Sensuality (6 page)

“Not even when they heard the bones break?” Donald looked from one father to the next. “Not when they saw the blood spurting out of Christian’s head?”

They had the good grace to look ashamed.

“We need to have a policy in place,” another father said.
“To deal with these transient type of students. They’re not part of the community. They’re merely passing through. It’s not realistic to expect that to happen without problems.”

“Baloney.” Donald snorted. “We’re a tourist community. We depend on people passing through here, for our livelihoods. Do you really want to put it out there, that it’s not a safe area to visit?”

“The right kind of people know that it’s a safe area already.”

“The right kind? Would that be the rich, white kind?” Donald shook his head. “That’s definitely the message we want to spread. Anglos only.”

“Get over yourself. Just ’cause you’ve gone soft on the kid’s mother is no reason to turn on your own.”

“That’s it!” Donald’s hand hit the table. “From what I’m hearing right now, it seems to me that you all are at least partially culpable in the beating of Christian Alvarez. If this is the kind of talk your kids hear at home, no wonder they don’t even hesitate before attempting to kill someone who looks a little different!”

“Someone different who threatened their hockey program.”

“If that hockey program was in danger, that was due to Glenn Rabideau—and me. Are you going to send your kids after us next?” Donald had difficulty speaking clearly, he was so angry. “I know you’re not going to bother Glenn, so I guess I need to watch my back.”

A rumble of protest started, but Donald cut it off.

“I am going to recommend that all six boys be suspended for the remainder of the academic year. Whether that rec
ommendation is put into place or not is up to the discretion of the school board, as you well know. But I urge you to take it.” He eyed each father in turn, forcing them to meet his eyes. “A stiff academic penalty may mitigate the charges the boys are facing in court. Maybe.”

“I can’t believe them,” Donald said. Luisa was leaning against him on the couch. “I’ve known them all my life, and never in a million years would I have expected this reaction out of them.”

“They’re defending their children.” Her words were soft, almost conciliatory. “You never know what you’re capable of until you believe your child is in danger.”

“I guess.” Donald shook his head. “But what about personal responsibility? What about doing what’s right?”

Luisa turned toward Donald, sliding her arms up around his neck. “You are such an idealist. Do you know what we call such men in my country?”

“No,” Donald whispered, lips inches from hers. “What?”

“We call them dead men.”

Her kiss was magical, warm and melting under his mouth. Her mouth tasted of strong coffee and stronger spices. Donald drowned in it, reeling in the taste of her, the scent of her, the silky tumbling ebony length of her hair curling round his hand.

“Jesus, Luisa,” he whispered. “Should we be doing this? Are you okay with…” Words trailed away as he stared at her lush, full lips, the need to taste them again thudding loud inside his skull.

“There will be sorrow enough tomorrow,” she replied, running her fingertips over Donald’s cheek. “Let us grab joy where we may.”

And with that, she was on him. The buttons on his shirt parted at her touch, and she slid it off his shoulders. She pulled off her blouse, its silk fluttering to the ground without a sound, revealing perfect round, bulging breasts, barely contained in a black bra.

He cupped one in his hand, marveling at the firm weight of it, the way the thumb-thick nub of a nipple stiffened against his palm.

“Mmmm, Don…,” she moaned, encouraging further exploration by letting her bra strap slip further down her shoulder, revealing dark raisin-colored areolas capped with even darker nipples.

The sight was so foreign, so exotic, so real, that it sent a jolt directly to his cock. He stared, transfixed for a moment, and then lowered his head to suckle at the tempting treat, flicking his tongue over and around the sensitive spot.

Luisa replied with a string of words he didn’t understand, and some physical actions he did. Gentle pressure directed his head from one breast to the other, then down the soft plane of her belly until he reached her waistband.

She looked down at him and smiled. “I’m not sure if American men do this the same…”

He tugged her zipper down. “Let’s find out.” Her jeans and black panties fell easily down her slender hips.

Experience had led Donald to expect a thicket of curls, heady and rich with musk. Instead, he got a smooth, shaved
mound, topped with a trimmed thatch of close-cropped black hairs, shaped into a narrow band.

Just below, dusky pink lips held the first drops of arousal, glistening and tempting.

The first touch of Donald’s tongue had Luisa writhing, moaning louder with each lick. With growing confidence, he got bolder, plowing his tongue along well-oiled folds, stopping to slurp from her molten core every few minutes.

Long, caramel-colored legs folded round his head, pillowing his ears between surprisingly strong thighs.

He pointed his tongue, like a miniature cock, thrusting deeper and deeper inside her. His nose rubbing against her clit made Luisa shudder.

“¡Madre de Dios!”
she gasped, squeezing his head tight as she climaxed. Donald held on, staying in place and licking until her passion passed.

Then she fell back on the couch, letting her legs fall limp. The sudden return of oxygen was almost as welcome as the sight of her blissful smile.

He was so hard that his cock was slapping against his stomach, something that hadn’t happened since he was a teenager.

“Can I?” he asked, panting with need. Drops of sweat were plummeting from his forehead, puddling just above her belly button.

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?

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.

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?”

“And I think someone like you will be interested, too.” He pulled a business card out of his back pocket and handed it to her.

Sonja stopped herself from smirking as she took it, expecting to see the standard DJ-for-hire services, or a blurb about handmade hip-hop gear. But then she glanced at the embossed, fancy and official lettering, and her eyes popped wide when she saw the business it advertised. “Bungee jumping?” she sputtered.

“Yes, brothahs and Latinos do it, too.” He chuckled.

Not any brothahs or Latinos she knew. Was she that old, or just that chickenhearted?

“You said someone like me? That would mean…?”

He licked his lips again, looked her up and down, and there was no mistaking his intent now. “A fine Latina who likes to stay in shape. A woman not afraid to take risks.”

Obviously, since she was talking to him with lust in her heart and pussy juices already spilling into her thong.

¡Ay, Dios mío!
She hadn’t realized she was so
bellaca
until she’d laid hazel eyes on him. Horny
and
hot to trot.

Sonja crossed her legs and squeezed them together, hoping to stem the tide and her already swollen clit, but trying to restrain it only made things worse. “So, are you inviting me on an excursion?” she asked.

Bungee jumping? There had to be better ways to get with a man, even a young one, than—

“Are you game?”

She was game; she just didn’t think she was for leaping off a bridge with her life in the strands of a few cords. “I’m game,” she said.

FIVE…Sonja stood at the edge of the bridge, sheer canyon walls rising around her, mouth dry, palms perspiring as she grasped the rail, all trussed up in the requisite gear and harnesses, and feeling like a turkey on Thanksgiving Day for more reasons than one.

FOUR…She stepped out onto the platform mounted on the catwalk railing, glanced at the churning waters at least fifteen stories below, barely heard the encouragement of the other prospective jumpers behind her as they counted down.

THREE…Warm spring air rifled her wavy brown hair flowing loose beyond her shoulders under the helmet—like a helmet would do any damn good if that three-quarter-inch cord broke!—sunlight reflected off of the surrounding mountains and the surface of the lake below, almost blinding her.

TWO…For the life of her, she couldn’t remember now why she’d chosen the swan dive. She wasn’t exactly
scared of heights, but she wasn’t too crazy about looking down from them either. When she did something, she had to do it up, go all out, especially now.

ONE…Her heart drummed and Sonja had a second to wonder whether it was only the male hormone that triggered the need to show off for the opposite sex, before she quickly discounted the theory altogether.

JUMP…She leaped off the platform, arms outstretched, plunging into nothingness, an enormous charge of adrenaline surging through her body as she free-fell and accelerated from zero to seventy miles an hour in less than five seconds.

I better get some
bicho
out of this!

Sonja survived, her fellow jumpers throwing down a rope and pulling her back up to the bridge so that she could do another solo jump with the body harness.

She had several moments after her second jump to take a breather and prepare for her next and final jump.

A tandem jump. Connected with ankle harnesses. To Kaj.

He murmured in her ear as he stepped to her and wrapped his arms around her. “You’re already a pro,
Mami.
I’m proud of you.”

Her pussy responded immediately as cream flowed out of her cunt—a testament to his flattery.

She thought a solo jump was gut-wrenching, but standing belly to rigid hard cock, the adrenaline doing double-time through her veins—now that was a rush!

The countdown behind them started again.

Kaj squeezed her tight against him. She wondered what
it would feel like to be in his arms, naked, moist heated skin to moist heated skin, his spicy male scent heavy in her lungs, long thick cock heavy between her copper-tone thighs.

“I’m twenty-four,” he said.

Not as bad as she’d thought, but still so young. “You know I’m not.”

“I know. It doesn’t matter.”

Sonja’s heart sped with anticipation, pulse pounding in her ears. She wasn’t sure whether it was Kaj’s declaration, his tall, broad-shouldered proximity, or the approaching jump causing the erratic rhythm.

They stepped out onto the platform as one, ready and willing to throw themselves into the vast ravine below.

Sonja closed her eyes and took a deep breath, filling her lungs with his sexy-ass musk, all the appropriate sexual metaphors and innuendoes shuddering through her brain. Her pussy muscles clenched as they jumped off the bridge clamped in each other’s arms, tight as two dogs fucking.

Before she could get out a full-bodied scream—there was something so much more dangerous and out-of-control about falling upside down, suspended by the ankles—they splashed into the water headfirst, to their breasts and chest.

The quintessential bungee jump, she’d been told.

Like she wasn’t wet enough already.

They reached the top of the bridge several minutes later.

Everything that needed to be said had been said on the way down, body language taking over like a mothah now as
he caught her by a hand and led her back to his tent, about fifty yards away from the bridge, on the edge of the impressive Angeles National Forest.

The sun had already dipped low on the horizon, leaving a salmon-hued trail across the sky, and Sonja had a moment to admire the view before Kaj guided her inside his tent ahead of him and zipped the flap closed behind him.

“I suppose now I have to put out, since you paid for this extremely death-defying package,” Sonja teased, trying to take the edge off when she knew there was no possible way she could until she had his dick firmly nestled inside her hot, wet depths, gloving him until he cried,
¡Ay, Mamí!
“Don’t you think I’ve paid enough already in three near heart attacks?”

“Not nearly enough.” He chuckled, and approached her carrying two big white terry towels. He handed one to her, then peeled off his soggy T-shirt and leisurely began drying his hair with the other, dark eyes traveling the length of her five-foot-four frame, lingering on her titties and making her nipples stand at attention more than the cool dip in the lake had. “At least not yet, anyway,” he murmured.

She’d worn a white T-shirt and no bra, small enough to get away with it, but generous enough—and now wet enough—to draw horny-dog attention to her erect brown nipples beneath.

Palm-sized,
she thought, then reconsidered when she looked at his big mahogany hands clutching the towel and imagined them swallowing her titties.

Sonja followed his lead, slowly drying her hair as she returned the favor and gave his lean-muscled, six-foot-one physique the once-over.

She licked her lips and Kaj dropped his towel, closed the couple of feet separating them to retrieve hers. She gladly relinquished it, watched him discard it with his.

Sonja reached for the hard bulge in his jeans, fondled, then firmly cupped him.

Kaj stood still, staring at her with his sloe-eyed gaze, biting his bottom lip as if to hold back a groan. “I’ve been waiting to tear that pussy up since I met you.”

“When you put it that way…” She expertly unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans in short order. Young or old, things never changed and she was well acquainted with the steps to the horizontal Lambada, hadn’t forgotten
como hacerlo.