hotter, steaming my whole body from the tension of my crazy day.
My mind was downloading slowly. What about Momma? What would her face look like now? Would she have to get plastic surgery? Would her face be temporarily disfigured? What would Santiaga think about her face? Of course he would make sure she would get the best medical treatment and everything. How long would she stay in the hospital? Oh, my God. Would I become a professional baby-sitter, getting stuck with my little sisters? Santiaga would definitely have to hire the housekeeper full time instead of part time to help watch the kids. What about Midnight? What was his beef with the world? Or was it that he just liked pissing on my world? For once Mamma was wrong. She told me that Midnight wanted me. She told me that only his fear of Santiaga stood in the way. But that was not what I saw in his eyes, fear. He never seemed fearful of anything or anyone. He just straight seems disinterested in me. Now he and I were forced together for three days, like being stuck on a deserted island. If I was the last woman on earth, would Midnight turn me down? What the hell could he be thinking?
Stepping out of the shower, I grabbed two towels, wrapped one around my wet hair and the other around my body. I swerved into the living room where Midnight had positioned himself in front of the TV. His dress shirt was open. Underneath he was wearing one of those crisp white undershirts. I could see his gun on his waist, half-tucked in his pants. My eyes slid down his legs, I could see another gun he held nearhis ankle. The blackness, the guns, his muscle structure, that white shirt, those white teeth, and his unfiltered anger was so seductive I had to try again to get with him. “Do you want me to wash your clothes? I’m getting good at it now.”
“No that’s okay,” he said, without even taking so much as a look at me. I stepped over and into the chair opposite him.
“I’m tired,” I said, stretching my arms slowly above my head.
“Go to bed then,” he answered cruelly, as if he didn’t want to be bothered. I picked up my legs and placed them on the arm of my chair. I was now going to become the freshly showered, hair-wrapped, body-wrapped-in-a-towel Ivory girl. I started playing games with my legs, repositioning them, opening them slowly, closing them slowly. I was making it possible for him to see the hairs on my pussy, if he only wanted to. When I got excited enough, my juices would start to flow, releasing the scent of a willing pussy, definitely something he wouldn’t be able to fight.
“Are you a homosexual, Midnight? ’Cause if you are, that’s cool. To each his own and all that good shit.”
He laughed a rare laugh and, without turning around, he said, “Go to bed little girl.”
“Little girl! Do these look like little girl titties to you?” I stood up and released the towel, dropping it to the floor. I wanted him to see my 34Ds so he could take back his insult. I wanted him to see my whole body. He stayed stiff like a mummy, unaffected by my nakedness—and I mean I was butt naked, standing in the middle of a hotel suite which was designed for fucking.
Midnight leaned up, grabbed the remote, and started surfing channels.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said finally, like a father would. I sucked my teeth, picked up my towel, and returned to the bathroom.
I washed, rinsed, and twisted the clothes as if they were the source of my anger, laying each piece out to dry separately, some by the heater, some on the shower curtain. I tiptoed into the bedroom, not wanting to wake my sisters. I grabbed one of the pillows from the bed and sat my bare ass in the comfortable chair next to the bedroom window, where I slept.
In the morning, I used the hotel blow-dryer, conveniently situated on the bathroom wall, to finish drying the damp clothes. I slid into my dress, hating the idea of repeating yesterday’s fashion. Without aproper cleaning, the clothes
My mind was downloading slowly. What about Momma? What would her face look like now? Would she have to get plastic surgery? Would her face be temporarily disfigured? What would Santiaga think about her face? Of course he would make sure she would get the best medical treatment and everything. How long would she stay in the hospital? Oh, my God. Would I become a professional baby-sitter, getting stuck with my little sisters? Santiaga would definitely have to hire the housekeeper full time instead of part time to help watch the kids. What about Midnight? What was his beef with the world? Or was it that he just liked pissing on my world? For once Mamma was wrong. She told me that Midnight wanted me. She told me that only his fear of Santiaga stood in the way. But that was not what I saw in his eyes, fear. He never seemed fearful of anything or anyone. He just straight seems disinterested in me. Now he and I were forced together for three days, like being stuck on a deserted island. If I was the last woman on earth, would Midnight turn me down? What the hell could he be thinking?
Stepping out of the shower, I grabbed two towels, wrapped one around my wet hair and the other around my body. I swerved into the living room where Midnight had positioned himself in front of the TV. His dress shirt was open. Underneath he was wearing one of those crisp white undershirts. I could see his gun on his waist, half-tucked in his pants. My eyes slid down his legs, I could see another gun he held nearhis ankle. The blackness, the guns, his muscle structure, that white shirt, those white teeth, and his unfiltered anger was so seductive I had to try again to get with him. “Do you want me to wash your clothes? I’m getting good at it now.”
“No that’s okay,” he said, without even taking so much as a look at me. I stepped over and into the chair opposite him.
“I’m tired,” I said, stretching my arms slowly above my head.
“Go to bed then,” he answered cruelly, as if he didn’t want to be bothered. I picked up my legs and placed them on the arm of my chair. I was now going to become the freshly showered, hair-wrapped, body-wrapped-in-a-towel Ivory girl. I started playing games with my legs, repositioning them, opening them slowly, closing them slowly. I was making it possible for him to see the hairs on my pussy, if he only wanted to. When I got excited enough, my juices would start to flow, releasing the scent of a willing pussy, definitely something he wouldn’t be able to fight.
“Are you a homosexual, Midnight? ’Cause if you are, that’s cool. To each his own and all that good shit.”
He laughed a rare laugh and, without turning around, he said, “Go to bed little girl.”
“Little girl! Do these look like little girl titties to you?” I stood up and released the towel, dropping it to the floor. I wanted him to see my 34Ds so he could take back his insult. I wanted him to see my whole body. He stayed stiff like a mummy, unaffected by my nakedness—and I mean I was butt naked, standing in the middle of a hotel suite which was designed for fucking.
Midnight leaned up, grabbed the remote, and started surfing channels.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said finally, like a father would. I sucked my teeth, picked up my towel, and returned to the bathroom.
I washed, rinsed, and twisted the clothes as if they were the source of my anger, laying each piece out to dry separately, some by the heater, some on the shower curtain. I tiptoed into the bedroom, not wanting to wake my sisters. I grabbed one of the pillows from the bed and sat my bare ass in the comfortable chair next to the bedroom window, where I slept.
In the morning, I used the hotel blow-dryer, conveniently situated on the bathroom wall, to finish drying the damp clothes. I slid into my dress, hating the idea of repeating yesterday’s fashion. Without aproper cleaning, the clothes
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