by Pam Godwin
Heat surged along his shaft as he imagined how tight that little hole would feel clenched around his thrusts. He could do it, fuck her ass right here, and not a goddamn person in this room would raise a brow.
The way into her heart was without a doubt a path of tribulation. But where he put his mouth and cock wasn’t the key factor in obtaining his goal. It was the ability to connect with her on a fundamental level.
Curling his fingers over the black lace on her hips, he drew her toward him and settled her on his thigh.
She sat rigidly, hissing from the pain, elbows locked against her sides, and legs shaking. With an arm around her waist, he pulled her back against his chest and scooted the chair forward, sliding her lower half beneath the edge of the table top.
Stiff as a board, she refused to relax against his reclined body. Her breaths sharpened, expanding her rib cage and testing the seams of the corset.
She really wasn’t going to appreciate his hands on her, but anyone outside of his table would expect a public display of groping to be the only reason he moved her to his lap.
Over the years, he’d brought slaves to dinner, not for his pleasure, but for the sole purpose of tormenting them. After Camila’s disappearance, he’d taken a special interest in slavery. He so badly wanted to sit her down and explain his involvement. Hell, he wanted to explain everything. But she wasn’t ready.
Beneath the concealment of the table, he cupped her pussy over the panties. His other hand rested lightly against her throat as he made a shushing noise at her ear.
She drew several more breaths. Then her muscles began to loosen against his legs and chest. An eternal moment later, she let her head fall back on his shoulder. He released her neck.
Her soft hair brushed against his throat, and the heat of her body seeped through the threads of his suit. Christ, he’d waited so fucking long for this, to feel the beat of her heart against his, protected in his home, and held in his arms.
With great reluctance, he removed his hand from between her legs, trailing fingers gingerly around the welts on her thigh. His chest squeezed with regret, and hers inflated with a held breath. Shifting his hand toward his pocket, he slipped the pill between two fingers.
“Open your mouth,” he whispered at her ear. “For the pain.”
Her instant obedience was a testament to how much she was hurting.
He placed the pill on her tongue and traced the plump flesh of her bottom lip. Then he offered her a glass of water, which she drank greedily.
He didn’t have to glance up at the room to know he was being watched. Yessica, for one, would spend the entire evening trying to gauge his interest in Camila. Others would simply be looking for weaknesses. They might work for the same team, but they would kill one another if it meant moving up in the ranks. And Matias held a covetous position.
Giving a slave a pill, however, wasn’t uncommon. Ecstasy, roofies, any number of trance-like drugs made unwilling partners more malleable.
He returned her water glass to the table and slid his hand beneath the front of her panties. Her abdomen quivered, and her thighs clenched together like a vise.
“Open,” he whispered firmly.
She parted her legs, and he caressed the delicate flesh, slowly, teasingly.
“So I’ve been thinking…” Chispa stroked the thin mustache on his lip. “We need to work on our PR.”
“Se necesita un cerebro para pensar,” Picar muttered.
“Isn’t it past your bedtime, old man?” Chispa grinned.
Picar held up a fist with his pinkie and index finger extended like bull horns. The gesture was as old as Colombia, meaning Your wife’s a cheating whore.
Matias chuckled. Since Chispa wasn’t married, he could interpret it however he wanted.
“You need to loosen up, Picar.” Chispa folded his twiggy arms behind his head. “Sometimes you gotta let your ball sac hang like two cacay nuts in a wet baggie to know you’re alive.”
Given Picar’s stony glare, his next gesture would involve making a fist shape out of his strongest hand and slamming it into Chispa’s face.
“You two need to get a room.” Matias roamed his fingers lazily across Camila’s soft folds.
She relaxed against him, breaths even and silent and eyes lowered. He guessed most of that was an act. The painkiller wouldn’t have kicked in yet, and he knew she wouldn’t miss an opportunity to be as invisible as possible while studying every person on the veranda.
He turned his attention to Chispa. “What did you have in mind for PR?”
Soliciting low-rank falcons was an aggravation, but they were the eyes and ears of the streets and the best access to information on the activities of the police, military, and rival gangs. They also propagated fear. Scaring the picadas out of the general public kept people in line and out of the way.
Matias slid his finger through moisture. Warm, wet arousal. His cock hardened, suddenly and painfully. His breathing sped up as he stroked deeper, circling the entrance of her pussy without penetrating.
Her thigh kicked up and bumped the underside of the table, rattling dishes.
No one at the table spared her a passing glance, but Matias vibrated with excitement. He knew her mind was fighting this, fighting him, but her body still loved his touch.
“We need a motto.” Chispa tapped a fist on the table.
“How about Give us your shit or we’ll kill you,” Nico said with a gleam of amusement in his eyes.
Her breath hitched.
“Or…” Matias stroked his other hand down her arm, smiling. “There are some things that can’t be smuggled. For everything else, there’s the Restrepos.”
“Not bad, not bad.” Chispa nodded thoughtfully.
Picar swiped a gnarled finger across his eyebrow, his expression dead serious. “Armas got?”
“Got guns?” Chispa howled with laughter.
The entire inner circle joined in, hooting and slapping the table.
When they finally settled down, Chispa snorted. “I’ve got one. The Quicker Fucker Upper.”
The laughter began again.
Matias enjoyed nights like this. A departure from the stress of business to drink and shoot the shit. Camila appeared to be focused solely on what his hand was doing, but he knew she was listening, picking apart every word and judging the whole lot of them.
Someday she would sit here among them as his equal and join in the camaraderie. Hopefully, someday soon.
For now, he was content with just holding her while reacquainting himself with her body. As much as he wanted to sink his fingers inside her, he’d rather show her how much pleasure he could give her in private, when he could focus on only her and not on the countless others who might be scrutinizing his motivations.
Frizz reclined in his chair and whistled a song. The table fell quiet, listening as he continued the tune.
“Is that…?” Chispa made a disgusted face. “’Dead Babies’ by Alice Cooper? You want Dead Babies to be our motto?”
A smirk pulled at strings on Frizz’s pale lips.
“Frizz…” Matias rubbed his free hand across his scowl. “Why’d you have to go there?”
Frizz shrugged.
“Moving on…” Chispa shook with an exaggerated shudder. “We also need a logo.”
“I’m bored with this conversation.” Nico scowled into his beer.
“Dude. All the other cartels have one.” Chispa leaned forward, his dark eyes animated. “We can hand out monogrammed switchblades and put up a Facebook Fan page.”
“Facebook,” Matias said dryly. “What’re you going to post? Pictures of dismembered corpses, status updates on our assault weapons sales, and incriminating selfies?”
“Yes, exactly!” Chispa pointed a finger at him, laughing. “Think about how many likes we’d get with that shit? Everyone knows mutilated bodies get more shares than adorable duckling pictures.”
Because dumbass kids loved to brag about their cartel affiliations and cel
ebrate murderous gangs like sports teams, going so far as to take time out of their midday gunfights to post photos of themselves posing with guns.
“I think we’re freaking them out.” Chispa lifted his chin at Camila and the Latina on the floor.
He was probably only referencing Camila, but included both women to avoid suspicion. Everyone in the inner circle knew what she meant to Matias and what his plans were for her.
“Nah.” Matias tugged on a lock of her hair. “They know we’re just fucking around.”
She grew limper, more relaxed on his lap, probably fighting sleep. He moved his hand to her waist and simply held her. Her body had endured an intense amount of strain over the past twenty-four hours, and he needed to put her to bed.
After the last course was served, the veranda thinned out, leaving half-empty tables cluttered with full ashtrays and discarded beer bottles. It was time to go.
“Is there room on this lap for me?” Yessica’s voice clawed like nails over his shoulder.
Camila roused against him, lifting her head and blinking heavy eyelids as she stared at Yessica.
“Calling it a night.” Matias shifted Camila off his lap, holding on to her hips as she wobbled.
“So early?” Yessica propped a hand on her cocked hip. “Send that one off to her room”—she waved a hand at Camila—“and come have a dip in the pool with me.”
“We’re not dressed for swimming.” He tossed back the last of his aguardiente and stood.
“Since when do you and I need clothes?” She tilted her head and pushed out her mouth to emulate a puffy-lipped pout.
Her duck face detracted from her pretty features.
Camila stood motionless beside him with her hands fisted at her sides and a twitch in her eye. She was upset, but it had nothing to do with Yessica. Her attention was glued to Frizz’s slave, her body leaning subtly toward the woman on the floor as if she wanted to swoop in and protect.
“Goodnight, Yessica.” He curled his fingers around Camila’s upper arm and dragged her away from the table.
“I’ll walk with you.” Nico joined his side.
They strolled in silence toward the west wing. Camila dragged her feet, seemingly losing strength with every step thanks to the painkiller.
Matias’ hands flexed with the overwhelming urge to carry her. But preferential treatment wouldn’t have gone unnoticed in the busy halls as residents geared up for the usual late night parties in the various sections of the estate.
When he reached the wooden doors to his rooms and found the corridor empty, he lifted her listless body into his arms. She rolled against his chest, and a night’s worth of tension uncoiled inside him.
Nico stepped in front of the retinal scanner and opened the door for him. Then Nico trailed him through the expansive living space and into the bedroom.
By the time he laid her on the bed, she was out. Breaths deep and even. Eyelids relaxed. Lashes fanning over her cheeks. Gorgeous as sin.
He rolled her to her stomach and sat on the edge of the mattress to tackle the ties of the corset.
Nico stood at the foot of the bed, watching intently, his natural scowl darkening the edges of his mouth.
“Well?” Matias unraveled the knot at her tailbone and worked his way up her spine, slowly loosening the cinch.
“We still don’t know if Gerardo revealed—”
Matias made a slashing gesture with his fingers across his neck and aimed a pointed glare at Camila. He was almost positive she was asleep, but the almost was too big a risk. He wasn’t ready for her to know this secret, and the gritty details of this conversation could wait until morning.
“We’ll just keep doing what we’re doing.” He reached the last tie on her back and wiggled the corset loose around her ribs. “If the mole knows, he or she will expose it soon enough.”
“Camila’s going to find out, regardless.” Nico clasped his hands behind his back. “I still don’t understand how you intend on keeping this from her while she’s living here, parce.”
There were so many things she didn’t know, like the fact that he’d had a brother by blood or why her parents died. She didn’t know the reason he’d been ripped away from her or what his role was in the cartel.
Soon, she would learn that the reason she was here was not to stop human trafficking, but to uncover the truth.
“Trust me.” Matias stood and removed his suit jacket, his hands confident and mind clear.
“I trust you unequivocally with our lives.” Nico’s eyes flashed, his voice sharp. “That doesn’t mean I have to like this asinine plan.”
“As you’ve said for the millionth time.”
“Just making sure we understand one another.” Nico glanced at Camila’s sleeping form, and his scowl bent into a half-scowl. “Que duermas bien.”
“Buenas noches.”
As the tread of Nico’s shoes retreated and the doors to the suite shut behind him, Matias removed the rest of his clothes and locked his gun in the closet. Then he turned his attention to the woman in his bed.
Fifteen minutes later, she lay naked beneath the sheets with fresh ointment on her thighs. She’d slept through it all and continued to sleep as he removed the collar and set it in the drawer beside the bed. Then he tucked in behind her, his chest against her back, and slowly explored every exquisite bend, dip, and slender bone of her body.
Despite the ache in his cock, he was happier than he’d been since the last time he held her like this.
He closed his eyes in memory, and the grass tickled his back. The sun warmed his face. Her skin pressed against his, legs entangled, with the aroma of citrus and earth in the air.
Back then he had to worry about Venomous Lemonous chasing them apart with a stick.
He opened his eyes and brushed his lips against the delicate shell of her ear.
Now he faced a different opponent, one less tangible but far angrier. Her heart might’ve been locked up like a fortress, but it wasn’t impenetrable.
He shut off the light and curled his body tightly around hers.
Twelve years, he’d imagined waking to the smell of sex and contentment and her tangled in the sheets around him. Tomorrow morning, that dream would become a reality. And after that?
He had a lot of fucking work to do.
CAMILA WOKE TO THE CARESS of fingers on her hip and rapid breaths falling against her nape. She blinked in the darkness and held herself immobile on her side, arms hugging the pillow beneath her head, her own breath parked in her throat.
Fingertips trailed along her waist, traced the grooves of her ribs, and lingered on the underside of her breast. Her breath escaped, but she kept it slow and stable, feigning sleep. The same instinct that had never saved her in Van’s attic.
Did she actually think she’d make it through the night without Matias fucking her? She’d hoped. Like press my goddamn hands together and pray to whoever’s listening hoped. After he’d beaten her, fucked her face, and fed her on the floor beside a woman with stitched lips, her libido had shriveled up and died.
But she knew better than to hope. He’d already stripped her naked—the corset, panties, and collar gone. Not even the sheet covered her.
Every hair on her body stood up, screaming at her to bite, choke, kick, and run the fuck away. Could she get past the eye scanner? Slip around the guards? Hijack the helicopter? No chance in hell she’d survive the Amazon rainforest.
She was stuck here. I put myself here.
Her plan had been ten kinds of fucked in the head.
Masculine heat saturated her back, his legs intertwined with hers, the hard muscles in his thighs and calves flexing with his rapid breaths. And his hand shook, fucking vibrated as he cupped and kneaded her breast.
How long had he been awake? Touching her and working himself into this panting, trembling state?
Maybe his hands shook with all the women he fucked, but at gut level, she didn’t believe it.
He wasn’t taking. Taking would�
��ve been fingers digging, pinching, claiming. No, shaking meant restraint.
If the circumstances had been different, she would’ve been shaking with breathy enthusiasm. He was the one she’d always fantasized about during sex, but now that she was in his bed, her stomach knotted.
Moving only her eyes, she sought out the clock on the bedside table. 3:13 AM.
As if the passing of minutes, days, years even mattered. Time might as well have been frozen. Like her lungs. And her life.
He lowered his hand to her hipbone, fingers curling against the juncture of her groin and thigh, reaching, stretching toward her pussy.
Her pulse sprinted, and her mouth went dry. She kept her thighs pinched together and squeezed her eyes shut. I don’t want this. God, please, I don’t want to be forced.
The welts on her skin stung each time she tensed. What if he decided to be really cruel and dig his fingers against them? She’d probably pass out.
With his hand on her hip, he ground against her in tight, slow rolling motions. The hair below his abs rubbed against her ass, and every hard naked inch of him twitched—his chest, his legs, his swollen erection. Goose bumps shivered down her spine.
She feared him as all monsters were meant to be feared in the dark. Only he wasn’t under the bed. He was in it, his breath on her neck, skin against skin, and he was hungry.
If she looked over her shoulder, she’d find a monster with eyes of golden green, wearing a face she once caressed and kissed and loved. With hair she’d stroked with intimate affection, the strands in every shade of the deepest black—the color of his soul.
“I know you’re awake,” he said in a rumbling voice and lowered his lips to her neck, whiskers scratching and teeth scraping.
“I don’t want this.” Her throat closed up, strangling her voice. “Please, Matias.”
He bit her earlobe then suckled the sting. “I’ll change your mind.”
Not happening. Her mind hurdled along a course that ended with a punch to the esophagus, his skull slamming against the marble floor repeatedly, and castration. She couldn’t escape, but maybe a chokehold would help him understand how fucking wrong it was to take an unwilling woman.