Emma hesitated for a beat too long. "No one important," she replied, brushing it off as she stepped back toward him. "Now, where were we?"
But Alberto wasn't convinced. The tension lingered in the room like a storm cloud. His instincts screamed at him to press further, to demand answers. Yet before he could, she was all over him. She pushed him slightly and he fell back to the bed.
When their lips met, it was like a spark igniting a wildfire. Pleasure coursed through his body, leaving him breathless and dizzy. His arms tightened around her instinctively, pulling her closer as he lost himself in the moment. It was his first kiss, yet it felt surreal and profound.
As Alberto gently held Emma by the waist, he pulled her closer. He could feel the warmth of her bare skin against his own, her breath hot and heavy against his neck. The sensation sent shivers down his spine. Her intentions were unmistakable—she was the gift.
The tension in the room was palpable. The silence was interrupted only by the soft crackling of the fire and the soulful strains of Boyz II Men's "I'll Make Love to You" playing in the background. Her hands threaded through his hair as their kisses deepened, and Alberto's heart pounded like a barrel. The combination of the kisses, the wine, the dim lighting, and the music seemed to conspire against his defenses. His resolve weakened, and he felt utterly helpless. Everything pointed toward one inevitable outcome.
But then, something shifted. Unexpectedly, he hesitated. His grip on Emma's waist loosened, and he gently pushed her back—so softly it seemed almost apologetic. His hands trembled as he whispered, "No." His voice was raw, heavy with emotion. "No... I can't."
Now sitting at the edge of the bed, he shook his head, burying his face in his hands. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry," he murmured repeatedly, his voice breaking under the weight of his emotions. He ran his fingers through his long hair, fighting back tears and the burden of something deeper—his promise to his mother, his loyalty to his faith, and the persistent thought of Gabriella, the woman who still haunted his heart.
Emma froze, her expression shifting from passion to confusion. "What do you mean you can't?" she whispered, her voice barely audible and tinged with pain.
Not knowing how to handle the rejection, she quickly picked up the towel from the floor, wrapped it around herself, and rushed into the bathroom. She slammed the door behind her and began to sob.
"No man has ever turned me down, especially in such an intimate moment. Who does he think he is?" she whispered between sobs, her voice trembling with anger and humiliation.
She wasn't even sure why she was crying. All she knew was that an unfamiliar ache had settled in her chest—a painful mixture of confusion and vulnerability. Why did his rejection make her feel so exposed? So powerless?
Sitting on the cold bathroom tiles, Emma replayed the moments in her mind—the passion in his kiss, the warmth of his touch. It hadn't felt empty or mechanical. It had felt real. Almost too real. And then, he stopped.
"Why did he stop?" she muttered to herself, the question echoing in her head.
Emma wasn't used to feeling this way. She was always in control, dictating how things went in her relationships. But Alberto had changed the rules, and she didn't know how to handle it.
Her thoughts drifted to her past lovers, the casual flings and fleeting connections. None of them had ever made her feel this vulnerable. With Alberto, it was different. There was a depth in his touch, a promise in his kiss—of something more. But that promise now felt shattered, leaving her lost and exposed.
Meanwhile, Alberto sat motionless on the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands. He was consumed by a war raging within him. He wanted Emma—his body ached for her—but his heart and his faith screamed no.
"This isn't how it's supposed to be," he thought, his chest tightening with guilt.
As a devout Catholic, he had promised his mother to save himself for marriage. He had dreamed of a proper Mexican wedding back home, surrounded by family, not an impulsive moment in America fueled by passion and wine. His mother's words echoed in his mind: "Your body is a temple of God, my son. A sacred vessel."
And he had always strived to live up to her expectations. And to keep his promise, but now he was questioning everything he had believed.
He exhaled shakily, trying to reconcile his desires with his values. The weight of his upbringing and the shadow of Gabriella—her memory still fresh and haunting—added to his torment.
After what felt like hours, Alberto rose and approached the bathroom door. He knocked gently pressing his forehead against the door. "Emma," he called softly, his voice cracking. "Please, let me explain."
She didn't answer, but he could hear her muffled sobs. His heart sank. He knew he had hurt her deeply, and that knowledge weighed heavily on him.
"Emma," he pleaded again, his voice trembling. "Please, forgive me. I didn't mean to hurt you. This... this isn't about you. It's about me."
The sound of his voice, full of genuine remorse, made her heart ache even more. She stood by the door, listening to him, her hand covering her mouth to stifle her sobs. Contemplating whether to open the door.
If only he could see that Emma was almost opening the door for him, he would have persisted. Instead, after a while, he collapsed on the floor in a wave of despair and gave up.
Eventually, inside the bathroom, Emma sat with her knees pulled to her chest. The tears had stopped, but the ache in her heart remained. Something had shifted within her—a realization deeper than rejection.
Just as the silence between them thickened, Alberto's phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He hesitated before picking it up. The message on the screen made his blood run cold:
"We need to talk about Gabriella. It's urgent."
The sender was an unknown number.
His pulse quickened, and a sense of dread settled in his stomach. "Who could this be? And why now?" he wondered, his fingers trembling as he stared at the message.
Part of him wanted to send the message to Lorenzo, his tech-savvy brother, to trace it. But as he kept looking over the phone, a sinking feeling washed over him. Somehow, he knew this was not just a prank but something dangerous.
He glanced at the bathroom door. Emma's muffled cries had faded into silence, but the weight in the room remained. His heart was a battlefield—torn between the woman inside and the ghost of Gabriella that refused to let him go.
As the night stretched on, one thing became clear—this wasn't just about Emma or Gabriella. Something larger loomed on the horizon, and it was coming for him, whether he was ready or not.
Determined to get an answer from Emma, he walked towards the bathroom door. Just as he was about to knock on the door.