Insatiable Desire.

Teng o de tus ojos, de tu boca, de tus besos...

These were the first words I heard Luiz speak.

I long for your eyes, tongue, and kisses...

On a sunny October day, he stood at the front of a University of Miami classroom and recited a poem in both Spanish and English. It was the second week of school, and he had moved to Public Speaking 101. He had previously skipped a few courses, so everyone noticed him when he read aloud.

All the females couldn't quit staring at him. Neither could I.

I was 19 years old.

Luiz stood tall and wore worn trousers and a basic black T-shirt. The dark stubble on his face, mixed with his black brows, eyelashes, and short black hair, gave him the appearance of the devil's best disciple. A flashing red peril for my heart.

Luiz gazed as he spoke. At me. I was seated in the second row. His eyes were filled with possessive want, and I wanted to fall at his feet and ask him to do anything he wanted with my body and soul.

When he finished speaking, Luiz looked at me with a half-smile that promised pleasure.

I was out of breath. Hypnotized.

Thank you, Mr. Menendez. "Ms. Lavoie, you're next," the professor announced, shocking me sufficiently to swiftly grab my papers. One dropped to the floor, and I hurried to get it, picking it up with shaking fingers.

I stepped to the front of the room, passing Luiz as he took his seat. I swallowed hard when our gazes connected for a brief moment. My mouth felt uncomfortably wet, so I folded my arms. I was conscious of how my vintage black-and-rose-printed Betsey Johnson slip dress and black flip-flops brushed against my flesh and wanted to take everything off. luiz's look left me feeling exposed. Makes me want to be nude. With him.

"Please tell us the title of the poem you're reading," the lecturer asked.

"I chose 'Sonnet Seventeen' by Neruda," I said in a faint voice, looking at the floor.

"Uncross your arms." And you'll have to talk louder. Remember: this is a public speaking lesson, not a public whispering class.

The few students who tried to pay attention chuckled, and I raised my gaze to Luiz. He slouched low in his chair, his long legs sprawled across the front row. His lips curled upward and formed a sensuous grin. I tucked my wavy hair behind my ears.

With a deep breath, I started.

Luiz fixed me with long, deliberate stares while I performed the poem. His lips opened, and I saw his tongue in the corner of his mouth. By the second phrase, I was smiling. It's a secret exclusively for him. It seemed like we were the only two individuals in the room.

When the class finished, I dashed outdoors into the white-bright Florida sun, shaking with feverish want. A gentle hand gripped my wrist, and the delicate hair on my nape shook.

"Ana?" he said, his tone mild.

"Yes."

At that time, I had only kissed a couple of guys and perhaps gone a bit farther. I was somewhat bashful back then. And I avoided males that resembled Luiz, mostly because I felt they would not be interested in a lady like me.

"Where are you from?" My little wrist seemed delicate in his large grasp.

"St. Augustine."

luiz's grin revealed dimples below his beard.

"So, Ana from St. Augustine," he continued, rhyming and capturing my heart. "What are you going to do this weekend?" Are you planning to attend the Fantasy Fiesta costume party, which everyone is raving about? "Are you dressing up?"

I chuckled, temporarily silent. Diana, my best friend, had told me about the party and urged me to join her. I had said no.

But if Luiz was present, perhaps I would. My skin flushed with heat as if I'd spent the day at the beach in August. His eyes were the most peculiar color, nearly copper, and they glinted in the sunlight.

"I don't have any plans," I said.

Another nasty smile. I'd never seen such long lashes on a man.

"Do you know what you should be for Fantasy Fiesta?"

I shook my head again, and he gave me a smoldering look.

"Mine."

fifteen years later

I am standing on a sidewalk next to a pirate.

"Seriously?" I say out loud.

I flick my hand at the man sprawled in front of my newspaper building. A black hat with a purple feather hides most of the guy's face.

"A drunk pirate? Today?"

We're the only ones on the street, but he doesn't hear me. Because he's out cold. If his belly weren't rising and falling, I'd take him for dead. Dirty green pants, black boots, and a black vest. No shirt. His torso is fish-belly white, naked, and flabby. The sour stench of beer hits my nostrils, and my nose wrinkles instinctively. A thin sigh escapes my lips. The guy had probably gone on a bender over the weekend during the city's annual pirate festival. He'd run out of steam and stamina here on the concrete in front of the St. Augustine Times, the final stop on the Sunday night parade party route.

A strand of green beads hangs limp around his neck, and I curl my lip in disgust.

Because it's the city's biggest tourist draw, my newspaper celebrates the ten-day soiree of stupidity with a snappy headline. As it has for every pirate festival, every year, for decades. Hell, I even wrote the headline this year because, as publisher of a small paper, sometimes you have to step in when your city editor's on vacation.

Pillage the Village: Like Mardi Gras! With Pirates!

I snort out loud. Pirates. Tourists. Florida.

Ridiculous.

Now it's Monday morning and I-the youngest female newspaper publisher in America-am the cleanup crew. On the day I'm supposed to look gorgeous, sound sharp, and make a case for salvaging my business.

Awesome.

"Hey. Excuse me? Hey!" I shout in the guy's direction, and he doesn't move. I don't need this, not today. Taking a few steps, I prod the pirate's forearm with my black, pointy-toed stiletto that's already rubbing my heel raw. He's not budging.

Larry, the newspaper's security guard, opens the front door and peers down at the slumbering man. I take a few steps back and grimace. It's all I can do to contain my annoyance that Larry didn't deal with this when he arrived that morning. I wave my hand at the drunk.

"We need to do something. Now. Call the cops. We can't have a potential investor stepping over a passed-out pirate on their way into the paper this morning."

Larry ducks back inside, and I pace, the skin of my left heel eroding with every step. I check my watch. It's eight-thirty, and the morning air is as putrid as the beer that's in the plastic cup sitting a few feet from the pirate. Already a bead of perspiration is trickling down the back of my thigh.

I pause on the corner, trying to figure out if we can somehow drag the drunk out of sight, near the loading dock where the circulation crew tosses newspapers into the trucks at three every morning. Moving the guy ourselves might be quicker than relying on the local sheriff's department, which hasn't been thrilled with me since the paper did a kickass exposé six months ago on a string of officer-involved shootings in the city's black neighborhood.

I sweep my long hair off my neck, hoping to cool off, then let it fall to my shoulders in a thick, sticky curtain. Why had I taken the time to blow it straight when I could have slept for an extra half-hour? I hate wearing my hair down when it's this hot. My natural waves are fighting the humidity already.

The humidity's winning.

Maybe I should retreat into the air-conditioned comfort of my office, twist my hair in a bun, and pretend I never saw the drunk. Feign ignorance when the vice president from the private equity investment fund shows up for our meeting at nine.

No. Can't do that. It's too cowardly. A real woman looks a challenge in the eye and winks.

I tap my foot faster. The guy's beefy, and I doubt if Larry and I could handle him on our own. Who else can help? Is anyone even in at this hour? Over the past few weeks, since rumors about our impending bankruptcy started to swirl in the city's alt-weekly newspaper and on a local blog, reporters editors, and ad salespeople have been coming in a few minutes later each day and leaving a few minutes earlier every night.

My gaze falls on the newspaper's building, a four-story concrete-and-stucco behemoth built by my great-grandfather. To me, the building always had its personality. Imposing. Serious. A place of importance.

It takes up an entire block. It's an ugly building, but it's my ugly building and I'm trying like hell to save it.

I sigh. Crap, I forgot to tell maintenance how I'd driven by the previous evening, and the light of the letters on the building's sign no longer illuminated. The Time, it said in bright green letters. Add it to the long list of broken things on the paper.

I'm item number one on that list.

"Ana!"

Diana, the paper's chief finance officer, and my oldest friend burst out the front door, belly-first. She's pregnant. Very, very pregnant. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her tanned skin-I keep telling her to use sunscreen or else she'll look like an alligator in ten years-is shiny with sweat.

"Hey. Watch out for the pirate." My hand instinctively goes to my forehead, and my thumb circles my temple. I shouldn't have had that second glass of chardonnay last night while preparing for today's meeting.

"Oh, hell." She steps around him and rushes to me, breathless. Why is she in such a hurry? She's never in a hurry, pregnant or not.

"Yeah, we need to get him out of here. Do you know if Larry's calling the cops?"

"No idea. Did you see the Wall Street Journal this morning?"

She flips a copy of the paper at me. It's folded twice into a manageable rectangle.

"No. Only had time to read our paper, get ready, and guzzle a gallon of coffee. And stress about today. What's up?"

"Florida Capital."

"What about it?" I snatch the paper from her.

"Read the article."

"Later. The meeting's in fifteen minutes. I'm waiting for the VP to show up. I don't want him to see that drunk-"

"I know when the meeting is. That's why you need to read this." She points to the bottom of page one with a chubby finger. Pregnancy and humidity have conspired to make her fingers look like sausages, but I won't tell her that.

Squinting, I read the first sentences aloud. "In a surprise move, MDA of Miami has agreed to buy a majority stake in Florida Capital. As part of the $800 million cash deal, MDA will assume all of Florida Capital's investments and continue to expand its acquisition of media properties and other companies throughout Florida and Latin America. Assets under MDA are valued at $18 billion."

The article jumps onto another page, and I don't bother to search for it. I look up into Diana's wide, blue eyes and shrug. "So? Sounds like this is good news. They'll be more likely to take a chance on giving us money. Score!"

She takes the paper and smacks my arm with it. "Read the rest."

I shove the paper toward her. "I need to deal with this pirate. Do you think you, me, and Larry can haul him across the street? Wait, no. You can't. You're too pregnant. Is anyone in the newsroom?"

"A couple of guys. But keep reading. Second paragraph. Top left column." Diana's lilting Southern accent is uncharacteristically blunt.

"Okay, Jesus, you're pushy today." I grab the paper, flip it over, and read fast, out loud in a buzzy voice. "Founded just one year ago, MDA backs midmarket companies in a variety of industries, including media, consumer and business services, consumer products, distribution, and financial services. MDA is owned by Florida's wealthiest man and number 275 on the Forbes 500, Miami condo king Luiz Menendez de Aviles..."

My voice trails off, and my chest tightens. My eyes read the name five times. I haven't said it aloud in years.

"Oh God," I whisper. It's suddenly hotter than hell and half of Florida. I fan myself with the newspaper and look around. My headache erupts with a vengeance. "Oh God."

"I think it's the same Luiz."

"Thanks. Of course it's the same Luiz." For a second, I suspect a vein in my temple is going to burst. I inhale.

This is bad. Worse than bad. Disastrous."

I park my Tesla in front of the newspaper, and there she is. She is standing over a man slumped on the sidewalk. I can only see her from behind, and it's a fantastic view.

Her hair is long and straight, reaching halfway down her back. She puts her hands on her hips, emphasizing her little waist. Her ass is still apple-shaped. The tight black skirt hides neither it nor her lengthy legs.

I've always been fond of her behind. That includes everything else about her. The moment I saw Ana in that University of Miami class, I was hooked. She provoked in me feelings of wildness, sensitivity, and overpowering emotions. All together.

Her treachery stung so severely because I had never felt that way about anybody else.

The reason I'm no longer in love with her.

Still, my gaze moves over her body possessively because that is how I see her: as mine. By current standards, my sentiments are sexist, incorrect, and improper. I know this without a doubt and would never confess it to anyone. Except I would have told Ana long ago. She would probably have reprimanded me and then laughed.

I don't think of her as property. No, she's more like a primitive extension of me. Even after all these years. She is as much a part of me as my arms and legs. Though I am not here for pleasure, I can't help but smile as I watch her tap her foot. I think she's still impatient. When she was younger, she always want more. More encounters, sex, and accomplishments throughout her career.

Wait. Is she kicking the person on the ground? No, it looks she's nudging him with the point of her shoe. I grimace and take my foot off the brake of my cutting-edge automobile - the Tesla is electric and requires no ignition key - and I'm ready to bash the guy senseless. I go to unbuckle a cuff link so that I may roll up my shirt's sleeves.

I didn't expect it to be like this when I finally saw Ana after all these years.

She takes a step back from the person who hasn't moved and throws her hands up in the air, frustrated. I stop removing my cuffs. Is the person really gone? I reluctantly remove my gaze from her and look at the man on the ground. No, I can see him breathe. He's most likely a bum.

My gaze return to her. Now I can view her profile. I sat in the driver's seat of my Tesla, admiring her little nose, the familiar line of her jaw, and her pouty mouth. She seems much more gorgeous today than she did when we were in school. Part of me wished she'd let herself go, that she'd become awful in the years since I last saw her.

I'm afraid to confess that I still want her kiss.

The air inside my car is ice-cold after I turned on the air conditioner during my five-hour journey from Miami. Nevertheless, I'm sweating because I'm frightened. That is what Ana does to me, Luiz Menendez de Aviles, the wealthiest man in Miami. It makes me feel like a college student again.

I'm not sure whether I'd spoken to any girls before meeting Ana. If I had, I'd have forgotten about them all. There was nothing before Ana, and the years after have been the same. The same woman, repeating the same sentiments with a phony chuckle. All in the hopes of getting me as a spouse, or at the at least, a steady hookup with Ben. Despite this, or because of it, I've never moved on from Ana.

When I realized she hadn't been in class at UM, I had no idea how I'd had the guts to talk to her. She was the most gorgeous female I had ever seen, with bare legs, plump lips, and large eyes. My memory quickly rushes back to a few of my recollections. The excellent ones.

Hugging her for the first time and feeling her shake in my arms. Rafa, she'd add with her southern accent, "I was scared at first because you are." After all, you were taller than me, and you drove a motorbike because you appeared to want to eat me.

Her eyes were the color of sea glass when the setting Miami sun struck them just so.

I'd wake up with her in my arms, and her gentle, pleased sighs in her sleep would make me feel whole.

I watch her walk down the sidewalk and she seemed to be really upset. She's gnawing on her bottom lip, her eyes are squinted, and I'm guessing the nostrils on her lovely little nose are flaring. She runs her hand through her hair, beginning at her forehead, allowing the strands to stream down her fingers in a torrent of chestnut hues. I nearly groaned aloud. The free hair looks great on her. It wasn't this long in college, and I see myself grabbing it in one hand, wrapping it around my fist, and tugging.

I nibble her neck, cup her breasts, and kiss her deeply.

Because that's why I'm here: retribution.

And then forget her.

Finally.

Sure, I'm here for money, too. I don't do anything that doesn't generate a profit.

Ana turns toward me, and I reflexively fix the collar of my shirt. She can't see me since the car's windows are tinted. She didn't hear me pull up, possibly because my electric car was as quiet as a panther. Her face is little broader than when she was younger. It's still the most stunning face I've ever seen, with a mouth designed for sin and eyes as big and innocent as a doe. At once angelic and demonic.

Ana was once my Madonna and whore.

She scowls. A strand of hair falls over her eyes, and my first inclination is to whisk it away.

And kiss her. One final taste...

When the newspaper door opens, Ana whirl around to see a pregnant lady emerge and move toward her. The pregnant woman appears somewhat familiar. Yes, this is Diana, Ana's best friend. She also works at the newspaper. I had read all I could about the article before I arrived.

I stare up at the newspaper building, a massive, historic landmark that will require extensive renovations before becoming a gorgeous condominium. The real estate market in downtown St. Augustine is thriving, and I'll profit handsomely from this transaction when I convert the property to residential use.

I believe I'm here to discharge a karmic obligation to her racist, deceased father. I plan to acquire the Lavoie family newspaper, run it lean and mean, and then sell it for a profit. The business is failing horribly, and I will buy it for a song.

Ana will sing this song as I do anything I want with her. Now that I've seen her, I believe it won't be long before I get her into bed. I check my Rolex. It's nine o'clock now, and if I were a betting man, I'd wager that in twelve hours, they'll both be nude.

We'd be done sooner if we didn't have to pretend to be serious. I look at the structure and have an unpleasant recollection of her father. I grimace with disdain.

Edward Lavoie cherished two things in life. One was the St. Augustine Times. The other was Ana.

I will win both.