Over the next few days, I go to the paper and pantomime the motions of work. Try to act normal while counting the hours until I can have Rafa to myself. Meetings and calls and more meetings are excruciating, especially when Rafa accompanies me. I’m completely obsessed and lovesick, and I’m worried that it’s showing.

There are no shows of affection at the office, of course, although I wonder if people can sense our relationship. I can practically see the sparks crackle in the air between us. Can’t everyone else? Diana keeps shooting me knowing glances. We’re doing a terrible job of purging our desire for each other, in my opinion.

If anything, I want him more now than when he arrived.

Working next to him is torture because he’s close enough to touch. Every time I smell his cologne, I swoon.

Of course, he needs to be close at hand, because there are so many questions about the paper and why it’s losing money. He’s brought a team of accountants and consultants from Miami, and they spend hours poring over the newspaper’s books. This also sets me on edge. Will his money be enough to save the paper? The debts will definitely be paid, which is a relief, but I worry the business might never turn a profit again. But if it doesn’t make money, why would he keep it in his portfolio?

On some afternoons, Rafa stays at the sprawling villa, attending to his other investments and business deals by phone or videoconference call. Those are the lonely hours, the melancholy ones, when my insides feel volcanic. I sit in my office and grow depressed. How can he be so familiar, yet so changed? Why do I still desire him after everything we’ve been through?

Do I dare love him again, especially now that he has the power to destroy everything that’s important to me?

By nightfall, we meet at the villa, and he greets me with a glass of wine, wraps me in his muscular arms, and sets me aflame all over again. Sumptuous Cuban music plays in the background, and to me, the stars in the sky sparkle brighter and the Florida winter air is crisper now that we’re together again. It’s finally cool out, legitimately cold, and I’m in a nesting mood.

The rental home has a beautiful heated pool in the secluded courtyard, and I steal moments to jump in amidst the palm trees and the scent of jasmine, reveling in the juxtaposition of the cool air and the warm water. I swim, my hair loose, as Rafa watches. In early evenings, I park myself on a chaise and wrap myself in a blanket on the screened-in porch, checking emails, talking on the phone to my employees, or lying happily with my eyes closed and enjoying the lack of stickiness in the air.

I could get used to this. It’s nice not to have to struggle. To worry about car repairs or roof replacements or whether I’ll have a job in a few years.

Then I count the days we have left.

We avoid discussing the future when we’re together. Sometimes we do talk about the past, usually about the funny things that happened in college, the superficial moments in class or on campus. Never about us or how we broke up. In other moments, my favorite ones, we read books next to each other on the sofa and play game after game of dominoes—a Cuban tradition Rafa taught me many years before. When he’s in a playful mood, he calls me “mamita,” a term of endearment used by Latinos in Miami.

“Remember how alarmed I was when you first called me that?” I laugh.

“Yeah, you were like, ‘But I’m not a mother.’” He mimics my Southern accent, which makes me laugh harder, until I remember that once I thought I’d be a real mami to his baby and my happiness fades.

We never, ever talk about children.

Sometimes we do banter and spar about politics, and I’m reminded that there’s one thing more interesting than looking at Rafa and that’s talking to him. His mind is still quick and witty, and when we debate each other, it’s as if we’re mentally dancing, twisting and turning with our words.

He seems smarter now, more worldly, and we talk about all sorts of things. Back when we were younger, I think I tried too hard to impress him with my knowledge of current events, but now we’re mentally matched. I ask his opinion more, want to know his take on things.

Of course, we also devour each other physically. We fuck everywhere in the house, as if we’re resolute in making up for the years we’ve been apart. When Rafa touches me, my worries about the newspaper and everything else dissolve. I revel in every moment, every detail of his body. The way his fingers twist into the strands of my hair. His achingly gentle lips on my nape as his arms wrap me tightly. The way he tells me exactly what he wants, when he wants it, how he wants it. His commands make me focus only on one thing: pleasure. Both his and mine.

Each night means a deeper fall into ecstasy, and each night, I fall a little more into his orbit. Oh, I try to deny it in my more rational moments, tuck it into the recesses of my mind.

It’s lust. I’ll get bored with him soon. Or more likely, he’ll get bored with me. Neither of us wants anything deep, I remind myself.

Then he’ll casually reveal how he’s read a smart book or have a prescient analysis of something newsworthy or do something like press me against the wall of the shower, and that’s when I realize I’m too far gone. Back in love with my first love, my only love, like no time has elapsed at all.

Under the spray of the hot water, he thrusts into me with such exquisite rhythm that I laugh out of sheer bliss. “God, you’re good. So good. I’m going to come again, Rafa. That’s the second time tonight…”

He growls in response. “Keep counting, chica. There’s more where that came from.”

And finally, in the early mornings, when the gauzy, winter Florida sun filters through the curtains, we reach for each other. That’s when I love him the most, when my mind is still foggy from a night of sex and dreams. He wakes me with a shower of kisses on my cheek, his leg thrown over mine, a masculine scent enveloping me.

“Buenos días,” he’ll say, spooning and skimming my body with a tender hand, sending me into a tunnel of happiness that I hadn’t thought possible in more than a decade.

It almost seems like we’re in love. But he won’t, can’t, or doesn’t want to say the word. And I’m not about to concede that I love him still. Not out loud to him, anyway. A big part of me is wary of him, for all sorts of reasons.

Rafa still seems genetically incapable of showing any feelings, and sometimes he glares at me for no reason. I know he’s still angry with me, and when I try to talk to him about it, he shuts me down with a sneer.

“Don’t,” he says in a firm tone. “I don’t want to rehash our past. I didn’t ask you to stay with me so we could reminisce.”

One thing: sex.

So I refuse to allow myself to consider the possibility of a future. Rafa will be gone soon. And then where will I be?

But I can’t think that way. In surrendering to Rafa, I am allowing myself a gift—permission to let go and enjoy the fleeting moments.

“Por favor? Just for me?” he whispers one night, begging me to release into another orgasm. I’m blindfolded, spread wide, wearing an expensive gold corset with lacy rose and crystal accents, garters, and stockings. He’d ordered the entire ensemble for me online and left it on the bed that morning.

Another day, he barely pays attention to me at the office, which leaves me even more ravenous.

When I arrive at his house, Rafa stares at me.

“Take off your dress and lie on the bed,” he orders.

Fifteen minutes later, he comes into the bedroom, blindfolds me, then strokes my pussy, licks it, and lightly slaps it. I’m practically blind with need and beg him to make me come.

“Don’t until I say so,” he whispers, teasing my mouth with his tongue, running its tip over my bottom lip. He slips a finger deep inside me, and I moan.

“I can’t hold on any longer, Rafa. I’m begging you.”

“Begging me to what?” he asks, taking his hands off me, untying me, and flipping me onto my stomach. I can only moan in response.

“All fours,” he growls.

That’s the night he spanks me with the metal pica pole from my office. It makes a delicious hiss every time he hits me. He’s not gentle, not loving, and not sensual. And I don’t care about anything in the moment—not newspapers, not business, and not relationships. I’m loving every second of the feel of steel against my bare flesh and being under his command.

The ruler leaves inch-wide red welts on my ass, but I don’t mind one bit, even if it is a little painful to sit through endless meetings the next day.

My delicious orgasm was thoroughly worth every painful squirm on the hard, plastic chairs in the conference room.

One night, I allow him to bind me. I’m wearing a simple and chaste white silk chemise, another gift, as are the white silk scarves wound around my wrists and ankles. I sit on a chair obediently and watch him as he cooks in the kitchen. I know that seeing me immobilized while he does routine things excites him beyond words.

“Have you done this with anyone else?” I ask as he knots my wrists.

He shakes his head. “No. I wouldn’t dare. I’m too paranoid about others finding out. I only ever had a desire to play like this with you.”

Exploring our dominant and submissive sides had been something we’d done when we were younger, and now I can tell by the way his hands tremble slightly as he binds my ankles that he still enjoys the rush. I do, as well, because I’m aware I wield all the power. A simple seductive glance or a bit of struggling against the bonds sends him rushing to my chair, kneeling, checking the tightness of the scarves, kissing me, caressing my skin.

“I want you to submit to me by being quiet,” he whispers in my ear. “Tonight, my pleasure comes from your submission. Remember, I want you to put my pleasure first.”

He pulls my hair hard, my head falling back so he can kiss and bite my bottom lip.

I taste the tang of blood and feel my lip swell.

Rafa feeds me morsels when he feels like it, ignores me, even drinks a whiskey and checks his emails on his phone. Although he does dip his finger in the alcohol and rub it on my lips. It burns where he’s bitten me, and I take his finger in my mouth. He grins, and his eyes scan my body, sending the flames of a thousand suns into my blood. All desire is the release from his touch or his tongue.

I open my mouth to speak, not because I have anything important to say but because I know it’ll drive him wild to tell me to be quiet. With a quick glance from his phone, he stretches out an arm and puts his index finger on my lips. My eyes go to his crotch, and I’m pleased to see his hard-on.

I remain quiet, getting wetter by the second.

When he unties me, he lays me roughly on the dining room table, entering me furiously and with a possessed, focused stare.

“You are so dangerous for me,” he growls.

When I open my mouth to gasp and tell him that the feeling is mutual, he puts his hand over my lips and continues fucking me hard. His cock stretches me to my physical limit, and yet, as he silences me, I want more.

I’m ravenous. The old me, the sexual Justine, is back.

“Deeper. Faster. Fuck me harder, Rafa,” I whisper in his ear when he takes his hand from my mouth.

He smacks his palm on the thick wood of the table three times and practically shouts a stream of Spanish expletives as he comes. The harsh sounds should startle me, but instead make me smile with satisfaction. He’s slowly unraveling, bit by bit, like I am.

After he finishes, he takes me upstairs and runs a bath, setting me gently in warm water. He helps me to bed, covers me with the duvet, and kisses my temple. Almost like he loves me.

As I drift off to sleep, awash in sex and physically drained, I wiggle close to his chest.

“Do you know what I’ve missed most about you? This. Not the sex. Falling asleep next to you, in your arms.”

Rafa doesn’t say anything, just draws me closer and buries his face in my hair.

The next morning, I open my eyes. My cheek rests on the hot skin of Rafa’s chest, and I run my hand over his stomach and lower.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, trailing his fingers down my arm. “How are you feeling after last night?”

I hum a sigh as my hand gropes for his thick erection under the sheet. “Sore. You were really rough.”

Rafa’s cups my face and smiles a little. “I’m sorry.”

I stroke his cock slowly. “Don’t be. I wanted it rough. And I want you now.”

Kissing me softly, he rubs my shoulder. “Justi, not this morning. Your body needs to rest.”

I make a growling noise, and he rolls on top of me. I open my legs around him.

“Please?”

He bites his lip, and I feel a familiar, heavy, creamy feeling settle between my legs as he studies me. Gently, his fingers part my labia, and he shakes his head.

“No, Justi. You look too swollen. Red, even.” He leans to kiss me. “I’m going to fetch you some aspirin.”

“Don’t get up. What if we do this?” My hand goes to my clit. I touch myself lightly, not at all surprised that I’m so aroused. “And what if you jerk off?”

Rafa sits back on his heels and wraps his hand around his erection. He strokes slowly, teasing. “I can’t say no to you. But I’m not going to fuck you.” He grins and strokes with more force.

“Rafa. You know what that does to me, watching you. I’ve craved watching you do this.”

I come in an instant, a quick, aching feeling starting in my thighs and rising upward.

The muscles and tendons of his forearm twitch with each stroke, and he circles his tip with his thumb. I stop touching myself, sated, and enjoy watching him. I’ve always loved to watch him come. He angles his cock between my legs and rubs it softly against my swollen labia, causing me to suck in a breath. With a loud moan, he releases long strands of fluid onto me.

I close my eyes and try to catch my breath. He’s panting, too, looking a little lost.

He rises from the bed and heads to the bathroom. I feel even more drained than the previous night and consider calling in sick to work so I can sleep. Rafa emerges a few moments later with a washcloth.

“Don’t move. Let me clean you.” He gently presses the cloth to my skin, and I hold my breath because the flesh is tender. I haven’t had this much sex in years. But for some reason, the feeling of rawness triggers something in me, something needy and doubtful.

“Rafa, what are we going to do when our time is up?”

He stares at me and presses his lips together. Abruptly, he walks back into the bathroom and shuts the door. My stomach sinks because he doesn’t answer.