Sensuality
She smiled. “Of course.”
It was like coming home—tight and wet and challenging. A tad lethargic a moment before, Luisa came alive once Donald was in her. Each of his strokes was met by an answering thrust of her hips, powerful and welcoming.
One arm wrapped round his torso, pulling them together. He could feel her nails on his back, skittering.
“God, Luisa, I can’t…if you…not long…” he panted.
She smiled, and flexed some internal muscles. Suddenly his cock was being squeezed, tugged, and twisted all at the same time.
“Garrrrh!” he groaned, losing his heat deep inside her. They collapsed together, a tangle of sweaty arms and legs and silly, teenage grins.
Then they heard tires crunching on the gravel driveway. Don grabbed his clothes and booked for the bathroom, while Luisa hurriedly put herself together.
In burst María, rattling off an excited round of chatter to Luisa. Even through the bathroom door, Donald could hear her gasp of shock.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, buttoning his shirt as he walked back into the living room.
María did a triple take, swallowing before holding out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Altari.”
Luisa shook her head and batted down María’s hand. “Not now, you dingbat! Donald, there’s been a horrible accident. Glenn Rabideau’s car exploded!”
“My God! Is he hurt?” Donald looked around for his jacket.
“Not badly. But his grandson Mikey was with him, and they say the boy has some burns—”
“I’ve got to get to the hospital. I’m sorry to leave like this, Luisa, but he’s one of my teachers and—”
“I’m going with you.” Luisa tucked her purse under her arm. “They’re never going to believe I didn’t have anything to do with this, unless people see us together.” She chuckled, an old and bitter sound. “I guess you are my alibi.”
Rocketing down the twisting back roads to the hospital, Donald had to wonder. What had he become? Luisa’s lover—or her alibi?
Leap of Faith
Gracie C. McKeever
Sonja Delgado felt Homeboy watching her from the moment she’d entered the store, surreptitiously following her from a distance as she wove in and out of aisles, browsing the rack of sports and athletic wear.
If he hadn’t been surrounded by his small posse, stage-whispering fresh remarks like “tight body” and “¡Mami caliente!” under immature, Similac breaths, she might have thought his interest in her strictly of the watching-the-minorities-for-The-Man variety.
Sonja had a time wondering exactly which was more alarming: that a barely twenty-something was eyeballing the mother of both a twenty-and a nineteen-year-old, or that he thought the Latina in the elegant designer outfit was in the store to shoplift.
The young brothah was fine. She may have been a mother and a widow, but she wasn’t dead or blind. However, he was off limits. End of story.
Her pussy had other ideas—inner muscles clenching, labia applauding beneath her thong as if in approval when the infant stalker broke away from his boys to approach her.
It had been a long time since she’d played the game. Too long. The last time when she’d been single and unattached and was at the same age as this young brothah. Eighteen? Nineteen?
Damn, by twenty she’d been married with one toddler and another baby on the way.
Sonja missed her papi, missed the cozy nights they’d spend together talking, or watching one of her sappy chick flicks on cable, or just sitting serenely in the same room—her reading a trade magazine, him doing the New York Times crossword puzzle after a long day of taking care of business at the interior design firm they co-owned.
She missed the quiet moments, the arguments, the romantic weekend getaways, seeing his face every day at work. She never tired of him the way her girlfriends thought she should have since they worked and lived together.
She especially missed his hard cock.
Carlos had been the epitome of the hot Latin lover. He liked to fuck often, had the staying power to back up his incredible libido, and knew how to use his big bicho with maximum effectiveness.
He’d died too young. Much too young.