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“Antonio, I don’t understand,” Destiny muttered.
“Don’t you? You’re a smart girl, mi Destino. Why don’t you put two and two together: Julio Vargas, the man in the picture, he was my father. You took him away from me and my mother when he needed us the most. You stole from us; robbed us of what was ours.”
“But…but your name is Fernandez,” Destiny stammered. She was so overwhelmed,
she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“I changed my name. Otherwise the plan wouldn’t have worked. I’ve been planning this for close to seven months now—ever since you killed my mother. The woman in the picture—my mother—she died of cirrhosis of the liver; drank herself to death after you stole her husband. I was going to ruin your career, your home, all the things that matter to you, and leave you sad and alone, so you could feel what my mother felt fifteen years ago.”
“Antonio, what are you talking about? I didn’t even know your mother!” Destiny yelled.
“That’s what makes it all the more sinful. Do you know my mother was never the same after my father left us? She couldn’t understand what she had done. Hell, I couldn’t understand what I had done. What would cause a man dying of cancer to leave the family who loved him and spend his last moments on earth with a twenty-three-year-old whore! I have to admit, though, after blowing out that pussy I can understand why Papa couldn’t resist. You really are the fuck of the century!”
Destiny could feel his rage and pain. It was as if he was twelve years old all over again. She knew she had to make Antonio understand. She’d loved Julio and now she loved his son, and that made her protective of Julio’s memory, even under these circumstances. Antonio might not listen to her, but he would listen to his father.
“Antonio, I have something for you. I’ve carried it close to me all these years thinking it was what I needed. I now know I was just holding on to it until the inevitable happened.”
Destiny picked up her pocketbook. From her wallet she retrieved a folded piece of paper and handed it to Antonio. Antonio snatched the piece of paper out of Destiny’s hand.
“What the fuck is this!” he yelled, yet he began reading.
Mi Destino,
By the time you read this I will be gone. Do not grieve for me, my angel. You have given me immeasurable joy in my final days. If I had not known I hadn’t long to live would I ever have grabbed for the spontaneity I so craved in life? Would I have reached for you? Your love breathed new life into me, while the love of my beautiful wife and son has sustained me, and I pray that my final selfish act will not hurt them too deeply, for I have greatly loved them both. My wish is that all those I have loved most of all will inhale of life and not get lost in their grief. I hope my son will one day know the passion and love I have known. Although I am only thirty-eight years old, I feel as though I have lived a lifetime…
Love, Julio
Antonio dropped to the floor and sobbed, deep racking sobs that rocked his soul. Destiny embraced him, kissing his hands, his face all the while saying over and over again, “I’m so very, very sorry. Antonio, can you ever forgive me?”
Antonio looked into her eyes and in that instant Destiny knew—she knew that she had been forgiven. All she wanted to do now was to make it up to Antonio.
“I really do love you, you know. No matter how hard I tried to hate you, I couldn’t help but fall in love with you in spite of myself,” Antonio said.
“I love you, too, baby.” Destiny answered. They didn’t talk anymore that night. Everything that needed to be said had already been said. Destiny kissed Antonio from head to toe, wiping away years of pain. She thought of father and son; both were with her tonight. Destiny lay on top of Antonio and wrapped around him great walls of passion, protection, and—yes—love. As each stroke brought Antonio closer to releasing torrents of pain, he whispered the words Destiny knew all too well—mi Destino.
“Y tu eres mío,” she replied. And you are mine.
Shameless
Descarada
Nikki Sinclair
I don’t care where we go,” Melissa said, hooking her bra before a mirror. “As long as I can show off my pussy.”
This might have disturbed him a month ago. But a month ago she stood on the bed in their Baltimore hotel room and asked, bending over, “Have you ever seen an asshole like that?”
No, he hadn’t.
But then he hadn’t actually seen anyone’s asshole or thought much about it until he met this short young woman with smooth round arms and pretty breasts and a good-size but not too large behind and…Well, there wasn’t a part he hadn’t seen. She was a nudist is what she was. She was also an epicurean and music lover and wine lover and sex lover, and she was wild with excitement this morning as they packed suitcases because she had never been to Mexico and she was, of course, a travel lover.
“Will you teach me Spanish?” she asked, pulling on thong underwear. She put her arms around his neck. “I mean, real Spanish. I already know the bad words.”
That was true.
Right away she wanted all the bedroom words. “How do you say it in Spanish?” she asked, sticking her pussy in his face. He had been lying on his back. She was on top, facing his feet, stroking his cock. They had known each other a week.
“It’s—” His voice caught as she stuck it in her mouth. “Sesenta y nueve. I think.”
