both of us breathless, he didn’t let go.
“Can I touch you?” he whispered, his voice low, almost reverent.
I swallowed hard, my nerves thrumming. Slowly, I nodded again, and his hand brushed against the top of my bikini. His touch was light at first, testing, then firmer, kneading gently. My body responded instinctively, heat pooling in places I didn’t know could burn so intensely.
We were tangled in something dangerous, something unspoken, but neither of us moved to stop it.
He lowered his mouth to the spot he had been massaging, his lips grazing my skin as he slid my bikini top aside. The sudden rush of cool air against bare nipple was eclipsed by the warmth of his mouth. A gasp escaped me, unbidden, as his tongue moved with an almost reverent softness. His other hand continued its slow, deliberate movements, kneading, teasing, setting my body aflame. Time became a blur—I couldn’t tell you how long it lasted—but what I do remember is the overwhelming wave of sensation that finally consumed me. My entire body tensed, and a deep, unrelenting pleasure washed over me, leaving me trembling in its wake.
When he kissed me afterward, his lips still tinged with the sweetness of my skin, I pulled away abruptly, reality crashing back in. Self-restraint had always been my greatest strength back then, my shield against impulsivity. I wrapped myself in it like armor, taking a shaky breath as I stepped back from the line we had crossed.
Looking back, Enrique was a gentleman in the truest sense. He didn’t argue, didn’t push. Instead, he helped me out of the water with quiet understanding, his touch as steady as it had been moments earlier. We sat on the riverbank, side by side under the sun, the silence between us a fragile thing, heavy with what we weren’t saying. After a while, he returned to the group, seamlessly falling back into the rhythm of the day. But I couldn’t. The distance between us felt wrong, almost unbearable, as if a part of me had been left behind in the water with him.
The longing to be near him again grew stronger, heavier, pressing down on my chest like a weight. I grabbed a book and positioned myself near the house, pretending to read, though the words on the page swam before my eyes. My thoughts were only of him—his hands, his lips, his golden gaze. Frustrated, I finally abandoned the pretense of focus and retreated to my room.
A bath seemed like the only thing that might center me, but even the steaming water couldn’t wash away the memories. I dressed in something simple and soft, lying on the expansive bed with my hair still damp, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers. A knock on the door startled me.
“Come in,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
Enrique stepped inside, his presence filling the room. He was freshly bathed, his hair damp and curling slightly at the edges. He smelled clean, earthy, like summer and river water. “Can we talk?” he asked, his tone measured, careful.
I nodded, sitting up as he lingered near the doorway.
“I really like you,” he began, his voice earnest. “You’re amazing, and I’ve enjoyed everything we’ve done together.” His words made my chest tighten, and I could only stare, unable to form a response. “I’m not going to lie—I want more. But if you don’t, that’s okay. You don’t have to touch me if you don’t want to.” His golden eyes met mine, full of sincerity. “It would make me happy just to touch you.”
I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, but I didn’t look away. Instead, I nodded, and he took a step closer. When he leaned in to kiss me, it was slow and tender, his lips brushing mine with an aching sweetness. He pulled back just enough to search my face, as if gauging whether to continue.
“There’s something I’ve done before,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “and I really liked it. I’m wondering if you’d do it for me.”
I tilted my head, my brow arching in question. “What is this? As long as nothing goes inside me, I’m open to things.”
He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting in relief. “I want you to release yourself on me,” he said, his voice so soft it was almost lost in the space between us. His gaze flicked downward briefly before snapping back to mine, his vulnerability palpable.
I froze, the words sinking in. “You want me to do what?” I asked, my voice equal parts shock and curiosity.
He shook his head quickly, almost retreating. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have—”
I reached for his hand before he could finish, stopping him. “No, explain it to me. Isn’t that... filthy?”
His grip on my hand tightened, and when he looked at me again, it wasn’t with shame but with tenderness. “It’s not filthy,” he said, his voice steadier now. “It’s a trust thing. I feel like I can trust you. And... I really like you. You’re like an untouched goddess.”
His words hung in the air, heavy and strange, yet intoxicating. I couldn’t help but smile despite myself, and when he saw it, his shoulders seemed to relax. Slowly, he lowered himself to his knees before me, his hands resting lightly on my thighs. His expression was reverent, his gaze unwavering. “Please,” he whispered, “let me lay there and bathe in your gift.”
I stared at him, my heart thundering in my chest. I couldn’t believe what he was asking—or that some part of me was considering it. Even now, I don’t fully understand what made me nod, what made me whisper the word that seemed to reverberate through the room:
“Yes.”
There was an unspoken rule in the house: no locking doors under any circumstances. It was one of many rules drilled into me by my mother, father, and uncles, who believed firmly in their omnipresent vigilance. I wasn’t to be alone with anyone in my room or in any secluded space, yet no one had checked on Enrique and me in days. My mother and his had grown up together, bonded by decades of friendship, and their trust in each other seemed to extend blindly to us. But I had only met Enrique on this trip, a stranger until now, though nothing about him felt strange anymore.
When he turned the lock on my door and motioned toward the bathroom, my breath hitched. “Come,” he said simply, his voice low, almost reverent.
I followed without protest, though every nerve in my body buzzed with apprehension.
“I’ll lay in the tub,” he explained, “and you can stand over me.”
I froze, my mind catching on the absurdity and audacity of it. “That sounds like a mess waiting to happen,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended.
“I’ll clean it up,” he replied quickly, his gaze steady and unwavering.
The air between us seemed charged, every second dragging like an eternity. My heart pounded, its rhythm fast and erratic, and I couldn’t tell if it was from excitement or fear—or perhaps both. He stepped into the soaking tub in my room, stripping without hesitation, his movements fluid and confident. He settled himself against the smooth porcelain, his golden skin gleaming under the dim bathroom light, and looked at me expectantly.
I hesitated, my body trembling as I climbed onto the edge of the tub. My years of dance training steadied me, allowing me to balance on the narrow rim. I wasn’t fully nude; I wore only a silk camisole, its hem brushing high against my thighs. Beneath it, there was nothing—no armor, no modesty, only bare skin and the heat of my own anticipation. I expected his eyes to wander, to linger on the thin fabric that barely shielded me, but when I glanced down, I found him staring directly into my eyes, as though nothing else existed.
“I feel like I’m doing something awful to you,” I admitted, my voice cracking under the weight of my emotions. “Like I’m punishing you.”
His lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “You’re perfect,” he said, his tone soft, almost worshipful. “This is a gift. Please, goddess.”
The word goddess made my cheeks flush, and memories of the erotic books he’d recommended flickered through my mind—stories heavy with themes of submission and power. At the time, they had seemed abstract, even foreign, but now their meaning was all too clear.
“Are you ready?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t control this. I’ll try, but—”
“You don’t need to control anything,” he interrupted, shaking his head. His mouth curved into a smile, his eyes filled with something deeper than lust. “Anywhere. Everywhere. On my body. Please, goddess.”
My breath hitched, my heart hammering so loudly I thought he might hear it. I looked down at him, his body laid bare beneath me, his golden eyes filled with unshakable trust and longing. Slowly, I let go of the last thread of hesitation, surrendering to the moment.
The sound of liquid hitting porcelain was drowned out by the sharp staccato of my heartbeat, and as droplets fell onto his face, his chest, his open mouth, I couldn’t tear my gaze away. His expression was one of utter bliss, as though the moment held a sacredness I could barely comprehend.
For a fleeting instant, time stopped, and the world narrowed to just the two of us—the quiet intimacy of the act, the raw vulnerability it demanded of us both, and the unspoken trust that bound us together in that dimly lit room.
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