Rain lashes the streets of Havana, a relentless drumbeat against the shuttered windows of La Llama Ópalo, a speakeasy where cigar smoke curls like secrets and rum flows like truth. I’m Mateo, the pianist whose fingers coax longing from ivory keys, but tonight, my music feels hollow—too many nights spent hiding behind notes. The crowd doesn’t notice; they’re lost in the haze of salsa and sin. Then I see her—Sofia, a dancer whose every move is a rebellion against restraint. She’s Robert Greene’s Natural, all wild grace and untamed fire, and I’m caught, my carefully guarded world tilting.
She’s on the floor, her red dress a flame against her skin, hips swaying to my chords like she’s dancing for me alone. Her eyes—dark, defiant—meet mine, and it’s a jolt, like touching a live wire. I’m the Aesthetic, a man who lives for beauty but rarely claims it, yet here I am, wanting her with a ferocity that scares me. When the set ends, she’s at the piano, her scent—jasmine and rain—hitting me hard. “You play like you’re holding back,” she says, her voice a low challenge. I lean closer, my restraint fraying. “And you dance like you’re daring me to let go.”
She doesn’t wait for permission. Her hand brushes mine, and we’re moving, slipping through a side door to a storage room—shelves of rum bottles, a single bulb casting shadows. The rain’s a roar outside, but inside, it’s just us, the air thick with unspoken need. “What do you want, Mateo?” she asks, her fingers grazing my jaw, and I’m done pretending. “You,” I growl, and it’s a vow. Her kiss is a spark, fierce and unyielding, and I’m kissing her back, hard, tasting the rum on her tongue, the heat of her driving me wild.
My hands are everywhere—her shoulders, her waist, tugging that dress up to reveal thighs that make my mouth water. She’s not shy; her nails dig into my neck, urging me on, and when I lift her against a crate, her legs wrap around me like she’s claiming me. The dress is gone, her skin glowing under the dim light, and I’m reverent, tracing the curve of her breasts, the dip of her stomach, every touch drawing a gasp that’s music to me. She’s pulling at my shirt, buttons scattering, and her hands on my chest are a brand, marking me as hers.
I’m on my knees now, her back against the crate, and I’m worshipping her—my lips on her thighs, her core, her moans a melody I’ll never forget. She’s trembling, her fingers in my hair, and when she says my name, it’s a plea that undoes me. I rise, and she’s guiding me, her eyes locked on mine as I slide into her—slow at first, savoring the way she clenches around me, then faster, matching the rhythm of the rain. It’s not just sex; it’s a conversation—her hips meeting mine, her breath hitching, every move a confession of need.
She’s fire and I’m kindling, burning up in her heat. I feel her tightening, her nails raking my back, and when she comes, it’s a cry that echoes in my soul, raw and unshackled. I’m right behind her, a groan tearing from my throat as I lose myself in her, the world dissolving into nothing but us. We collapse, tangled, her head on my shoulder, and for once, I’m not hiding—not from her, not from myself.
The rain’s still falling when we dress, but the silence between us isn’t empty. It’s full of possibility, of nights yet to come. I don’t ask for promises, but her hand in mine as we step back into the speakeasy feels like one. La Llama Ópalo fades behind us, but Sofia’s fire is in me now, and I’m not letting it go.