by Zane
At those words, she began to cry. Tears that she never knew she’d held inside. Tears for him. Tears for all she’d missed out on. He leaned in, kissing away the salty wetness flowing down her cheeks, then held her until her sobs had passed.
“I’m not unreasonable about things, you know,” he said after a moment. “We can always talk and work things out. Communication. My parents talk all the time.” Then he laughed. “More like argue and fuss at a hellified volume. Mama’s no joke with a rolling pin.”
Niyah laughed with him.
“But they’ve been together for fifty years.” He took a moment to let that sink in. “Mom wasn’t in love with Dad at first—but it happened. And no one could tell the difference—not then and not now.”
With that, he curled her into his arms, carried her to bed and made love to her so tenderly the only thing she could do was cling to him, hold on to him—and admit one thing: It was better to have a man who loved her more than she loved him, than to be as lonely and miserable as she had been for the past three months. She opened to him slowly, allowing him to penetrate deeply, then he froze, pulling her to him, holding them connected—sensually, completely—as he whispered over and over, “Mi vida, my love, te amo, te amo…”
Within a few weeks they were married, with her neighbors looking on. The neighbors actually used the money collected from the women’s “Mario should make it back in” and the men’s “Niyah won’t last another day without sex” funds to buy the newlyweds wonderful wedding gifts.
Mario was right. She fell in love with him a little more each day. She appreciated him and his unwavering love for her. He was a good friend, a good provider, and a damn good lover. What more could she ask for?
Mario was also a lot more intelligent than he gave himself credit for—than she gave him credit for. She was ashamed she didn’t see that in the beginning. She’d been too busy trying to stay “safe.” Now her heart was safe with him!
At the beginning of the year, he proposed an idea for a document services business that encompassed his managerial skills and what he had learned at the law firm. She helped him put the plan into action. That six-figure salary might be within reach after all.
Content with what they had, he loved her like no other, always treating her like a queen. She accepted him as her true soul mate and watched him become stronger and more confident in their relationship—the way she wanted him to be in the beginning. The way he always was, but was afraid to be with her. She became happier, softer, and more loving.
She also started going to another church, one that Mario had begun attending during her months of celibacy. His church wasn’t about religion. It was more about positive affirmations, and being joyful, prayerful, and true to one’s self.
Lord knows they still needed to be in church. As much as they made love, it had to be a sin.
Found in Translation
Encuentro en la traducción
Susan DiPlacido
I meet him on the beach outside the Melia Habana. It’s magic hour, that luscious time of day between sunset and dusk. That twilight time that lingers, where a divine light glows with soft edges and misty rapture. Hazy clouds frame the background as he strides out of the forbidden azure ocean, water skimming off his muscled skin, dripping from the ringlets of his shaggy dark hair.
I know he’s trouble right away.
He drops to his knees in front of me. With a perfect accent, he says, “Señorita bonita, mi nombre es Javier Santiago y seré infeliz por siempre si usted no cena conmigo.”
This guy, Javier, that’s what he says to me.
I sigh.
In English, that roughly translates to: “Pretty lady, my name is Javier Santiago, and I’ll be unhappy forever unless you have dinner with me.”
And in my American, thirty-year-old, single-girl jaded dialect, it translates to: “Nice tits. Wanna fuck?”
I didn’t come to Cuba to get laid. I don’t need to travel to a foreign country when I’ve got a perfectly good Hitachi Magic Wand in my bedroom at home that does the job more efficiently (and reliably) than any man can. I don’t know why I came here. I guess maybe it was to experience something so ancient, once so idyllic. After all, it’s in vogue these days to consider Cuba to be the final fragment of Atlantis, the once-majestic city built by the god of the sea to protect his mortal beloved.
Havana is a place that makes you realize that humans don’t fuck up everything. The landscape alone is breathtaking, with the city rising beyond the deep sea, an enchanting marriage of civilization and natural beauty. Silky sand leading to the luxury of resort life. It was more than I expected.
And then, just as I thought I’d seen heaven on earth, out of the ocean comes this godlike-looking creature. This, this—Javier. He could be an angel.
But as he looks up at me, he reaches out, wet fingers circling my wrist, skimming and tickling the underside of my palm, sending an unmistakable spark up my spine. And the glint in his eyes tells me he’s closer to a devil.
What the hell, I’ll go to dinner with him. I’ll do more than that with him.
It startles me when he meets me in the lobby and immediately puts his hand on the small of my back. Such a bold and familiar move for someone I’ve just met. I step away and put space between us. But he takes my hand as we walk and though it stiffens me, again that sinful spark keeps me from pulling back.
At the restaurant, instead of sitting across from me, he takes a seat next to mine, presumably so he can enjoy the view of the placid sea at night. Leaning back, he rests his arm on the back of my chair and twists his fingers through the locks of hair that hang down my back, across my shoulder. It’s appalling at first, but as I sip on a mojito that warms my belly while the evening brisa kicks up, cooling the air, I reluctantly relax into it.
It’s presumptuous of him, almost cocky, as though he’s taking it as a given that I’m his for the evening. But I like the confidence, and besides, even though I didn’t come here to get laid, his good looks and sultry demeanor are making me look forward to it.
Later, sitting on the terrace framed by palm trees, I stick a forkful of escabeche in my mouth, my toes curling with the tartness. Javier says, “Your face, it bewitches me.” He’s been pouring this impromptu poetry to me since we’ve been here, lacing it with compliments, presumably to weaken my defenses.
This guy, Javier, is he serious with all this?
Of course not. I decide to cut to the chase.
“Javier,” I mumble with my full mouth. Chewing, swallowing down a gulp of wine, I say, “Por favor. Stop it already.”
“You are angelic,” he says.
“Okay.” I wipe my mouth with the napkin and lean back from the plate of food. “Listen,” I tell him. “You’re very nice. But this isn’t necessary, you don’t have to sweet-talk me. With a few shots of rum, I’ll sleep with you anyhow. I’d prefer it if we kept it honest like that.”
He frowns and says, “Americana. I say these things not to have sex with you. I say them for they are true.” But he motions with his hand and calls over the waiter. He orders rum for us.
“I knew it,” I say, smirking.
He leans forward and looks me in the eyes, saying, “Por supuesto que te deseo.” Of course I want you.
“Then stop trying to make it more,” I tell him. “It’s not nice.”
He looks shocked. Stricken. “Mami chula,” he says. “This was not my intent, to anger you by telling you how beautiful you are.”
“I’m not angry,” I say, feeling guilty for offending him. “It’s just, it’s leading when it’s not true.”
“Ahh.” He nods. “Entiendo. It is not that I’m making more, ángel mío. It is you trying to make less. I should have expected. Come now.” He flops his napkin on the table and stands. Looking down at me, he says, “We go now, and have the sex, then?”
“But,” I stall, slinking in my seat, glancing around to see if anyone heard him. “The grappa hasn’t come yet.”
“So we can finish the meal?” he asks.
“Yes, we can finish our dinner, Javier.”
“You are sure?”
The waiter arrives with our brandy but hesitates as Javier still hasn’t taken his seat.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I say and motion for him to sit.
This guy, Javier, I guess he is serious.
He pulls his chair closer so that his knee brushes against mine as he sits. He raises his glass and says a traditional toast and we both take a deep swig of the brandy. I close my eyes, letting the sweetness fill my mouth as the pungent scent hovers. Upon swallowing, a liquid heat courses down to my belly. He nudges my shoulder, leans close and whispers in my ear, “You are not without hope, yet, Americana.”
Tingles ripple across my skin as my face flushes, but my head doesn’t swim from the effects just yet. Whether it’s the effects of the booze or his sultry breath, I’m not sure. “Without hope for what?” I ask him.
“If you can enjoy your food the way you do, if you can enjoy the drink, then all is not lost. You are not in that much of a hurry.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” is all I say.
He laughs and places his arm on the back of my chair, directs me to look out on the night waters of the dark ocean. “Why did you come here, Americana?”
“I, I…” I stutter like a fool. “I just wanted to see it, it’s so exotic.”
He puts his arm around my shoulders, his thumb lightly stroking my naked arm. It’s still disconcerting, all this physical closeness. But I figure it’s a difference in our cultures. Nearly everyone around here is snuggled close, though I assume they’re longtime lovers.
He says, “You come here, looking for the exotic. And yet you’d deny me looking at what I find beautiful and exotic. Americana, you’re all in such a hurry. You make it about the satisfaction, no the joy in the act itself. Even your women. Even you. Fast food, fast cars, fast phones. Everybody in a rush to finish everything.”
“Yeah, well, we get a lot of stuff accomplished that way,” I tell him.
“Ahh.” He raises his brows. “But it is not all about the finish. We enjoy ourselves.”
His stilted English in tandem with the stroking on my arm starts a subtle vibration in my lower tummy. Maybe it’s not all about the finish to him, but suddenly I wish we’d at least get started. He purrs in my ear, now in Spanish, calling me bonita again.
I don’t mind if he wants to call me beautiful, but I know he has other motives. I know that because I’m not beautiful. I know I’m not beautiful because other men never bother to tell me that I am. They just get down to business once it’s been established that’s where things are headed.
I put my hand on Javier’s knee to let him know that I’m with him. He nods but refills our rum glasses, deliberately clinks his against mine, and drinks his slowly. In the soft glow of candlelight, his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows;the soft scruff of stubble can’t conceal the that single, strong vein that runs down the side of his neck.
I lean into him, pressing my body against his side. He’s firm and warm and he dips his head and meets my mouth with his lips. Soft, tinged with the liquor. He moves his hand off my shoulder, places it on my exposed thigh. As he kisses me gently, his fingertips trace patterns upward on my leg. Thrumming inside, I kiss him more deeply as his hand snakes up. I uncross my legs to give him easier access.
Javier moves. Instead of kissing my mouth, he drops feather kisses on my cheek, his fingers rubbing the inside of my upper thigh. The brisa kicks up again, and I bite my lip to control a shudder as his breath tingles in my ear. Instinctively, I slide my hand up his leg, his muscles tensing beneath my touch. Not lingering, I take hold of him and he sighs in my ear again, a heavy breath, hot and moist.
The waiter comes to check on us. I freeze, but Javier doesn’t. He nuzzles my ear again before turning to the waiter and answering in Spanish, “Bring us the dessert list,” while his fingers dance dangerously higher, now brushing against the smooth fabric of my panties.
I blush and tuck my head down. It’s dim, but I’m not sure the waiter is oblivious. He bows, but loiters to refill our glasses. As he does, Javier slides his fingers directly across the crotch of my underwear, firmly.
I reel. I don’t know if it’s from the sensation so much as shame. Shame that it does feel good, shame that I don’t cross my legs or push him away. But he picks up my brandy glass and feeds me a sip, a rather large gulp. As I’m swallowing, he kisses my neck and works his hand smoothly up my stomach, then back down, this time beneath my panties.
I squirm and take hold of him again as the waiter retreats. He sets down the glass and moves my hand off of him. Saying, “Suave, señorita. Suave.” Slow. Slow down? That’s what this guy with his hand down my underwear in a public restaurant is telling me…slow down.
But before I can protest or take hold of him again, he slides his hand, his strong, sure fingers, back down. Inside my panties, parting my slit, two bold fingers slip down the length of me, then roughly, heavily back up, and again partway down, settling this time on my sweet spot, pressing against the nub of my rapidly sensitizing clit.
My breath catches, my shoulders tense, and my insides quicken. The rush from the grappa taking hold in my brain, warming my body as surely as he’s tuning me up, turning me on.
I’m wet already, it’s slick as he slides up and down, again coming to rest and pressing against my pleasure button. This time, shortening the length of his stroke, moving those two fingers only an inch. Sliding up, waiting, kissing my neck, and then gliding down, sucking on my earlobe. It’s so nasty, so risky, I know I should pull away, or push him away, especially before the waiter comes back. But I’m pulsing and as I allow him to slide a few more times, I’m wired on it.
Shallow breath and rapid pulse, champagne blood rushes through my limbs, concentrating and knotting at the delicious tension he’s creating between my legs, begging for satisfaction. The waiter comes back with the dessert tray. And oh sweet mercy help me, I still can’t pull away. Even as the waiter looks me in the face. I meet his eyes, he’s explaining the desserts, pointing to samples on the tray, and Javier keeps working his fingers rhythmically over my engorged clit. I tell myself the waiter can’t possibly know what’s going on as long as I keep it cool. Yes, Javier’s nuzzling my neck, but the waiter can’t see his hands under the table, beneath the tablecloth, especially in this flickering light. I can do this, I can hold it together.
But as the waiter starts reciting the menu, Javier picks up the pace, moving quick and firm, taking me higher, higher. God, this is awful, I’m close to getting off, I should stop this but I can’t, it’s within reach, it’s just too good. I stay still, dropping my eyes to hide the telltale twitches. And when the waiter finishes his descriptions, just as I’m on the edge, Javier stops his movements. I can’t stop myself, I just can’t help it, my back arches and my pelvis pushes forward, seeking satisfaction, pressing myself, subtly grinding against his hand.
He moves his fingers away, pulling up slightly, rubbing small circles against the base of my stomach as he orders us a chocolate torte to share. It’s horrible, even worse than the tantalizing indiscretion was, my nerves are screaming for release, my whole body in a knot and head swimming. The waiter takes his leave and instead of putting his hand back between my legs and finishing me off, Javier removes it completely. Languidly, he brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them with a satisfied smile, telling me I’m sweeter than any dessert.
Now I can’t decide if I want to fuck him or claw his eyes out. I slowly come back down as he feeds me the cake, adding a sinfully delicious balance of sweetness to round out the spice and heat of the meal. And by the time we walk back to the hotel, I’m melting to him as he holds a strong arm around my waist, leading me up the marble staircase and through the dimly lit hallway.
Once inside, I nod to the bed, but he wanders out to the balcony and beckons me to join him. We have a panoramic view of the ocean, poss
ibly concealing not-yet-forgotten treasures of a mythical civilization below. I slide into his arms and kiss him deeply, full tongue, arms around his neck. He responds, running his hands up and down my scantily clad back.
Releasing his neck, I reach down and unbuckle his belt, unzip his pants. I dive beneath his clothes and take hold of him, hot and hard already, caressing the silky hardness that I’m already burning for. Just moments after I start pumping him, he pulls my hands away and sets them around his neck again. His hands stroke my back, his kisses fall on my throat, my chest, he sucks deliberately on a nipple, sending silvery spikes of pleasure down my spine. I press against him, now shamelessly rubbing myself against his erection, the friction alone amping me up.
I can feel the tension building in him, palpable waves of lust coming from him. He brushes my hair aside; the breeze cools my neck as he warms it, massaging it with those strong, sure fingers. He runs a finger down my spine, his hands caressing the cheeks of my ass. I groan with desire, reach down and take hold of him and stroke demandingly on his erection. But he whispers in my ear, “Por favor, Americana. Suare.”
And then he kisses me. Strong and deep, stopping to mumble, “Señorita bonita,” into my mouth, and then kissing me some more.
My knees go weak.
No one’s been able to do that to me since I was a teenager. My Hitachi Magic Wand has never done it.
This guy, Javier, he’s done it.
I bite my lip and finally understand.
We humans, we haven’t fucked up everything just yet.
So I bend to his touch, letting the insistent buzz between my legs build while concentrating on his touches on my shoulder. His fingers curve, the slightest rake of nail teasing my skin, feeling electric everywhere Javier touches me, making everywhere else want the same attention. Twining my fingers in his hair, the soft ringlets tickle my palms; his eyelashes flutter against my cheeks when he kisses my ear. I kiss his sinewy throat and he moans, I trace the lines of muscle on his back with my fingertips, taste the brine of his lips on my tongue. His skin is warm and smooth, the musky smell intensifying as he heats up.
