head, turning to go, calling out, “School, Qesa!” before disappearing down the dark hallway. It was early morning—maybe five a.m. Rafael hadn’t been to bed yet. He’d pulled Qesa from hers so they could record before he took her to school, and then went home to sleep.
“Don’t sweat it, Chiquita,” Rafe said, seeing the way Qesa’s face had fallen when her mother simply left without hearing the song. “Someday, when we’ve got a New York penthouse and she never has to work again, your mother won’t have any choice but to believe in you.”
“I know.” Qesa sighed, gathering her hair over one shoulder—it was long, dark, and thick, like her mother’s. “I just wish it would happen soon.”
“It will happen soon, I promise you, babygirl.” Rafe dropped a wink and smiled at her, his coffee-colored eyes sparkling.
He’d called her his babygirl since the day she’d met him, and she’d been far from a baby even then. Still, the endearment meant the world to her every time he said it. He made her feel loved, protected, and most of all, believed in. Being near him took her breath away. And, now that she’d grown, and had grown so close to him, the feelings she’d begun to develop had moved from her heart to… other parts of her anatomy.
She loved looking at him. The light from the hanging lamp over his soundboard made the grey that salted and peppered his beard shine. Fading tattoos sleeved his arms—he wore only a tank top, what her mother called a “wife-beater”—and his skin was like hers, dark like mocha, although she hadn’t been allowed tattoos. No damaging the merchandise, that’s what Rafe said.
Her stepfather was a Latino man, through and through. With his deep, smooth voice, he radiated passion with every word, every move he made. He never failed to inspire her and lift her mood. He called her babygirl and treated her like a princess—even when he dragged her out of bed at five a.m. so they could record songs before she had to be to school.
“Qesa, stop spinning.” Rafe hunched over the little laptop, messing with the latest recording.
She hadn’t even realized she was doing it. She’d always been a singer and a dancer, from the time she was tiny. She loved spinning, just turning around and around until she got dizzy. Somehow, it righted the word for her, as crazy as it seemed. When she spun, she felt like she was falling in love with everything.
“Sorry,” she apologized, but she was in mid-spin, her foot catching on the desk leg, and she found herself falling.
He grunted as Qesa tumbled into her stepfather’s lap. He caught her, one arm around her waist. She giggled and pressed her face against his neck, wrapping her arms around him.
“How’s the latest take sound?” she inquired, wiggling in his lap, holding onto his broad, muscles shoulders. He was wearing jeans, but she was still wearing what she’d worn to bed—a t-shirt and boy shorts.
“You wanna hear it?” He hit a button and her voice filled the room.
It always surprised her, hearing her own voice. She thought it was good, but somehow she always sought reassurance. Glancing at Rafe’s face and the smile on it, she knew he, at least, liked it. He tapped his foot along with the beat, his fingers drumming on the desk. But would the rest of the world love it just as much?
Qesa’s hips moved with the beat, all on their own. She couldn’t help it—the energy of the song was pure fire. It was addicting. She began to dance, snaking her arms around his neck, rocking her round bottom—she had all sorts of Latina curves, in all the right places—right against his crotch.
“Easy, babygirl.” His hands went to her hips, whether to stop her or keep her from falling off, she didn’t know. But she felt his cock then, his erection growing against the swell of her ass.
“Ohhh, Daddy.” She glanced over her shoulder, teasing him with a half-smile. “If everyone gets that excited over our new song, we’ll
“Don’t sweat it, Chiquita,” Rafe said, seeing the way Qesa’s face had fallen when her mother simply left without hearing the song. “Someday, when we’ve got a New York penthouse and she never has to work again, your mother won’t have any choice but to believe in you.”
“I know.” Qesa sighed, gathering her hair over one shoulder—it was long, dark, and thick, like her mother’s. “I just wish it would happen soon.”
“It will happen soon, I promise you, babygirl.” Rafe dropped a wink and smiled at her, his coffee-colored eyes sparkling.
He’d called her his babygirl since the day she’d met him, and she’d been far from a baby even then. Still, the endearment meant the world to her every time he said it. He made her feel loved, protected, and most of all, believed in. Being near him took her breath away. And, now that she’d grown, and had grown so close to him, the feelings she’d begun to develop had moved from her heart to… other parts of her anatomy.
She loved looking at him. The light from the hanging lamp over his soundboard made the grey that salted and peppered his beard shine. Fading tattoos sleeved his arms—he wore only a tank top, what her mother called a “wife-beater”—and his skin was like hers, dark like mocha, although she hadn’t been allowed tattoos. No damaging the merchandise, that’s what Rafe said.
Her stepfather was a Latino man, through and through. With his deep, smooth voice, he radiated passion with every word, every move he made. He never failed to inspire her and lift her mood. He called her babygirl and treated her like a princess—even when he dragged her out of bed at five a.m. so they could record songs before she had to be to school.
“Qesa, stop spinning.” Rafe hunched over the little laptop, messing with the latest recording.
She hadn’t even realized she was doing it. She’d always been a singer and a dancer, from the time she was tiny. She loved spinning, just turning around and around until she got dizzy. Somehow, it righted the word for her, as crazy as it seemed. When she spun, she felt like she was falling in love with everything.
“Sorry,” she apologized, but she was in mid-spin, her foot catching on the desk leg, and she found herself falling.
He grunted as Qesa tumbled into her stepfather’s lap. He caught her, one arm around her waist. She giggled and pressed her face against his neck, wrapping her arms around him.
“How’s the latest take sound?” she inquired, wiggling in his lap, holding onto his broad, muscles shoulders. He was wearing jeans, but she was still wearing what she’d worn to bed—a t-shirt and boy shorts.
“You wanna hear it?” He hit a button and her voice filled the room.
It always surprised her, hearing her own voice. She thought it was good, but somehow she always sought reassurance. Glancing at Rafe’s face and the smile on it, she knew he, at least, liked it. He tapped his foot along with the beat, his fingers drumming on the desk. But would the rest of the world love it just as much?
Qesa’s hips moved with the beat, all on their own. She couldn’t help it—the energy of the song was pure fire. It was addicting. She began to dance, snaking her arms around his neck, rocking her round bottom—she had all sorts of Latina curves, in all the right places—right against his crotch.
“Easy, babygirl.” His hands went to her hips, whether to stop her or keep her from falling off, she didn’t know. But she felt his cock then, his erection growing against the swell of her ass.
“Ohhh, Daddy.” She glanced over her shoulder, teasing him with a half-smile. “If everyone gets that excited over our new song, we’ll
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