I open my mouth to welcome him, to say something, but his intense stare has me stumbling over my thoughts. I can’t imagine forming intelligent words at the moment, so I swallow and fake a smile.
“H—hi,” I stammer, shifting from foot to foot.
“Nice to meet you,” he says gravelly. His voice is deep and masculine, raspy almost, nothing like I imagined on the bus this morning. And he’s tall, so freaking tall and broad, as if he’s spent the better half of his life in a gym. He exudes power and control, and it’s intimidating and exciting all at once. His hair is ink black, there’s not a color that light could pass through it. He doesn’t seem old like Mamá, they can’t be old friends.
“Y—yeah.” I swallow again, struggling to keep my composure. What is it with me? His triumphant expression has me blushing. Does he enjoy making me feel flustered?
“Well, let’s eat,” Mamá suggests, clapping her hands and leading us to the kitchen.
The entire night goes somewhat smoothly. I learn he, Mamá, and dad grew up together. Silas and my dad grew apart when he went to prison the second time, or so Mamá says. He's the one who helped her get a job at Cynosure. I eat up every detail.
I find myself infatuated, awestruck, and insanely enamored with Silas.
After dinner, I clean the kitchen while Mamá prepares the guest bedroom for Sy. As I’m scrubbing the dishes, he comes next to me, too close, and leans in.
“I’ll rinse while you wash?” He gives me the sexiest smirk, and has me blushing.
A giggle escapes me, it’s so mundane, but I appreciate the gesture. “Thank you.”
He sidles up closer, and when his arm brushes mine, goosebumps cover my entire body. It’s just a crush, right? I can’t love a man who’s the same age as Dad—someone who grew up with him and knows my mom no less. That’s not rational. It can’t be.
We wash dishes together, and every time his skin touches mine, butterflies flutter in my stomach. I try keeping them to myself, holding them hostage and telling them that they can’t just be set free for anyone. Especially for someone that’s older, taboo, and not mine.
When we finish, he kisses my forehead and I nearly melt. Yeah, I’m crushing, so what?
His lips are velvet, warm, and forever etched in my memory.
“Goodnight, mi corazón.” he whispers those words before walking away.
“W—wait,” I call after him. He stops, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “W—why did you call me…y—your…you know…heart?”
“From the moment I saw you, my heart stopped. And since then, I’ve forgotten how to make it beat for something other than your smile.”
The butterflies escape from me, they fly and rattle, flapping their incessant wings to escape. All the while, this man watches me with some emotion I’m not sure of.
And when he walks away, taking the butterflies with him, I just watch, unsure of what to make of him.
TWO
A year ago
LEIA
I FELL IN LOVE WITH Silas three years ago. Now, I’m sixteen, and even more head over heels for the same man that’ll never be mine.
Falling harder for him all started with a letter I found in Sy’s bag two weeks ago.
I’d told myself it was a crush, all in my head, something I needed to forget, but this letter changed everything.
He asked me to get his backup shirt from his duffel after he spilled coquito on his shirt. It’s the Puerto Rican equivalent to American eggnog. And he boozed it up, so it smells horrible. Walking to his bag, I figure he had it on the sides since he generally puts his dressier stuff in the center pouch, less crinkles and all.
While searching for a shirt, I graze a piece of paper. It crinkles beneath my fingertips. The tattered paper is smudged in some spots, but still legible. Pulling the abused letter out, I noticed it’s addressed to “Mi corazón.” That’s what Sy calls me! It must be mine! It has to be.
With new frantic excitement coursing through me, I gently open the letter, making sure not to ruin it. It seems to have been through hell and back. I wouldn’t want him to get angry with me for snooping, and possibly ruining it. It must mean something if he’s kept it.
“Leia!” Sy yells from the kitchen as I nearly drop the frail paper from fear.
“One second!” I call back, even more frantic to read it.
I glance at the first line and my heart clenches.
My sweet, sweet, corazón,
I’m addicted to you, my heart aches for what I can’t have.
I’m needy with this salacious yearning I get whenever you’re near. It consumes me. It draws me closer—makes me unable to resist the pull between us.
When your body is closest to me, the need to conquer it, overwhelms my mind. The things I want to do to you come to me in explicit and filthy details.
And one day, mi corazón, I will give in.
One day I’ll take what makes you innocent and taint it with my cruel intentions.
One day I’ll own every crevasse on that perfect body of yours.
And one day, you’ll beg me for more.
Because you love me as much as I love you.
Forever mine,
Sy
He wants me too? My heart leaps, my stomach clenches, and an unexplainable craving hits me right between my thighs. Everything he addressed wanting to do to me, I want it. I want it all. I want him. I read it one more time before gently placing it back into his bag.
I open the center and see a shirt right on top and rush to bring it to him.
He takes off his soiled shirt, revealing the masculinity that’s all Sy. I melt. He’s built, his abs flex with each movement, and the hair dusting his chest, leading down to his waistband, shows he’s all man.
Biting my lip with indescribable need, I flush as he watches me. There’s heat in his eyes, he wants me. Just like the letter said. He smiles and sits on the couch with a new glass of coquito.
Waving me over, he taps the couch for me to cuddle. I love cuddling Sy. He always rubs my feet and holds me when shows get too scary.
I shake the memory away. It’s when I first realized he must love me. He said it in a letter. He even said as much as I love him. He knows! He must think I’m in love. Am I?
Mamá and Sy have been drinking all day. They just finalized the contracts for seven new clubs in New Mexico, Nevada, California, and Texas. They’re celebrating their win, heavily. And today’s my sixteenth birthday. It’s nothing special, I celebrated my Quinceañera last year. In Latin cultures, we celebrate our life at fifteen instead of sixteen. We’re considered adults, or at least mature enough to make our own decisions. It’s supposed to be the transition into womanhood for us. Though, I had to grow up a lot younger than that. I wasn’t afforded the carefree and happy childhood, it’s what has made me who I am.
I’ve been binging on old episodes of Coralito, a telenovela my abuelita apparently used to watch. It makes me feel closer to my culture watching it—closer to a family I’ve never met.
It plays in the background with English subtitles since my Spanish isn’t all that pretty. Okay, it’s nonexistent. It’s such a classic. Soap operas aren't like this nowadays.
When I peek over at Mamá, she’s passed out, snoring like a bear. She’s going to be asking me to take care of her in the morning, like I used to before Sy came. But, Sy, he’s staring directly at me. Not just staring but focusing on my face intently. Like I’m a book, and he’s slowly opening my pages, waiting for the next chapter to unfold something brilliant.
“Ven acá,” he says in a husky tone. Come here. My palms suddenly feel sweaty, and my throat is dry, and as rough as sandpaper. “No me tengas miedo.” Don’t be afraid of me.
Standing up, I make my way over to him. I immediately notice how the carpet feels soft beneath my feet, it’s comforting, when I feel anything but.
Is this what will sooth the journey to my hellish downfall? Fucking carpet? Nothing good can come of what I want to do to
and with this man.
I swallow, in hopes of erasing the lodge of nerves stuck in my throat. It’s no help at all. He rises when I reach the recliner, his body towers over mine. I love that about him, that he’s so strong, tall, and big, compared to my small body. He’s the word comfort in physical form, if it were described as a man, Sy would be it. Sy smirks down at me, takes my hand, and leads me to the guest room in the very back of the house.
I start to ask what he wants, I need to know. I’m desperate for his words—for him to admit this isn’t one sided—that we have something. He can’t possibly want what I’ve always desired in my corrupted mind. He can’t possibly need what my darkened soul has craved and dreamed for. Can he? He stops me in my tracks. Is this what he meant in his letter?
“Sy—” I begin to ask.
“Shh,” Silas hushes, placing a finger to my lips. His finger feels rough, hardened like him. It sends a zing of heat rippling through my entire body. I’ve never felt this connected to someone before. He never gets this close to me, and it’s something I’ve prayed for.
“Don’t tell your Mamá, mi corazón.” With that, desire surges through me. It’s a newer sensation to me, but he makes me comfortable in it. When Sy calls me his heart, I feel special—like I’m his world, and he’d give it all up to be with me. That maybe, just maybe, I’m worth it. But he won’t. Why would he? Since reading that letter, there’s been nothing to confirm his feelings for me.
I want them to be real.
For him to whisper all the poetic and naughty things his letter claimed he’d say.
He slowly removes his finger, dragging it down my lips seductively, only to replace it with his perfect lips. His touch is soft, and the realization that he's claiming my first kiss washes over me. He’s really kissing me.
After my momentary shock, I fall into it, giving into this fantasy. My entire body melts in his hold, absorbing whatever he’ll give. Memorizing each ripple on his lips, how soft they are, how they press against mine perfectly. No matter how wrong this is, in my heart, he was made for me. He was brought to Earth to find me—to love me. Even though he’s my dad’s age, even though we shouldn’t be like this, it’s fate. He may be a friend of both my parents; meaning he’s off limits, but that won’t stop me.
Not right now. In this very moment, on my sixteenth birthday, he’s mine.
Not hers, not the world’s, but mine.
No matter the wrongness of it, I kiss him back just as fiercely. I don’t exactly know what I’m doing, I worry that my inexperience shows. Is there too much lips and tongue? Not enough? He tastes of booze and Doritos, perfect, even if messy and unconventional.
He’s Sy, he’s who I want, and nothing can ruin this moment. Nothing.
Our bodies are flush, his hard against my soft. It’s química. Chemistry.
Sy’s calloused hand grips the back of my neck, bringing us closer together. My heart catapults inside my chest, and he’s so at ease with it all. Does he not feel the intensity? How much I want this? Sy’s cradling my throat like the lover I wish I was. And when he rubs tender circles across it, cherishing me, my heart claims him.
He’s going to regret this tomorrow when he’s sober, but I don’t care.
I do, but thinking of the consequences will make me stop, and I can’t stop. I’ve had a crush on him for as long as I can remember. And I might not be sure what love is, not really, but this feels like what I watch in Coralito.
Can anyone my age know what love is? I’m more intelligent than your average teen, yes, but aren’t life experiences what show you the definition of love, and all the rest? I’ve had tough situations, but love was never part of the equation. Until him.
If love is defined as the aching between my thighs, and rapid heartbeat in my chest, then I want to possess it forever—tie it to my body and let it keep me hostage. Maybe even store it somewhere safe, save it, collect it, and carry it with me every time he’s near. And even then, never let it go. It’s empowering, addicting, and I want to savor the emotions it steals from me.
When he lifts me, carrying me to the bed, his old bed, I don’t stop him. When he continues kissing me with abandon, I don’t interrupt, I only push into him more. When he starts undressing me, making me feel things I shouldn’t, a cry full of need is the only thing that escapes me.
He covers my mouth, shushing me, the roughness intrigues me even more. I can’t help what comes out of me when he touches me with this much desperation. Sy brings out a side of me I’ve only ever heard stories about, it’s temptation and darkness wrapped in a beautiful bow, and I’m going to spoil it by ripping it from the seams.
“Please,” I beg, but for what, I’m not sure. I’ve never had sex, let alone been like this with a boy. And Silas Esparza is no boy, he’s a hot-blooded, Puerto Rican man.
“Nosotros no podemos estar juntos así,” he groans, his voice gruff, while grinding his groin into mine. “It’s not going to happen, mi corazón.” Why not? Does he not want me? And why grind into me? Why bring me to this secluded room if not to make love?
His tongue distracts me, swirling around my throat while his hand caresses my thighs simultaneously. I gulp back the driest swallow, and shiver. He pulls back, watching my shaky movements. Then continues to tease me with his tongue, wrapping it around my nipple, suckling harshly, swirling around it over and over again, while I writhe beneath him. My back arches off the bed, and he stops his teasing once more.
Unsure of what the hell I’m doing, or supposed to do, I slide my hands down my bare chest, shuddering from the sensations. Having a man watch you as you touch yourself is a first for me, having a man groan as I trail my fingers over my ribs is another.
I continue past my flat toned stomach, barely touching my belly button ring along the way, finally reaching my already wet pussy. I’ve played with myself out of curiosity before, especially the night I read the letter. But nothing as scandalous as this, not in front of anyone either.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Sy,” I whisper, biting my lip with unease. My hands stilled at my hips, tapping with nerves.
“Todo lo que tú haces me excita.” Anything you’ll do will turn me on.
My eyes meet his warm ones. “What?”
“No matter what you do, mi corazón, it’ll be perfect.”
That’s not what he said. Is it? My heart leaps, wondering what he could have meant.
I eye Sy warily, his gaze is filled with so much heat, I'm surprised my skin doesn't scorch from the intensity. When I slip my hands between my thighs, dipping my finger into my tight channel, he physically shakes. His aggressive growl pushes me to slide another finger in. The pressure is deliriously good, and when I grind the heel of my palm into my clit, it feels like I’ll combust. It’s never been this powerful and exciting.
“Leia, mi corazón,” he croons, his hands reaching for me, then dropping them several times before physically restraining himself from touching me. It's as though he’ll never keep his word to not fuck me if he gives in to one simple touch.
“Coño estoy tratando muy duro de resistirte,” he whispers harshly under his breath. With his teeth bared like he’s in agony, he grips the bed with incredible force, and I’m stuck wondering what makes me special to him. Every time I think I know something, he speaks in Spanish, and I’m not sure what he’s saying.
I can’t believe I do that to him. Make him so desperate with need that he has to hold himself back. It’s empowering. He makes me feel older, and less like the child Mamá treats me as. He’s never treated me like Mamá does. And for that, I’m grateful.
“Like this, Sy?” I whimper, grinding my palm more, wanting Sy to take over, or be more involved. Needing him to touch me instead of only observing. Just one touch, Sy.
“Yes, niñita. Just like that,” he praises me, but still refuses to touch me himself. He’s still forcefully holding back, his hands grip his knees, his knuckles white with the amount of pressure he’s putting into it.
But
him telling me he likes what I’m doing? It’s the best feeling ever.
I cry out, getting closer to the edge with each movement. Sy sits back on his feet, pulling his cock out of his boxer briefs. He strokes himself long and slow, and I can’t look away. I find my mouth is stuck agape, and he grips himself harder watching me watch him. I’m stuck gawking at his very large size, and at how his hand works himself up and down while his eyes stay locked on me.
My movements stop, I’m too caught up in the way he fists his length like he’s strangling it, base to tip, and back again. How could that ever possibly fit inside me? He’s massive. His hands are huge, and he can’t even fully wrap his fingers around his girth.
“Fuck, Leia, you have to keep going,” he groans. His eyes squeeze shut, and he thrusts into his palm, his hips pushing forward in a jerky motion. His dick is red and purple, it looks angry and dry, and I want to offer my mouth to sooth him. But how his face is scrunched with a pained expression, tells me not to. I shakily start my ministrations again, and when he opens his eyes to stare at me, the raw lust in them makes me weak.
If I wasn’t already laying down, that expression full of love, adoration, and desire would have made me drop to my knees.
My orgasm hits me, starting with an intense heat coiling in my belly. It zings to my toes, making them curl, then moves through my spine, I shake with each jolt.
“That’s it, mi corazón. Keep rubbing until it’s finished.”
When my body finally stops quaking, he’s between my shaky thighs. Is this it? Where he takes my virginity? If so, I’m ready; I don’t want it to be anyone but Sy. He’s the man I want to give it to—to give him every part of me that’s untouched.
He widens my legs and leans in, his coarse facial hairs make me jolt, then he’s licking from my ass cheeks to my mid thighs, making me squirm and moan with each flick of his tongue.
After I’m wet from his mouth, he takes my release, smearing it over the area he just licked. It’s so disgustingly sexy. So dirty. So wrong. Something about the thought of him covering me in my own cum makes it hot, and not as dirty somehow.
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