Kiss of the Cartel

by Slater, Nikita

  I don't speak for a moment, continuing to chew. His gaze still follows me with the intensity of a predator. Luis has always watched me this way, that mixture of lust and disgust. Now I see only lust. He looks like a wolf, circling its prey, waiting for the right opportunity to strike. It shakes me. Luis is powerful, has already shown the damage he can inflict. I'm lucky he didn't kill me with that beating. The power vibrated through his arm with each strike. Clinically I realize, if he kept going, I would've died. But something stayed his hand, induced him to walk away.

  "Your father trained me to act, it was part of our arrangement." I tense, wondering if he'll lash out again at the mention of his father. He doesn't.

  "Did he ever fuck you?" His tone says that he doesn't care about the answer, but his face, the tense expectation tells me he does.

  "You know better than that."

  "Answer the question," he snaps.

  "No, Luis," I say quietly. "He didn't mix business with pleasure. I was just his help, his bodyguard."

  He grunts and tosses the towel and soap toward me. I pick them up. "Go and shower."

  I get painfully to my feet. Yes, I can stand, but it hurts. Luis shows no emotion as I make my way slowly to the washroom. The water hurts like a bitch when it hits my back. His belt must've broken the skin in several places. It'll become infected if the area isn't properly cleaned and sterilized. Not that Luis cares. He only wants me alive long enough to purge his rage over Manuel's death. I try reaching around with the soap, wincing when my skin stretches unbearably. I jump when the soap is roughly taken from my hand.

  I twist around to look at him, but he grips my shoulder and shoves me so I'm facing away from him. He lifts my hair over one shoulder and begins washing my back. I press my lips hard together, bite them, to keep the cry of agony inside as he slides the soap over my battered flesh. I reach out and steady myself against the wall as dizziness assails me.

  When I think he must be finished I feel his fingers run through my hair, not gentle, but not rough either. He lifts the tresses and begins soaping them. I make a face that he can't see. Washing my hair with a bar of soap is going to be a disaster, the tangles will take forever to get out. But it's better than nothing, better than the dirt and blood that's matted the length. He pushes me further into the stream, rinsing my hair. It feels… good… having his fingers running through the strands, massaging my scalp, making sure all the soap is gone. After the pain in my back, his hands feel like heaven. My nipples peak in reaction. I cross my arms over my breasts.

  Luis turns me around to face him, his dark brown eyes holding mine. I see something there, the same thing as before. Something I can't name. There's still lust and anger though, it grips every part of his body. My reprieve is over. He was cleaning me up so he can fuck me. He hands the soap back.

  "Finish," he says in a biting voice and leaves the washroom.

  9

  Luis

  As a male member of the Ramirez family, I have a patent disregard for women. It was nurtured from birth. Women are either sluts, or angels to be worshipped. There is no in-between. The sluts are for fucking, the angels for marrying. It’s that simple in my world. Except it’s not. Because some of the wives are smarter than their husbands, some are crazy, some are competitive and all of them want power. Even my mother, who had more of everything than most women.

  She died in a car accident when I was eight. That was the story I was told back then. Now I know that my father had her killed. His angel became a slut. Tired of my father and his treatment of her, she thought to betray him. One beating too many was the story most often told, so she sought out his enemy, offered herself and her information. It worked for a while, but deception is not something that can be sustained. Too many lies, too easy to get caught with an inconsistency. Something forgotten.

  Now it’s my father's death that occupies my thoughts. I wonder how Arturo tracked us to the warehouse so quickly. It was minutes between our arrival, seconds after Manuel's execution when Arturo was suddenly looming over me. At the time, I was so happy to see him, so relieved that I didn’t question anything. My men securing the place, Arturo securing Lena. The grief over the loss of my father. I don’t suspect Arturo. He’s a good man, loyal. My blood. But I have to ask him, I have to understand.

  I'm thinking all of this as Lena finishes her shower. Taking too long. Maybe postponing the inevitable. I'm leaning against the wall next to the bathroom door so she can’t see me until she exits. The water shuts off, I hear her drying herself. So quiet. But she doesn’t immediately step out. I don’t know what I’m going to do when she does.

  I’m becoming invested in her for some fucking reason. She never fucked my father. As if I should care, but I do. I asked the question. She’s smart, she’d know that it mattered. She could have lied about it, but I believe her. Lying about it wouldn’t change anything, telling me she fucked my father wouldn’t put me off her. But knowing that she didn’t makes my lust for her more pronounced.

  She steps out of the bathroom, gazes around, a flicker of confusion, then relief, then as she catches me in the corner of her eye, despair. She’s got the towel wrapped around her body, holding it like it’s a bullet-proof vest. But she’s clean, her wet hair plastered against her neck and shoulders. A mass of tangled curls that speaks directly to my cock.

  “I want to fuck you, Lena,” I tell her boldly.

  She stills, like a deer, like if she doesn’t move, I’ll forget she’s there. I wonder what she’ll do. Fight me, give in, or pretend to give in. Those are her options. If she fights me, she gets hurt. She has strong mental fortitude, can take a few hits and come back swinging, but she’s weak. And smart, so I think she won’t fight. It'll show her hand and I'll be able to easily overcome her.

  If she opts to give in, then what? Nothing. I get an easy fuck. But option three. That’s the one I think she’ll decide on. She’ll let me think she’s not going to resist until I’m vulnerable, then she’ll wreck me and run. I reach for her, so suddenly, she has no time to react. I slam her front first against the wall, twisting her head at the last minute so her face doesn’t hit, holding her arms behind her back, high and tight, my hand secured tightly around her wrists. She grunts from the pain, tries to kick me, but I shove an elbow hard into her back, and she settles.

  “Fuck, Luis!” She’s seething and her anger fires through me.

  “Yeah, Lena, that’s what I like.” I’m pressing her now, into the wall, kicking her feet open with mine, forcing her legs wide. “Keep talking dirty to me.” I take my free hand and run it down her back, over her ass to her pussy. Seeking out her vulnerability. She’s wet. Not a lot, but enough to provide some lube as I work her. I shove a finger into her, not gently.

  “Fuck,” she snarls again. She’s responding to me. I feel her getting wetter, my fingers gliding easily into her snug cunt. I push another finger into her and she begins to struggle in earnest, desperate to get away.

  “Stop fighting me,” I growl into her ear.

  I think she might be crying, but I can’t be sure. My muscles are tense, my senses on high alert, ready to stop any attempt she might make to fight back. My thumb rakes her clit as I curl my fingers inside her. I know I’ve found her g-spot, because she jolts and gasps. I have her now. I bring my face closer to hers so I can see her. Her eyes are closed, her face is tense, tears trickling slowly down her cheeks. So sad, but so fucking beautiful.

  I wonder when she was last fucked. I wonder if she’s ever been fucked without violence. I thumb her clit harder as I wrestle with this thought, feel her getting wetter, feel her ass gyrating against my groin, making me harder. I wonder if she knows she’s doing this. She can’t fight me now because I’m taking her where she doesn’t want to go, especially under my hand.

  And then she screams, a low, breathless cry as her pussy contracts around my fingers, as she spasms. I milk it until her awareness comes back, until I feel her stiffen, until she starts struggling harder, heedless of her po
sition, of the fact that I could break her arm with just a little more pressure.

  “You fucking sonofabitch,” she yells. She’s angry, murderous, humiliated. It’s glorious to see, the way her cool bravado falls away to reveal the passion beneath.

  “Stop struggling, Lena.” My voice is low, cool, contrasting with her yells of anger.

  I don’t let go even though she’s wild now, stronger than I would have credited her. I wonder what the hell was in the toast she ate as I do everything I can to hang on to her. I have to keep her subdued, but I don’t feel like strong-arming her right now. I want her last thought of me tonight to be how I made her come. She starts to tire, and I wait a minute, trying to judge whether she’s playing me or if she’s truly spent. I shift her around, still gripping her tight. The towel falls, but that’s irrelevant. I have all the time in the world to peruse her body when she's come down from her rage, when she's in better shape.

  I release her and step back, holding myself ready in case she attacks.

  She spins around, her fiery gaze meeting mine, her lips twisted in anger. “Don’t you ever fucking do that again,” she spits.

  “Or what, Lena? The way I see it, you got yours tonight. The next time I see you, it’ll be my turn." I keep my eyes on her face as I reach down and gather up the towel, a potential noose, the empty plate, a potential knife. I leave the water jug, aware that I’m giving her a weapon, but she needs to be hydrated. The next time I come in, I’ll make sure my gun is drawn. I don’t turn my back on her as I walk out of the cell and slam the door shut.

  “I hate you!” she shouts after me as I make my way upstairs.

  I still have a raging erection, my balls are tight, but I am incongruently satisfied. Little bodyguard is hot, and she responds like a wet dream. She needs a good fucking, maybe calm her down. I take those thoughts to my bedroom, to my shower. Under the hot stream, I spit into my hand and grab my cock, jacking myself. It doesn’t take long, with her image in my mind, moaning as I fuck her with my fingers, her ass thrusting back against my hand, the warm gush of fluid as her orgasm hits. Her anger, sweet anger, at me, at herself for succumbing. I feel the pressure rise up, my balls tighten, and it hits, my semen spurting out. This isn't the first time I’ve thought of her as I’ve jacked myself, but better this time than ever before. I’ve had the real thing in my arms and fuck, it was all I thought it would be and more. Soft, passionate, responsive.

  After I’ve dried, I crawl naked into my bed. It’s suddenly bigger and lonelier than it used to be. Built for two. My mind flits to Lena, then to my father. Grief wells up in me. I’m old enough, experienced enough to take the reins of the family business. Hell, I've already held most of the responsibility. But Manuel... he was solid, a rock. Cool and distant, but reliable, always there when I needed him. It’s been three days now and I have to move on with the funeral. It'll be a big one, well attended. The killer might be there. Well, not the killer. He’s buried so deep, no one will find him. But whoever ordered the execution.

  I wonder what Lena thinks, then want to kick myself for thinking that. A fucking woman. But not just any woman. Beautiful, lethal, smart. Did I make her hate me more tonight? Or respect me? She got the better end of the deal, but I don’t think she’ll see it that way. Sleep is a long time coming. I keep wanting to go to her. Maybe to fuck her, maybe to talk to her. Maybe to give her some clothes, invite her upstairs to help me plan my revenge.

  Lena would be utterly stunning, painted red, the blood of my enemies splattered across that glorious body.

  10

  Lena

  Broken.

  He managed to break me and he barely touched me. I’m lying on my side curled around the water jug, tears dripping steadily off my face and onto the concrete beneath me. I try to tell myself to get up, to move, to shift closer to the door where I can smash him with the jug next time he comes in. I do none of this. I’m paralyzed.

  My first orgasm. Forced on me by an enemy. Shame and humiliation fight for the top position, along with terror. I had been prepared for violence, for rape. To be taken with no thoughts to my pleasure, my feelings. This… this is the ultimate mindfuck. With the cresting wave of my orgasm he released something else. A secret part of myself I hold onto so tight that no one is ever supposed to see. The woman that yearns, that wants things.

  I can’t want things. I’m a machine. Built to protect. This is how I survive. I bury that woman, the woman who wants more out of life, so deep that she’ll never see the light. Somehow, with those few touches, his finger inside me, stroking things that shouldn’t exist, he found that woman.

  Shivers wrack my body. I can’t stop them. I am genuinely cold, laying naked on the cement floor, but the tremors shuddering through my limbs are mostly from fear. Fear that he’ll come back. That he’ll touch me again, force a response from my body. The tears trickle faster. I can’t stand it. I can’t take his touch when it’s not violent. Can’t fight that kind of psychological war.

  You got yours tonight, the next time it’ll be my turn.

  I remember his words. Hope they’re true. That he’ll just use me, fuck me, get it over with. Maybe even kill me after. Anything but the glow of hope he tried to ignite within me when he forced a response from my cold body.

  Tired of drowning in my own thoughts I reach eagerly for the only escape I have, sleep. Still cradling the jug as though it’s a lifeline, I allow my mind the freedom to escape a situation that I’ll be trapped in until my death. I’m so exhausted I can feel sleep claiming me almost seconds after I close my eyes.

  My dreams are murky. I’m looking for Manuel through a haze of smoke. I stumble through my dream world searching for my fallen master, knowing I’m too late. He’s calling for me and I, his obedient bodyguard, answer the call, my voice an echo as I shout for him. Shots ring out and I know I’m too late. He’s been murdered. I reach for my gun, determined to avenge him, but I’m naked. No weapons, no clothes, nothing. I start running and someone falls in behind me, chasing me. I run until my lungs burn and my limbs feel heavy. Exhaustion engulfs me and I collapse, hitting the hard ground in a crouch, my hands bracing me.

  A hand touches my bare shoulder and I try to jerk around, but the fingers turn into claws, digging through my flesh, crushing the bones. I cry out as he turns me around, forcing me to face him. I already know who he is. Know his touch, his smell, everything about him. I’ve been filing away all the details from the moment I met this man. My master’s son, my enemy. Luis.

  His face is filled with hate, with vengeful fury. The beautiful Latino features are twisted in a terrible mask. He opens his mouth and I see sharp teeth, ready to tear me apart. I scream as he lowers his head, preparing to rip my throat out with his teeth. He wants me to die. He forces me down onto my back and sinks his teeth deep into the flesh of my neck. I can feel the blood trickling as he tears. He pushes my legs apart and falls on me. But instead of pain I feel a sharp rise of anticipation, overwhelming need. I reach up and crush him to me and he tears into my body with teeth and cock.

  “Lena.” His voice sounds hazy, disembodied.

  “Luis,” I whisper, my voice fading with the loss of blood. I can barely hang on, feel myself being pulled from my dream.

  “Lena.” His voice is sharper, angrier.

  I open my eyes. Luis is crouched over top of me, the buttons of his shirt undone, his long hair loose and disheveled as though he’s been running frustrated fingers through it. I briefly catch the edge of concern in his dark gaze, but my body reacts, almost independently of thought. He’s kneeling next to me, his hands on my flesh, the memory of his dream monster still fresh.

  I shove his chest, pushing him back. He’s off balance for a split second which allows me to lunge to the side. I bring the jug down on the concrete, smashing it. I grip a broken shard and swing it around toward him. He shifts backward and reaches for his gun. His eyes are alight with fury and something else. Maybe anticipation. Or perhaps expectation. I don’t know and I don’
t have time to think about it. I hurl myself at him, knocking his gun hand aside while aiming for his jugular with the shard.

  He snatches my hair in his other hand and drags my head back. I expected the move and aim a kick toward his stomach. He’s fast; he shifts to the side so my kick passes by him. He drags my head right to the ground, countering all of my moves. I’m about to aim a punch at his nose, hopefully shattering it, when he raises his gun. I try to knock it to the side again, but he slams the metal into my bicep, deadening the muscle. My arm drops and the gun is pressed against my forehead.

  Neither of us speak, neither moves. We stare at each other. I’ve been forced nearly to the ground. I’m sitting on my ass, an elbow braced on the concrete. He stands, dragging me up by the hair. The tug of pain in my scalp is nothing compared to what I see in his eyes. Sadistic, savage intent. He wants to hurt me, might even kill me. If he does, at least I’ll know I went down fighting.

  I’m forced to kneel before him, my face inches from his crotch. He yanks my head until I’m staring up his body, directly into his glowing eyes. The gun is still pressed against my forehead.

  “Move and you die,” he warns. Then he drops the hand that’d been gripping my hair and reaches in between us. At first, I think he’s going to grab me by the throat, choke me. But he doesn’t. He unzips his pants, jerks the fabric a little and then pulls his cock free from the material.

  I can feel my eyes growing rounder, though I try to hide my response. Perhaps it’s the remnants of my dream. The orgasm he forced on me. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been dreaming of Luis for almost as long as I’ve known him. Whatever it is, I drop my eyes, unable to do anything else. The breath catches in my throat as I stare at him. His cock is almost as big and angry as the rest of him. Engorged with blood, it’s demanding, terrible and beautiful all at once.