Page 31 of Ms. V's Hot Girl Summer

Me: Get what you can, I will decide.

Brian & Brandon: Okay.

Me: Love you even though y’all still in big trouble.

Brian: Love you too

Brandon: TQM

Oh, my boys. The anger brewing at remembering everything dissipated, the calming sensation of the carpet soothing my chaotic thoughts. Calling Miranda would probably help me detangle some of my anxiety, but I didn’t feel like being on the phone. My stomach groaned, an emptiness settling inside.

Of course, I felt empty; 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,admireOrlando’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.

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