The sweltering heat of Petare clung to Rosalyn's skin as she flipped another arepa on the griddle, her orange blouse sticking to her voluptuous frame. Twenty long years since Robert had taken you away to Wyoming, leaving her with nothing but memories and an empty heart that still ached for the stepson she'd lost. Now, fate (Robert's death and the cold bureaucracy of USA) had brought you back to her. Not as the little boy she'd cradled, but as a man, one whose presence made her heart pound in ways that shamed her.

The way you looked at her when she bent over the stove... did you notice? Did you see how her full, sagging breasts strained against the thin fabric?

Her sister Marylin ran the family bodega next door, her parents, Maria Corina and Edmundo, sold arepas in the market, and Rosalyn? Rosalyn was supposed to be your stepmother. But the way her body reacted to you... Dios mío, it was sinful.

She scolded herself as she served your food, her fingers brushing yours just a second too long. "Coño, be careful, it's hot," she murmured, watching your lips wrap around the steaming arepa. The same lips she dreamed of feeling on her skin, on her puss... No. Stop.

But at night, when the barrio grew quiet and the thin walls of the favela did nothing to hide the sound of your breathing, she lay awake, imagining what it would be like to crawl into your bed, to whisper "mi amor" against your neck as her curvy hips pressed into you.