Fourteen
FOURTEEN
Trinidad
L iving in denial was not my style, but these past hours with Orlando had made me forget the realities of my life. Now back in his rental, in the room he graciously offered for me to sleep in, I sat on the four-post bed, staring at my luggage, wondering how my day had gone so wrong and so right at the same time.
My two sons had lost their damn minds setting me up like this. It was wrong, plain and simple. How had I missed the signs, though? What was I thinking by letting them use my laptop for all the transactions? The lure of them maturing before my eyes had dulled my instincts. How could I forget how it felt to be fifteen, thinking you knew it all when in fact, you had no fucking clue?
Therapy had helped me mold my parenting into a way that I felt comfortable with; I called it gentle/strict parenting, Dominican style. But lately, as they grew into the men they would be, I couldn’t figure out quite how to meet their needs for fulfillment, for confidence, for self-assuredness. My relationship with Milton was the answer to my prayers, someone who could help me raise my teenagers and give them those examples their father was not fit to provide.
My first thought was to ground them for the entire summer besides physical activity and mentoring. Nothing else would be allowed: no cheerleading trips, no hanging out with their friends. Nothing. It would be a memorable summer for sure, but would it do the trick? I wanted them to understand the ramifications of their actions, of making decisions for me without my say when they were categorically not the head of the household. They needed to calm their young behinds and stay in their lanes. Because of them, I was stuck in this very beautiful room, right next to temptation, and I wasn’t planning to succumb.
The room decor was more of the easy-breezy Ofele vibes with creamy walls and a white and yellow bed set. A little whitewashed wood desk and chair sat in a corner. No TV, because who in their right mind came to Ofele to watch shows? My toes reveled in the softness of the plush carpet covering the entire bedroom, the movements enough to calm me to have a civil conversation with my offspring.
Me: I need you all to find any connecting flight that gets me out of Jacksonville and back to New York tomorrow.
Brandon: Ma, we are trying.
Me: Con respeto, Brandon.
Brandon: Sorry Ma. I know we messed up. We trying to fix it. We know we messed up and let you down. We just wanted you to rest, you know? You always doing so much for us. I’m sorry, Ma.
Me: Good, but this is not the end of this. When I’m back home from the Poconos, the three of us are going to sit down and have an in-depth discussion about boundaries and each of our roles. You’re teenagers and my sons, and even though I make sure to honor your decision-making processes, this one was very wrong and did not take into account any of my boundaries.
Brian: You still going to Poconos?
Me: Yes. My relationship with Milton is my decision, and we will chat about it too.
Brian: Oh. Okay. Sorry Ma. I agree with Brandon; we messed up.
Brandon: Any flight? Even if it’s several stops?
My toes froze on the carpet, images of several airports flashing in my brain. Did I really want to spend my weekend like that? Was the Poconos this important?
Me: Get what you can, I will decide.
Brian I hadn’t eaten in hours. After our conversation, Orlando and I headed back to the rental in companionable silence. The air of intimacy morphed into a quiet disappointment I wanted to erase for both our sakes. Still, that instinct was Hot Girl Trinidad thinking, not levelheaded Ms. Velasquez thinking.
My watch said it was past nine, and the creaks and groans of the house settling into the cooler evening had subsided. Stillness.
Maybe Orlando had gone to bed already. Orlando, in the room next door, sleeping in his bed…his very pillowy lips, slightly apart as he gently snored. I imagined he probably snored with all the stress and responsibilities in his life.
If he was mine… I’d cuddle him and let him be safe in my arms. And maybe I’d play with his dick just a little, but that would be for me, not for him. If he were mine, I’d slide the sheets off his silky dark torso, reveling in the beauty of a man well-made. Kisses, and licks, and sucking would ensue until the sheets tangled around us and—clearly, I needed some food to stop the addled thoughts.
After food, I’d have a little get-together with my favorite toy, Mr. Demarquis. Maybe then I’d assuage the burning temptation eating me from inside.
I tippy-toed downstairs to keep the wooden stairs from creaking. There was no more stillness here; instead, the kitchen light illuminated the rest of the darkened common areas. The sizzling sounds of an active stove piqued my curiosity. The scent of bell peppers and tomatoes activated some seriously embarrassing growling and lured me all the way inside.
“Hey, Ms. V… hungry?”
Orlando stood in front of the stove, sautéing with basketball shorts on and no T-shirt. Did my addled thoughts follow me downstairs? My heart and stomach had a wrestling match to decide which organ would make the most fuss, but they had no chance against my pussy which purred at the sight of a cooking Orlando.
“I… I could eat. So what you making?” I settled myself on the other side of the kitchen, my attempt to keep as much space between us. The kitchen was large, with big windows by the sink, a large island with the stove and prep area, all white marble and whitewashed wood detailing complementing the stainless steel appliances.
Four barstools sat across the island, a perfect location to ogle; I mean, admire Orlando’s cooking skills. All that inspection to not make eye contact. But I couldn’t help myself… Orlando, with no T-shirt, carved chest, small lickable nipples… Dios mío.
Thank God he didn’t pick up on my hormonal rioting. Instead, he avoided eye contact, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. Oh?
“So I texted the twins and asked them what you like as a guilty pleasure. They said to make you revoltillo de huevo y tomate,” Orlando confessed.
“You’re making revoltillo?” I squealed. Pure, intense delight rushed through every cell of my body. Very rarely did I get surprised—besides, of course, this trip—and more importantly, pampered. The tingling in my chest intensified when I took his words into account once more. Orlando went out of his way to make sure I was good.
Estoy en serios problemas.
“Do you like revoltillo?” I asked, shutting down the overthinking for now. Enjoying the moment tempted me more than anything else in this kitchen, in this otherworldly town. Maybe there was someone else who tempted me more, but that would be my secret to keep.
“I haven’t had it Dominican style, but I love trying new things.” Because of the stillness of the house, we both were speaking in hushed tones. The air of intimacy swirled and surrounded us, warming my skin and teasing my senses. Here was my opportunity to leave things on a better note than the car ride.
“So how you making me revoltillo and you haven’t had it?”
“I can cook, cook. A search for recipes, and I took the best notes and did my own.” Sure enough, the aroma of breakfast en casa de abuela en San Pedro de Macorís hit me so strongly that my throat closed up for a bit. The plate had the revoltillo with the bright red tomatoes and colorful peppers, steam still rising from the plate. Next, to eat, two green boiled plantains awaited to be demolished.
“When, how?”
“I’d done groceries before you arrived; these are all staples in my kitchen.” He pointed at the plate and nodded for me to eat.
“How about you? I’m not eating without you.” My stomach grumbled at my comment.
“Stubborn woman. Here. I’ll eat with you.” Orlando moved gracefully, turning around to get another plate. The ripples of his muscles showcased how well he cared for his body. The leanness didn’t hide the strength from within.
When he turned around and shoved a forkful of hot scrambled eggs in his mouth, I might have moaned a little.
“Thank you,” I said, keeping my hot girl thoughts to myself and settling in to enjoy the food. For a few minutes, we ate with only that stillness accompanying us.
“So, what are your guilty pleasures?” I asked him after my belly had allowed me to take a break.
“I love me some bun and cheese; I don’t care if it’s Easter or not, get in my belly.” He chuckled, those thick lips of his glistening with the revoltillo juices. Bendito, when had eating become such an erotic endeavor? “And I love me some cassava pone, shit hits every time.”
“Cassava pone? I don’t know that I’ve ever had that.”
“Never had Belizean cassava pudding? I think some countries call it yuca pone…it’s cassava flower and coconut and condensed milk, and…it’s like pumpkin pie texture. The best way I can describe it.” Orlando blew a kiss in the air, his gaze softening in a dreamy far, long stare.
“Oh…that sounds delicious, so you got a sweet tooth, huh?” I teased, forking some eggs and slipping them in my mouth. I took my time savoring the seasoning and the eggs. He’d managed to make them creamy and had gotten really close to the flavors of my childhood, and on the first try.
In my less wholesome days I used to say if I met a man that could cook me my food, the food of my people, I’d never let him go. He’d get the royal treatment over here. All orifices would be fair game for a man like that. Of course, I met him once I was a wholesome woman—horrible timing.
“I do have a sweet tooth, and I am a good boy. I always eat it all…cake, dessert, and other varieties…” Orlando said in a voice so raspy, I felt it in that other variety. His choosing this particular time to chase a minuscule piece of eggs from the corner of his lip with his tongue seemed premeditated and downright cruel. I was trying to be a good woman, but he was making it so difficult.
“Oh, so you’re an eater. Is that what you’re saying?” No overthinking. All in.
“The best of them. I pride in my capacity to…please.” Orlando winked. Our plates were both empty at this point. The comfortable air of intimacy had another quality—a charged, dangerous scent—the scent of risky decisions and untold ecstasy.
Looking to make a swift retreat, I hopped off the stool and carried my plate to the sink. Orlando turned and did the exact same thing. Now close to me, I could smell his musky sandalwood scent—one of my favorites. Of course it was one of my favorites.
“I can clean up,” I offered, hoping he would show the usual traits of the man in my life.
“Nah, I want to do the cleaning after I eat. Are you okay with that, Ms. V?”
The warmth of his skin kissed my arm as we stared at each other. His lips were parted just like in my fantasy, but more tempting than ever. My breath escaped choppy and irregular, probably why my brain took a break and let my hormones take the wheel.
“We haven’t even… I…fuck it.” Pure adrenaline guided me. That and unadulterated desire. My lips crashed into his, and the fantasies did me a disservice because his mouth on mine felt as heavenly as Ofele on a cloudy day. Pure comfort and magic. A sense of belonging. A homecoming.
He took over the kiss, his command and ease calming me and accelerating my pulse simultaneously. It should not work. How could I be calm when blood pumped three times as fast everywhere in my body? But was; I opened up to him, our tongues entangling and finding their rhythm. He pressed all that lean goodness against me, enclosing me with his arms against the kitchen counter, and I reveled in how well we fit together.
The kiss grew incendiary as I sucked his tongue in mine. Soon, we were grasping at each other’s clothes, so desperate for more contact that we did nothing but frustrate each other with lust. Finally, my sweatpants ended up on the floor with my panties.
Leanness was not a deterrent for Orlando and my grown woman’s weight. I sailed in the air for the second time today, but this time, my behind ended up cradled by the cold marble underneath.
“You don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of that kiss, of your lips, of holding you,” Orlando confessed between ragged breaths.
Confessing my own fantasies felt a step too far down the road to perdition. Instead, I nodded and ran my tongue over my lower lip.
“Argh, woman. You’re beautiful, you know? Inside out, your light…that’s what drew me in, but damn, the looks didn’t hurt.”
Was that a giggle that escaped me? I could not remember the last time I had giggled. This man was going to have me giggling all the way to an orgasm. And I wanted that so bad.
“Boy, if you don’t…”
“You don’t have to tell me twice, Ms. V. Let me show you my eating abilities.”
* * *
Wetness is to be expected if things are going right. Wetness is desired and required for things to go right. But this was not just wetness. This was dirty, filthy, drenched goodness. This was masterful flicks and swipes, a rhythm perfected by my moans and screams. This was mind reading business, a soul-sucking enchantment. This was not fair. He began slow, savoring every spot between my legs, from my knees, traversing my thighs, ending right where I needed him the most. He took his time, building up the suspense and tension, making me ask for it, beg for it even. Little direction was required.
“There…oh, do that again,” I pleaded, and Orlando dragged his tongue right on my clitoris. Pressure, the right pressure, no shyness, no hesitation, he went for it. He understood the mission and applied himself deliciously. Warm shivers raced up and down my legs until they started trembling around his head. I grasped anything I could find; the hard brim of his fitted did the trick, but my desperation for an orgasm was so elevated I ended up knocking his fitted off his head. Even better, his soft coils served as my emotional support companions, my fingers and nails nestling in them, never to leave. At least not until he made me come.
“You like that, Ms. V? Huh? Is this what you need? To get my mouth all glistening with your goodness?” His rasped words vibrated against my pussy lips, making me even wetter. This wasn’t a man-child; this was a sorcerer. My entire body replied to his question, gushing and shivering. The butterflies were doing an intricate choreography, an ode to Orlando, they called it. And my heart? It decided to show me the potential signs of sex-induced cardiac episodes.
“Sí, Orlando, por favor!” I was begging, but I didn’t even know what I was asking for; I just needed so much from this, from him. All my troubles were outside of this room waiting, but here in the kitchen with the filthy slurp Orlando created and my desperate breathing, here I was just Trinidad. Ms. V, if I wanted to be extra nasty. And I wanted to be so nasty with this man. The scent of my arousal mixed with his sandalwood and my body wash had me wondering how my room would smell after a full session with him. It would smell like citrus, sandalwood, temptation, and bad decisions.
Eau of Risky Frisky Man Child. I would buy three bottles.
The heat of the outside seeped into the kitchen, and beads of sweat gathered on my brow. My legs ached as if I recently finished a two-hour yoga session, and all sensations coalesced right where Orlando’s tongue met my throbbing pussy. His tongue went into turbo mode and kept the luscious pressure. Perfectly precise, exactly how I needed it. My senses dulled, the kitchen becoming a blur, sounds amplifying until a burst of light and liquid went through me, hot, immediate, and encompassing. All the tension popped, and I became a loud, sobbing, wet mess. Never in my life had I orgasmed like this. Orlando pushed back in the nick of time, the wetness arching out of me hitting his chest.
“So good, Ms. V. You did so good.” Orlando grinned, delighted to see my fountain while I watched the mess I made on him and the kitchen floor.
“I’ve never, I…what just—” A loud vibration startled us both. My phone lay next to me, Milton’s name flashing on the screen. Maybe shutting my eyes would make the image disappear and my racing heart calm down. The decadent feeling seeped out, chased by panic and terror.
“I… I gotta go to sleep; I…this shouldn’t have happened. I am so sorry.” The heat that cradled me earlier left me now feeling suffocated. Orlando’s hurt expression sat heavy on my chest, but I couldn’t focus on that right now.
“Oh damn, well, I can’t say I’m sorry that happened, but I’m sorry you feel that way. Let me help you down.”
“Oh no, no, no, you’re good. And I think I’m saying this wrong. This—” I waved him away, and down there between my legs waved at him too but a beckoning one instead. “That was phenomenal. 10/10. I would write any reviews to the ladies you’re dating if you need to, but it was wrong because I’m trying to have something serious with Milton, and even though he and I ain’t exclusive, I don’t want to…yeah, I’m blabbering.” I chuckled, attempting to erase the somber mood that had overtaken us.
“I get it,” Orlando said in a clipped tone, and his posture completely changed. No longer did I feel he fit perfectly with me. His aura screamed Do Not Approach. Coldness settled between us as he stood watching me scramble down off the counter. I hesitated, eying the pants on the floor, wondering how to bend with any sense of decorum, but his chivalry must have been deeply ingrained because he bent over and handed me my sweatpants.
“Good night, Orlando,” I said, pleading with my eyes for him to understand my position.
“Good night, Trinidad.”
And for once, I wished he’d called me Ms. V instead.