Dear reader who gets lost in my nights.
Sometimes you wake up with the taste still clinging to your tongue and you know it wasn’t just a dream. Last night it happened. I was on a rooftop in Old Havana, but not the one from today—it was 1953. The Malecón roared below with the sound of car engines, and the air smelled of salt, tobacco, and cheap promises. I was a bolero singer just beginning to understand that my voice wasn’t the only thing that could make someone tremble.
Her name was Carmen. Jet-black hair falling in waves down to her waist, a red dress that clung to her like a second skin every time the breeze decided to play. We had seen each other three nights in a row at the club: she always at the same table in the back, smoking with the calm of someone who knows exactly what she wants and how long it will take to get it. On the fourth night, I didn’t wait for my set to end. I stepped down from the stage with the microphone still warm in my hand, walked straight toward her, and told her without words, only with my eyes: “Come.”
We went up to the rooftop of the building next door, a place no one claimed because the stars felt closer than the streetlights. The door clicked shut softly and suddenly it was just the two of us, the sea crashing below, and the heat starting to climb up my spine as if someone had lit a candle inside me.
She kissed me first. Lips that tasted of aged rum and something darker, hungrier. Her hands moved slowly up my sides, learning every curve as if she were memorizing a song she would sing later. I unbuttoned her dress with fingers that trembled—not from nerves, but from pure want. The fabric fell to the floor with a whisper, and there she was, naked under the moonlight, her brown skin glowing as if it had been polished with sand and desire.
I pushed her gently against the railing. My lips traveled down her neck, across her collarbone, until they found one of her nipples already hard and waiting. I took it into my mouth, softly at first, then firmer, sucking until she let out a moan that blended with the sound of the waves. Her hands tangled in my hair, pulling just hard enough to send that delicious sting straight between my legs.
I went lower. Open-mouthed kisses down her stomach, along the inside of her thighs. When I reached her, she was already wet, ready. I parted her lips with my fingers and ran my tongue slowly over her, tasting every inch, circling her clit with small, deliberate strokes that made her gasp. I slid two fingers inside her, slowly at first, feeling how she clenched around me, how her walls pulsed, begging for more. I curled them, searching for that spot that would drive her wild, and when I found it she cried out my name—or whatever sounded like my name in that moment—and started riding my face and my hand without shame.
I was burning. My own arousal was dripping down my thighs. I wanted to see her come undone first. I picked up the pace, sucking harder, thrusting my fingers deeper, until her whole body tensed, shook violently, and she came in my mouth with a long moan that seemed to last for centuries. I felt every contraction, every wave of pleasure running through her, and I stayed there, licking her gently as she came down, breathing in ragged bursts.
But I wasn’t done with her. And she wasn’t done with me.
I turned her around, pressing her chest against the railing, her back to me. I spread her legs with my knee and slid my hand between her thighs from behind, finding her still sensitive, still throbbing. With my other hand I caressed her breasts, pinching her nipples while my fingers moved inside her again—this time faster, deeper. She pushed back against me, wanting more.
Then I paused for a second, just long enough to strip off what little I was still wearing. I pressed myself against her back, skin to skin, my breasts against her, my mound rubbing against her ass. I slid my hand down and started grinding against her, my clit slipping through her wetness, through her heat. We were both moaning softly, perfectly in sync, moving together. I bit her shoulder—not hard, just enough to mark her a little—and she responded by pressing my hand tighter against her sex, begging me not to stop.
We came almost at the same time. First her, again, trembling hard, clenching around my fingers. Then me, waves of pleasure shooting up my spine, exploding between my legs as I rubbed against her one last time, slow and deep, until we both went still, panting, laughing quietly because the world kept spinning below while we had just stopped it for a while.
Afterward we stayed there, wrapped in each other, looking out at the sea. No words were needed. Sometimes the body speaks better than any words ever could.
