She bites her bottom lip and walks seductively up the stairs, her ass swaying. I gather what I need in the kitchen—water, a chunk of her favorite chocolate, the bag on the counter filled with the few toys I’d picked up earlier.

  I slip off my shoes and socks and take the stairs two at a time, barefoot. In the doorway, I pause. Justine’s lit the candles on the nightstands, and she’s lying on the bed, her eyes covered with a silk black sleep mask, just like I told her.

  Her long hair’s spread out on the pillow, and her legs are crossed, her red toes twinkling in the candlelight. She wiggles her toes and reaches her hand into the air.

  “Rafa?”

  “Shhh,” I say, setting the water, the chocolate, and the bag on one nightstand. I open the nightstand drawer and take out a stack of tissues because I like to be prepared. My eyes stare at her breasts as I take off my clothes. Her nipples are a dark pink and already taut.

  Trying not to make much noise, I remove a silk tie from the bag and two pieces of rope, then set them on the bed. I climb on top of her, caging her body with my arms.

  She lightly rakes her nails down my chest, and I skim a thumb over her nipple.

  “Justi, I feel like being a little rough tonight. Is that okay?”

  “Of course.” Her mouth is in a wide grin.

  My heart’s racing. I’ve only been sexually dominant with one woman. It’s never appealed to me with anyone else, so over the years, I’ve stuck to satisfying, yet slightly boring, vanilla sex.

  But the rules have changed now that Justine’s in my bed.

  I reach for the silk tie and bind her wrists to one of the thick wooden rails on the headboard.

  “Lift your ass up.”

  She does, and I slide a pillow under her.

  Pausing to suck on one of her nipples, I ease her knee toward her chest, her leg folded. Releasing her nipple, I use one of the ropes to bind her leg in a bent position. Then I do that to the other, and I spread her immobile, bent legs apart.

  “Too tight?”

  She shakes her head enthusiastically, her breasts bouncing.

  “Keep your legs open.”

  I slide off the bed and reach into the bag for a condom and the expensive vibrator I’d bought. Tonight, I’m going to drive her crazy. The vibrator is about five inches long, curvy—shaped kind of like a snowman, in fact—and the clerk at the store told me that there were various levels of vibe. First, I put on a condom, then I press a button on the vibrator, and it hums in my hand.

  She shivers when I touch the device to her fleshy mound, just above her clit. Her legs move toward each other.

  “Open.”

  I’m already rock hard when I slide the vibe between her legs. She’s so wet I can see her folds glisten, and I slightly slide the vibe up and down the pink nub of her clit.

  “Rafael…” She draws out my name, her wrists straining against the ties.

  “Yes, baby,” I murmur, taking the vibe away from her. It’s then that I guide my cock to her entrance and slide into her. She’s warm and perfect, and I groan.

  “God, yes,” she breathes.

  “Only a little for now.” I pump four or five times, then pull out. Tease her with the vibe more. Then I repeat everything. Over and over.

  She’s starting to perspire and writhe, a trickle of sweat between her breasts. With the tip of my tongue, I lick her skin, and she tastes like bittersweet lotion and sweat.

  “Please?” Her voice is a desperate whisper.

  I look up from her chest, my dick still inside. “Please what?”

  “Make me come. Please?”

  “It feels so good, doesn’t it, muñeca? Feels so good when you beg.” I pull out, and instead of using the vibrator, my fingers slip between her legs. It’s like she has a molten core whenever we’re together, and I’m always eager to dip myself into that hot liquid.

  She’s so, so wet, and I groan when I find her engorged clit amidst the thick wetness. “You like to be fingered, don’t you?” I whisper in Spanish, then switch to English. “You can’t get enough of me playing with your pussy. And you love when I talk like this, don’t you?”

  She grinds into my hand and whines a pleading yes. I stare at the ropes binding her legs, and a tingle blooms in my balls.

  “What a filthy little girl. What a wet girl, too,” I murmur as she half-laughs, half-gulps for breath. “You like it when I go inside with my fingers and do this.” I slide my middle finger into her and wiggle it in a come-hither motion, stimulating what I think is her G-spot. My thumb slides around her clit, and her mouth opens wider.

  “Don’t come yet, Justi. Just let it feel good.”

  She gasps, and I know she’s close. I slide two fingers in her and replace my thumb with the vibe, teasing her with the sensation. I growl. I will never tire of touching her. I’m still angry about how we ended, but when she offers herself to me, when she agrees to my sexual demands, I can’t turn away.

  For me, sex is how I express emotion. Especially with Justine. It’s how I relate to her, how I’ve always shown the majority of my love.

  And she knows it and exploits it for her benefit. Maybe, probably, to torture me.

  My hand’s covered with her wetness, and I slide out of her. I love her little cries of impatience. A light slap to her left breast makes her gasp and laugh, and then I give her cheek an even lighter tap with my fingers.

  “You love that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” It’s a plea. “Again?”

  I slap her breast a little harder, and her flesh ripples from my touch. Pressing the vibe firmly to her clit, I know she’s about to shatter, and she does, with a strangled cry.

  Justine has the longest orgasms of any woman I’ve ever been with, and watching her is glorious. Like I’ve done something grand by getting her to this point. I love how her clit feels when she has an orgasm, how it pulses under my touch. As if her body is responding to my commands—even if she, the woman, never will.

  As she’s coming, I take my fingers out of her and spread her bound knees apart even more. Kneeling between her legs, I plunge my cock in her. I can feel her clench around me, and I ease on top of her, taking her hard.

  My hand goes to her throat.

  “Yesyesyes,” she hisses. I squeeze lightly with my thumb and fingertips—not my whole hand, never my whole hand—and she gasps. This is less about the pressure I exert on her neck and more about the illusion of control.

  She knows it and trusts me. I know it and would never, ever hurt her.

  I watch her mouth open, and I can’t hold back any more. Everything goes sharp and clear, I’m so in the moment. With one last, powerful thrust, I explode inside of her and exhale loud in her ear. I think I make an animal-like grunt.

  She squirms a little, and now conscious of where my hand is, I release her throat. I nuzzle her where my fingers had been against her skin, right below her ear. All she can do is pant.

  Her skin is scorching as I brush a kiss over her lips.

  “Mmm,” she hums. “Jesus, Rafa. You’re incredible.”

  I love hearing her say those words.

  First, I untie her legs, then her arms. She shakes out her wrists, and I run my hands over her legs, massaging them lightly.

  “You okay?” Moving her legs this way and that, I check for bruises or marks, and there aren’t any. I kiss her wrists tenderly, one by one. Then I take off the condom and set it on a tissue on the nightstand.

  She shudders in a deep breath and pulls the blindfold away, so it sits on her forehead. Her eyes are unfocused. “That was so fucking hot. I could feel you coming inside of me. And yes, I’m more than okay. It’s been so long since…”

  I reach for the water and hand it to her. She gulps it down.

  “Since?” I reach for another tissue.

  “Since anyone was rough with me.”

  I gently move her left leg to the side and softly dab at her wetness with the tissue, cleaning her. “How long since anyone was rough with you?”

  “About eleven years.”

  Smiling, I crumple the tissues and leave them on the nightstand. “More water?”

  She shakes her head and closes her legs. I tell her I’ll be right back, and I scoop up the tissues and condom and throw everything away in the bathroom and wash. My hands—hell, my muscles—are still shaking from the intensity of the sex.

  When I return to the bed, she’s lying there with a big grin on her face. I reach for the mask, still on her forehead, and pull it away.

  “Want to get under the duvet?”

  She nods and moves so I can pull the blanket over her body. I tuck her in, swaddling her in the cloudlike fabric. I kiss her on the forehead. “Look what else I have. Your favorite.”

  I unwrap a Ghirardelli caramel-filled chocolate and offer it to her. She grins and takes a bite, the string of caramel extending over her lip and chin. I lick it off, and she sighs.

  “How do you remember these things about me? How do you recall what I love?” I feed her the rest of the small square. I watch her chew happily and unwrap another chocolate for her. She takes the whole square, then swallows and closes her eyes, sated and satisfied.

  Oh, Justine, why would I ever forget?

  * * *

  But as much as I can orchestrate her orgasms, I have no control over Justine, the woman. She’s far stronger than I remembered, in so many ways. Maybe it’s life’s curveballs—or perhaps it’s life’s tragedies—that have left her a touch quieter and more measured.

  This new poise—new to me, anyway—is one of the most seductive things about her. It means there’s a piece of her that I don’t know, that I haven’t claimed. A piece I still must conquer.

  It’s in the way she looks during meetings, her spine straight and regal, as poised as a sphinx. Or how she types and talks on the phone, the receiver cradled between her ear and shoulder, a picture of sweeping confidence. And how she carefully pours wine, then hands me a glass with a small smile, like we’re sharing a secret.

  As the days pass and I watch her, I find myself admiring her. She has tried to keep the paper together, even though she doesn’t know anything about finance. She’s a great manager and has a firm, yet kind, way with the staff.

  I might never admit this to her, but I’m proud of her. I’m proud of who she’s become, proud of how much she’s fought to do what she loves. Not many can say that. I just wish her ambition hadn’t ended us.

  Then again, maybe we’re too alike, and we each had our own ambitions, pulling us in different directions. These are the things I muse about in my spare moments.

  One afternoon she strides into the office we’re sharing and shuts the door. She sits on the new sofa and sighs, looking every bit like an old movie ingénue in her crisp, white blouse and tight red skirt. I stare at her, a faint smile on my lips.

  Do I still love her?

  I’m afraid I know the answer, but I can’t dwell on the thought because Justine’s already a million miles ahead of me, demanding I keep up with the conversation. I shake my head as if coming to after a long sleep.

  She says something about translating an interview in Spanish.

  “I’ll do it,” I say.

  This seems to please her, and she introduces me to Marty, the reporter. He’s a young guy, eager to make his mark on the world of journalism. His idealism reminds me of Justine when we were younger, and I listen to him talk about this migrant worker story with only a bit of interest. My mind’s on the paper and the building deal in Miami and a thousand other financial concerns.

  I’m still thinking about the Miami building—are we ever going to get the permits—and whether I should call Colin King, another developer, for advice, as we’re walking into a rundown stucco building. It’s a community center of some sort.

  Inside, the light’s a sickening fluorescent yellow, and I already feel awful for the kids playing with some faded plastic toys in the corner on a threadbare green carpet.

  A woman approaches and explains in Spanish that she’s with a migrant workers’ advocacy group. I nod and introduce myself, and it’s then that a thin dark-haired boy sitting with a book in his lap looks up at me.

  “This is José, the boy we were telling you about,” the woman says. “He’s been picking crops in the fields instead of going to school.”

  I squat in front of José and hold out my hand. “Hey there,” I say in Spanish. “I’m Rafael. How old are you?”

  I swallow hard when he puts his little hand in mine. I can see the fear in his eyes.

  “Eleven,” he says in a small voice. “But my birthday’s next month.”

  He’s got huge dark eyes, and they’re looking right into my soul. I’m silent because I realize that, if Justine hadn’t miscarried, our child would be the exact age as this boy.

  13

  Stripped Bare

  I sit cross-legged on the floor near José as he fidgets with the edges of the book. Hiss arms are fragile, his skin a rich terra cotta color, and his mop of dark hair is unruly and thick. In Spanish, I ask what he’s reading.

  Marty, the reporter, sits nearby like a hawk—if hawks could furiously scribble notes.

  José flips the book over so I can get a look at the cover.

  “La Ciudad de las Bestias by Isabel Allende,” I read. “You have excellent taste in reading.”

  He looks at me with wary eyes. “You know this book?”

  I nod. “I’ve read all of her books.”

  “You have time to read?”

  I feel something poking my bicep. It’s Marty’s pen.

  “Make sure you translate everything for me, word for word, okay?” The reporter has an eager look in his eyes, and his glasses slip down his nose. He pushes them back up with his thumb.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll translate everything.” I rub my neck and turn back to José.

  “I try to read whenever I can. Sometimes it’s only for fifteen minutes before I go to bed, but it’s really important to spend time with books.”

  “I wish I could read more, too. It’s what I liked best about school. But I have to work, so…” The boy sighs.

  I nod, and my stomach feels like it’s folding inside out. Kids in America not able to go to school? What is he? A slave?

  “Where are you from, José?”

  “Guatemala.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  The boy shrugs.

  “Your mom. Where is she?”

  “Guatemala. I guess.”

  “Who did you come to Florida with?”

  “My older sister. She’s sixteen. We rode for a long time in a truck to get here.”

  I scowl. “When did you stop going to school?”

  “The last time I was in school was June. My sister says we need money to pay people.”

  Eight months. A string of swear words runs through my mind. “How many hours are you working? And where’s your sister right now?”

  “We work all day. We go to the Circle K in the morning, and a big bus picks us up and takes us to the fields. Then it brings us back at night. My sister’s at her second job now. She cleans offices until eleven.”

  I take a deep breath and clear my throat several times before turning to Marty to relay the conversation.

  Why did I agree to this? It’s much more difficult than I’d anticipated. In truth, it’s ripping my guts out. Every time I look into this boy’s face, I see my own. Scared, motherless, and alone. Only I’d at least had my uncle, an adult, and because I was Cuban and came from a Communist country, I’d had special protections in the U.S. that other immigrants didn’t. I’d gotten citizenship quickly. This boy, he’d probably be jailed, or worse, he’ll have to return to Guatemala alone if authorities find him.

  Maybe there’s a way I can help somehow.

  I turn to Marty. “You’re not going to use this kid’s full name, are you?”

  Marty shakes his head. “Justine said to only use his first name.”

  I sit on the floor next to José and pick up another book that’s lying atop a stack. I’m about to ask him if he’s read it when he opens his mouth.

  “Do your children go to school?”

  I freeze at the question. It’s as if I’m looking at the very opposite of the child Justine and I would have had. This boy has nothing, and our child would have had all the love in the world. I can barely breathe, the emotion’s so fierce.

  We would have been such amazing parents. Why hadn’t I supported her more when she miscarried? Why hadn’t I told her that I’d wanted a family with her back then?

  Suddenly the room seems too small and too hot.

  “I don’t have children,” I say hoarsely.

  I watch the boy carefully close the book and slide it into a tired, green backpack. He takes out a folder and begins to show me the homework he’d collected in school last year. Each paper is dog-eared and worn with eraser marks. This kid wants to learn.

  “What do you pick in the fields?”

  He shrugs. “Tomatoes.”

  “And where do you live?”

  “In an apartment near here. Me and my sister.”

  He seems more eager to talk with me about what he’d learned in class, back when he was in school. A nauseous feeling overtakes me. As he goes through his math assignments, my eyes begin to sting.

  I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t offered to translate for this article. It’s as if the universe knew exactly which story would pierce the shield around my heart.

  * * *

  Hours later, the sounds of crickets wake me. I exhale louder than I should, thankful I hadn’t had a nightmare. Tense, blinking into the darkness, I turn to Justine, who is sprawled in the middle of the bed on her back.

  She lets out a little snore, and my head sinks back into the pillow.

  Because I usually stay in my penthouse on the fortieth floor, I can’t remember the last time I heard nature in the middle of the night. I lay still, on my side, listening to the crickets.

  The sound is soothing, reminding me of my boyhood in Cuba. It’s kind of nice here in St. Augustine. Peaceful.

 

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