Love, in Spanish(5)By: Karina Halle
A few months ago I was contacted by my oldfootball team—Atlético Madrid—and asked if I had anyinterest in the team anymore. The fact that I was turningthirty-nine and still had my knee injury didn’t seem tomatter. They didn’t want me to play for them—theyknew that my time in the sun had set—but they wantedto know if I could somehow involve myself with theorganization. Perhaps they thought my newfoundattention would help bolster theirs, I don’t know, butsuddenly I was worth something to them.
At first it was a few meetings, a couple of chatshere and there. With the coach, then the generalmanager, then the owner. Maybe I wanted to donatesome money, host an event, become a mentor. Theywere full of ideas at first. Then it led to talks aboutassistant coaching, which after a while petered off.
I tried not to get my hopes up, but like most thingsin life, the hope sneaks in. I felt acute disappointmentwhen I hadn’t heard from them and poor Vera had to putup with my moping around the apartment for days onend.
That was until Friday afternoon, when I got a phonecall from the manager. They wanted me to meet them forlunch at Fioris Café on Monday, which it technically isright now, to discuss an urgent matter.
It’s no wonder that I can’t sleep. I only pray it’s justmy nerves that are having their way with me, that thereis no real reason for the sense of foreboding that I have.
Vera turns over in our bed, her hair spilling aroundher face, her breasts nearly coming free of the delicatestraps of her top. Her skin is white silk scattered withcolorful art. I’d never really found tattoos sexy until Imet her and saw the way they shaped her, how theyrepresented a million stories, emotions, expressions.
Her eyes slowly flutter open and she stares at mewith this hazy, sleepy look. “What are you doing?” sheasks softly.
I slip the letter back in the drawer. I know she’sseen me reading it before. She’s never asked what it is,but I can tell she knows it means something to me and Irespect that. I would gladly show her the letter, but thereason why I’m reading it may be unnerving for her.She’s been a bit on edge lately, like someone is ready topull the rug out from under her, and I don’t want to giveher anything else to worry about.
My fears are just that—my fears. She shouldn’thave to shoulder them.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I tell her with a small smile. I getoff the chair and stretch, my arms high above my head.Her eyes widen appreciatively at the sight of me. I’vestarted sleeping in the nude.
She pulls her eyes away long enough to ask, “Areyou nervous about tomorrow?”
I nod, letting out a small sigh, and come over to thebed, climbing back under the covers, which is comprisedof just a sheet now in these hot August nights. I lay myhead on the pillow and stare into her eyes, pushing backstrands of silk hair behind her ears. She gives me a reassuring smile. “Don’t worryabout it. I’m sure whatever they want to talk to youabout is a good thing.”
“I hope so,” I admit.
“I know so.”
I grin at her. “You seem to know so much in themiddle of the night.”
She cocks a brow. “Didn’t you know? I’m at mybest at this time. Want me to show you?”
I can never say no to that. Her lids become heavy,mouth full, wet and parted in anticipation. Thatsuggestive look is all I need to become hard.
She leans over and kisses me softly. My tongueexplores her mouth in a luxurious fashion, slowlybuilding a hot need between us. While my hand slips tothe back of her neck, pulling her toward me, her fingerstrail from the rough stubble on my chin down my chestand the firm ridges of my stomach, and wrap around mystiff cock.
I groan, closing my eyes to her grip as she makes afist and lightly skims the length of me up and down.
“If you keep doing that,” I manage to say againsther mouth, “the show will be over pretty quickly.”
She chuckles and pulls away, her lips skirting mychin, neck, chest. “As long as I give you a good show, Idon’t mind.”
Normally when one of us wakes up in the middle ofthe night feeling amorous, a sleepy, hazy form of sextakes place. One of the best kinds of sex. But if she’swilling and wanting to give me a blow job, I have noinclination to stop her. A true gentleman never stops awoman from doing what she desires.
Her lips slide down from my stomach to the tip ofmy shaft, and she takes me whole and deep into hermouth. I don’t know where Vera learned her skills—andI never want to know—but I’m eternally grateful forthem. With her mouth, tongue, and hand working inunison, I succumb to the sensation, the warmth floodingthrough my limbs. My fingers curl into her hair, grippingtight.