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DUTCH BROADSTREET

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SHABBY STREET BOOKS

Waking up next to Olivia was something I never thought could happen in anything other than a dream. And waking up to the realization that she'd made me breakfast in bed damn near convinced me I was in a coma.

She is in a side-lying position when I awake, her gentle curves and perky nipples peeking through the thin fabric of a lavender spaghetti strap nightie.

“Pinch me,” I say as I lower my eyes, appraising the tray in front of me.

It is stacked high with sopaipillas and fried eggs and marraqueta and a dazzling array of spreads in seemingly every color of the rainbow.

“What is all this?” I ask. “How?”

“I wake up early,” she says. “Joo snore.”

She tears off a piece of marraqueta and brings it to my mouth. It's warm, brown and thick, just like her. I take it in my mouth and chew. The bread is crispy, but yielding.

“Where did you—”

“Shh,” she says. “Don't talk with jour mouth full.”

I chew patiently, favoring her with a smile.

“There's a Hispanic bakery on the corner,” she says.

“There is?”

“Joo really need to get out more,” she simpers.

She presses her finger into pebre and brings it to my lips. I suck it off, savoring the earthy blend of fresh tomato and cilantro.

“I forgot how satisfying it is to feed joo,” she yawns, drawing her hands up above her head and stretching. “Jou're such a hungry boy.”

“Hungry man,” I correct her.

Olivia presses my hand into the syrupy drizzle of the sopaipillas pasadas, bringing my thumb to her mouth and sucking languidly.  She inches her way past my knuckle and I can feel myself growing in response to the sensation.

I take my free hand and dip two digits in the syrup.

“Mami, may I?” I ask.

“Joo may,” she breathes.

I venture beneath the delicate lace trim of mami's hemline and rub the drizzle over her velvety concha. Mami shuts her eyes and arches her back, sucking harder on my thumb.

She draws a deep breath and releases my thumb, grinding herself against my hand. I sit up and sup at the side of her neck. Even at this ungodly hour of the morning, she smells like something that just came out of the oven at a pasteleria—warm, sweet and spicy.

I kiss her chin as she works my palm across her urethral sponge, shivering in response to my touch. I press my nose to hers and whisper: “¡Hazme, mami!” Do me.