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“Wait ‘til you try this one.” I extend the guava pastry and bring it close to her mouth, where she opens and licks her lips. Damn, she is so sexy.
Instead of letting Sol bite into the pastry, I pull it back and lean down to swipe my lips across hers. I can’t resist her mouth, especially knowing how delicious she tastes. She welcomes my kisses and kisses me back, our lips exploring. I can feel the bulge in my pants growing and reluctantly, I pull back, immediately feeling the loss of having her so close.
“What was that for?” she asks in a breathy voice.
I lean into her and whisper into her ear, “Porque me tienes loco.”
“Vos también,” she replies, and raises her hand to my mouth, rubbing her fingers across my lips. I want to yell out at Sol’s confession that I drive her crazy too.
“Here, try the guava pastry.” I rest the pastry on her lips and watch as she bites into the gooey purple jam filling the flaky outside. Some of the filling rests in the crease of her lips and I have an urge to lick it off but have to control myself.
Watching her bite into the guava pastry has me fantasizing about her mouth all over me. Sol’s face scrunches and she’s shaking her head with her mouth still full.
“No te gusta?” I ask, shocked she doesn’t like it.
“No. It’s too sweet. I don’t know, it tastes weird.”
“Weird? You the first person I ever meetque no le gustan.” I take a bite of the pastry and it’s delicious. The warm guava jam explodes in your mouth with tangy and tart flavors. The first bite is always the best and the flaky buttery crunch of the puffed pastry exterior flakes off giving way to the gooey sweetness of the guava paste.
We finish our coffee and pastries and hop onto our scooters, scooting toward Sol’s house so she can swap out her shoes.
“I’ll be right back,” Sol exclaims, as she hops off her scooter and scurries toward her apartment. The building she lives in is traditional art deco style typical here in Miami Beach. It’s a small two-story building that’s vibrant mint green color with mango trim and decorative architecture adorning its rounded edges, archways, and rigid rectangular windows. I watch as she goes up the stairs, opens her door, and disappears inside.
Sol emerges from the building wearing high-top red Converse sneakers. “Better,” I say, pointing to her feet.
After we strap our helmets on but before taking off, I say, “Remember,usa el pito,” I say, pushing the horn button several times. “A lot of times cars no see scooters, which is the most dangerous thing. Be vigilant and no go too fast, and you will be okay. Ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she responds, nodding swiftly.
As we cruise up Collins Ave., Sol is comfortable riding her scooter. When she told me still gets nervous when riding, I thought she didn’t know how to ride well and that’s why she was hesitant. I think she’s underestimating herself because she’s doing great.
When we arrive to Hollywood Beach, we ride into the public lot to park the Vespas. I pull my old, tattered sheet from the under-seat compartment and grab a hold of Sol’s hand, curling her fingers with mine. Her hand is on fire. Each time I touch her, she’s blazing hot.
“Tienes las manos hirviendo,” I tell her.
“They are?” she asks, holding out her other hand and resting her palm on her cheek. “My hands don’t feel hot.”
“It’s the same as the night we met. Your hands were burning up. I thought maybe it was because we were dancing, but then later outside your hotel you were the same.”
She shrugs. “I don’t feel it.”
“Estas hecha pa’ mí, that’s why,” I proclaim, and glance over at her as we continue our walk to the sand. I can’t hide my feelings for her as much as I try, we were made for each other.
“You think so?” she fires back, pursing her lips.
“No. I know so. You know it too,pero te haces la dificil.” The rest of the stroll to the beach is in silence, and it’s because I want Sol thinking about my last words. I want her to know I’m onto her game of playing hard to get but I’ll breach her walls soon enough.
By the time we’re settled on the sheet to watch the waves crash, the sun is behind us and beachgoers are starting to pack up their belongings. The band on the stage behind us is tuning their instruments getting ready to start playing their set.
“It’s taken me forever to decide but I finally named myVespa,” she says, breaking the silence that’s been lingering for the past several minutes.
“¿Qué nombre le pusiste?”
“Roxy. She’s chili red and fiery, has a kick to her when I ride her, and Roxy seemed appropriate.”
“I like it.Super femenino y sexy, como su dueña,” I tell her, winking as I extend my hand to rub my fingers across her cheek, which are turning crimson red at my words. It’s true though, Roxy is a sexy feminine name, just like Sol is. “Tienes pena?” I ask.
“Embarrassed?” She shrugs. “Guess I’m not used to all the compliments.”
