Sensuality

Hence, Sonja’s trip to the sporting goods store.

She wanted to stay healthy and in shape, was already watching what she ate, had stepped up her aerobic activity, and now was planning to add weight training to her workouts.

She’d tried months and months before his death to convince her husband to do the same, but hadn’t been able to get past the machismo attitude about his burritos. Pastelillos and pernil being good enough for his mother and father, he didn’t see why he had to settle for tofu or fish.

Half of their arguments had been about his bad eating habits. She tried to convince him to take better care of himself. If not for himself, then at least for her and the kids.

Sonja had to own up to at least half the blame since she loved to throw down in the kitchen, liked her fried dishes as much as the next boricua,

so she found it hard to deny her hardworking man his treats.

She angrily gulped down the tears she felt climbing from her chest. The man still had the ability to upset and piss her off almost two years after his death.

Ay, Dios, she couldn’t believe it had been that long. The funeral seemed liked yesterday.

Then sometimes it felt a lifetime ago.

“You look like you need some help.”

You have no idea. “Sure your boys can spare you?” Sonja instantly pasted on a saucy smile, surprised at her flippancy, surprised when Homeboy had the decency to blush.

In this day and age, especially from a young b-boy, his reaction was refreshing.

“Actually, you can help me. I’m interested in buying a pair of ankle weights and handball gloves.” Her eyes drifted down for a brief second, long enough to take in the fact that he was harboring a nice package.

“Sure, come this way.” He led her to the aisle where the weights were located, and she stayed far enough behind him to get a good view of his tight, round brothah’s ass. Carlos had had one, too, had gotten it from his African-American father.

She was glad Homeboy wasn’t sporting the no-belt, too-baggy-jeans look. She couldn’t stand it on her son and his friends, and definitely wouldn’t stand for it in her man.

My man? Jumping the gun a little aren’t you, chica?

Sonja stopped herself from salivating over his ass right before he turned and pointed to a lower shelf that held a selection of ankle weights that she might be interested in.

She glanced at the name tag pinned to his navy polo shirt—Kaj Reynolds—and wondered what his muscled chest would feel like beneath her hands, or how his hard cock tasted.

Down chica! Down!

But it didn’t matter how much she reminded herself that he was close to her son’s age and forbidden fruit. The fact was, he wasn’t her son, and she wanted him.

For the next five minutes, Mr. Reynolds held her enthralled as he extolled the benefits of the adjustable ten-pound weights as opposed to the nonadjustable, heavier variety. For the handball gloves, he told her a pair of all-around weightlifting gloves would suit her purpose.

He sounded so conscientious and earnest, Sonja was beginning to wonder if she had misheard the lascivious dialogue of his homeboys earlier, had misinterpreted Mr. Reynolds’s interest.

Was she that out of practice?

Sonja listened to his spiel, more mesmerized, however, by the young brothah’s full lips, the sound of his deep voice, and the way she had to crane her neck to look at his face when he talked, than she was in the health benefits of working out with weights.

She’d been respectfully silent during his pitch, peppering the air with the appropriate “ahs” and “hmms.” But now Sonja wanted to get down to business, or at least find out whether Mr. Reynolds was as interested as her. Or had her assumptions been the wishful thinking and overactive imagination of an in-heat almost-forty-year-old?

“How old are you?” she blurted.

He shot back the expected, “Old enough.”

“Don’t get insulted. I’m just curious.”

“I’m not insulted.” He smiled, straight white teeth briefly gleaming against his new-penny brown complexion before he slowly licked his lips, LL Cool J–style. “But I am interested.”

“Is that a fact?”