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“Aguaestá bien. With ice please.” She spins, grabs another glass from the cabinet then extends the glass to the ice maker on the refrigerator door.
“One water on the rocks for the gentleman,” she teases, sliding the tall glass across the counter.
“Thank you,muñeca.” I bring the glass to my lips.
Sol leans onto the counter and I catch a glimpse of the swell of her breasts peeking out over the top of her dress. I glance up not wanting her to catch my wandering eyes. “Why don’t you drink, if you don’t mind me asking?” she asks.
I lick my lips and meet her light brown eyes. They have a golden ring encircling her pupil and are soft at the edges. One of the things I liked about her the first night is she wasn’t wearing all that makeup around her eyes many women wear. Seems she may not wear it at all because I also haven’t seen it on her the few times we’ve seen each other since.
“I no drinken Cubabecause alcohol was homemade,yno me gustabathe taste of it. By the time I was in Miami,ya no me interesaba.” I wasn’t interested in drinking when still in Cuba because the homemade alcohol tasted like gasoline, and it burned the entire time I drank it. After trying it once, I never touched it again.
“Homemade?” She raises an eyebrow as she questions me.
“Sí. It tastes very strong, terrible. But it was the only thing available.” Sol’s lips part, as if she wants to say something but can’t find the words. A common reaction to stories of my life in Cuba.
“No beer? Wine?”
I shake my head. “That stuff was only available for tourists, not Cubans. Since then, I only drink water when my friends drink.” She nods in quiet contemplation and then sips her wine.
Another of the injustices I lived through in Cuba. It was difficult not having access to everyday necessities like toilet paper or toothpaste and luxuries like alcohol or beef. Yet, tourists visiting Cuba would have access to everything without question. The government does this so the tourists think Cubans live well. Like everything else, it’s all a farce.
“What do you mean, only available for tourists?” she inquires, her right eyebrow lifting up.
“En Cubatourists would experience a fake life. Nice hotels, good meals chosen from large menus.Pero nosotros los cubanoswe no allowed to have those things and no allowed to go into tourist Cuba.” Sol’s eyes widen, incredulity spreading across her face as she listens to me talk about the disparity and how Cubans are treated.
“That’s crazy. Each time you share about your life in Cuba I’m shocked at what you’re telling me.”
“Lo se.” I know when people hear of life on the island, they’re in disbelief. Most people never hear or read about how Cubans truly live. Instead, people are fed lies to lead them to believe the narrative the Cuban government is selling. Propaganda at its finest. “Enough about Cuba, talk to me about the other day when you came to see me.”
She smirks, pulling a lock of hair and twisting it around her finger. “I’m not sure what overcame me, I’m not usually so forward. I’m sorry.” She sips her wine again, her eyes searching mine. Her gaze is hypnotic.
“You no have to apologize for how you feel, Sol.” My fingers caress her wrist that’s resting on the counter.
“I just feel different around you and I don’t know how to explain it.”
Her confession makes my heart burst. I slide the stool back and circle around the counter so I can wrap my arms around her. “I liked it.” My lips meet her neckline and I drop kisses, one above the next, as I approach her lips.
“You did?” She raises her chin, giving me access to her jawline.
“Llévame a la cama,” she whispers. Her words send a shiver down my spine. I was not expecting her to ask me to take her to bed, at least not this early in the night. But I’d be a fool to reject her now, especially after the way things ended at my shop the other day.
“You sure?” I ask, pulling back from her to search her eyes for any hint of reluctance.
She nods, grasps my hand, and I follow her across the living room.
Sol turns the lamp on the nightstand on and then leans against her bed. She’s already untied the apron and tossed it on the floor. Her gaze meets mine and I’m at a loss for words, which is not common. Her movements are slow and deliberate. She kicks her flip-flops to the side then stands and turns. Peeking out from the top of her dress is black ink, what looks to be a tattoo.
I place my hands on her hips and pull her flush to me, whispering into her ear. “You have a tattoo?”
Her head turns and she bites her bottom lip. “Maybe. Why don’t you take my dress off and see for yourself?” Good lord, this woman is going to drive me crazy. My right hand drifts to the zipper at the top and I begin to drag it down, exposing the letters inked onto her skin and her black bra. I slide one shoulder off, then the next and her dress drops to the floor, leaving her in only in her bra and purple underwear.
I begin tracing the black letters, written in script.Alis volat propriis, with wings jutting out to the left and right between the wordsAlisandvolat. “What does this mean?” I ask, as I continue to trace my fingers along the ink.
“She flies with her own wings,” she responds, dropping her head. My lips find the ink and my tongue draws slow circles along the lines of the tattoo while my hands squeeze her curvy hips. My jeans tighten as I savor Sol’s skin, the cinnamon scent at her neck invading my senses, her skin soft beneath my lips. I pull my shirt off then reach for my wallet to grab a condom, placing both onto the nightstand.
I take the opportunity and pull the clip from her hair, the curls cascading down her back. She climbs onto the bed and crawls across it, before turning and locking her eyes with mine. Her nipples are prominently visible beneath her bra. My hands reach for my belt to unbuckle it and I swiftly undo my jeans letting them fall to the floor, the tip of my erection peeking out of the top of my white briefs. Sol’s eyes drop to my waistline, and she licks her lips as she stares at the protruding bulge.
“Tell me, Sol. ¿Qué quieres?” I want her to tell me what she wants. To take the lead. To feel in control. Her eyes are wild, and I can see the hesitation in her thoughts as she wrestles with what she’s feeling, and what to say.
