Dirty Souls (Sins Duet Book 2)

by Karina Halle

  “About seeing Leo earlier. About the car,” I manage to say once I’ve had the whole glass. I feel a bit of verve returning into my veins.

  “I didn’t know for sure,” he says, running his hand over my thigh. “I didn’t want to worry you.” He pauses, giving me a squeeze. “Believe me, you would have worried.”

  “But then we went to Raquel’s and you never said a thing to her about him. Or me.”

  “Because I had to be sure.”

  “And now Raquel is dead. She’s dead, isn’t she? That’s what he meant when he said paid her a visit?”

  He stares at my jeans and then nods. “Let’s get you washed off.”

  He takes me over to the bathroom where he undresses me, slowly peeling off the dirty and blood-splattered tank top and jeans that remind me again of the horrors that took place. His eyes and hands travel up my body softly, without asking for anything.

  He turns on the shower and strips, getting in with me.

  I nearly melt at the feeling of the hot water cascading over my body. It feels miles different than it did just this morning. My world has changed too much, I have changed too much. I wonder if this is something I’ll ever be able to wash from my skin.

  And yet, the horror rinses slowly.

  The water runs clean and clear.

  “Turn around,” Vicente murmurs.

  I do so and hear the snap of a cap, the squirt of liquid. Then his strong hands in my hair, rubbing in the fragrant shampoo.

  I close my eyes as his fingers massage my scalp, sending shivers down my spine. He works the shampoo in like a pro and I can barely stand up straight by the time he brings me into the water stream to rinse it off, careful not to get it in my eyes.

  After he works in the conditioner, wrapping it around each strand, from root to tip, he starts soaping me up with the body wash in long, gentle strokes of his hands, from behind my ears all the way to my toes. For once, his attention doesn’t feel sexual—it’s more determined than anything. Like I’m a scruffy mutt picked up from the pound and he can see the potential underneath, once the grime and dirt have been washed away.

  It’s then that it all comes crashing down.

  What happened.

  I looked death in the face.

  And in the end I became death.

  The tears come first, spilling from my eyes, mixing with the water.

  Then the sobs that rip me in half, clawing out of my throat.

  I collapse, slide straight down to the tiles.

  Vicente is beside me, his strong dark arms wrapped around mine. He sits, naked, legs wide, and pulls me to him so my back is pressed against his chest. He buries his chin in my neck and doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t move except hold me tight. It’s as if he can contain all the pain I’m in.

  It helps. Though the pain is powerful—sorrow over my parents, the shock of death, the lost years of my grandmother—and it pours out of me like running water, just having Vicente be there with me like this, just like this, makes it all bearable. I feel the strength of him, his intuition, his protection. He’s an anchor to me, the only thing right now that makes any sense at all in this new world. In so many ways I don’t understand him and the way he is, but deep in my heart and soul I’m connected to him in a way that goes beyond everything.

  I’m not sure how long we sit in the shower like that, the water pouring over us, cleansing us of our sins. So many sins. But eventually the tears stop flowing and my chest is dry and aching from exertion.

  We get up and out of the shower carefully, our skin soft and wrinkled from the water. With as much attention and gentleness as before, he dries me off, patting the towel over every section of skin. He takes extra care on my shins, which took a beating during the scramble up the hill, and my spine which stings where the rock rubbed my skin raw.

  When he’s done, he gathers my wet hair behind me into a loose braid and stares at me in the bathroom mirror, our images partly obscured by the fog.

  “You did what you had to do to survive,” he tells me. There’s almost a hint of sadness in his low voice. “That’s all you’ve been doing so far. No good, no bad. Just surviving.”

  I swallow the brick in my throat, trying to agree but I can’t. I can only stare at us, our reflection growing less foggy by the minute. “I killed him.”

  “No,” he says emphatically. “You pulled the trigger. You shot him. I killed him. Violet, you were only protecting yourself. You were protecting me.” He pauses and takes in a shaking breath. “I’ve never been so proud of anyone before. You are so incredibly brave, so strong, it does something to my heart. It gives it an extra reason to beat.”

  I can hear the truth in his voice. I can feel his soul in it, giving it extra gravity.

  I open my mouth to speak. No words come out.

  “You did what you had to do,” he repeats. “And you did it well. Just like I knew you would. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

  He takes me by the hand and leads me into the room, my feet wading through my clothes that are scattered on the floor. He acts with strength and self-possession, sounds so utterly calm. If only I could siphon an ounce of that.

  Naked, I get into bed, pulling the sheets up to my chest, feeling strangely modest even after the shower, like I need an extra layer of protection. The room feels so wrong and foreign after being ransacked, knowing the men were in here, touching my stuff.

  Vicente frowns at me, switching on the dim light of the bedside lamp. “They’re not coming back, Violet. Leo’s dead. His men are dead.”

  “What if there are more?”

  He shakes his head. “There isn’t. This wasn’t a global racket. This was one man’s obsession and his hired goons. They won’t bother you anymore. They won’t bother your family. They’re gone. Thanks to you.”

  I’m still not sure how I feel about that, my hand in his demise.

  I can still see the shock in his eyes as he realized I had a gun sticking in his side, seconds before I pulled the trigger. There was such crazy intimacy between us in that long moment before I tried to take his life away. Even if Vicente is the one who finished him off, I shot him with the intent to kill him. That will always be our connection. Forever tied to a dead man whose brains are scattered somewhere in Joshua Tree National Park.

  Vicente gets up and switches off the light in the bathroom, then goes out to slide the chain across the door and the deadbolt. Even in just the seconds that we’re apart—I’m in bed, he’s across the room—I feel this terror roll through me, like he might walk out the door and be lost to me forever, like a hand might come up from under the bed and drag me somewhere dark.

  He stops at the foot of the bed, takes one look at me and crawls over the mattress toward me until he’s lifting up the sheet and getting under it with me.

  “I would tell you to get out of your head, my mirlo, but I know that can’t be helped right now.” He pulls me into him, wrapping his arms around me, kissing the top of my head. “You do what you need to do to make sense of all of this.”

  But the thing is, I don’t want to make sense. The more questions I have—are we wanted criminals now that we left dead bodies in the desert? How can I go back home tomorrow as if none of this happened?—the more frightening my world becomes.

  “No,” I say to him, my voice sounding hoarse. “I don’t want to be in my head, Vicente. Please take me out of it. Please. Make me forget.”

  He seems to hesitate. It would be a first for him.

  But then he positions himself so he’s lying on top of me, warm chest pressed against mine, his elbows planted on either side of my head. He peers down at me in such a way that it unnerves me, hits me to the marrow of my bones. His eyes are kind, curious, and filled with a deep longing I can feel pull at me. But there’s something new to them I’ve never seen before. A flash of fear.

  In a way, it’s like he’s afraid of me.

  Or himself.

  “What is it?” I whisper while he runs his finger down the side o
f my face, over my cheekbone, down to my lips.

  He blinks slowly, a small shake of his head, a piece of dark hair flopping over his forehead. He stares at me like he doesn’t understand, like I’m made up of a language he can no longer read.

  Then a faint smile crosses his lips and though the fear in his eyes doesn’t waver, it softens it.

  “Violet.” His voice is rough, low, coarse. It brings out a flurry of goosebumps all over my bare skin.

  “It was never supposed to be this way,” he says.

  My heart slows.

  What does he mean?

  His eyes go to where his fingers go, coasting over the rest of my face, taking in every detail. Now I’m as fearful as he is.

  He licks his lips, his jaw wiggling as if he’s trying to find the words. “You were just…the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. All I wanted from that moment was to occupy a place in that busy head of yours. Find a way into your big red heart.”

  His hand trails down to my chest, pushing in gently. “I can feel it beating now. But I can feel it beating always. No matter where you are. Violet, you’re under my skin. You’re in my bones. You’re in the sun, the moon, the light in my dark. Your heart beats in the air I breathe and I don’t know how I survived this long in the world without it.”

  He exhales, his breath shaking as he stares back into my eyes, searching, searching. “It was never supposed to be this way because I never thought it could be this way. Never thought that you could do to me what you’ve done.”

  “What have I done?” I whisper after a beat.

  “You?” he asks. “You’ve given me my heart, this same heart I give back to you. I never thought I could love, never believed it would happen for a man like me. Sometimes I wondered if it even existed. But then you stepped into my world and became my world and now it’s all that I know.” He takes in a deep breath, his expression softening. “I love you, my mirlo. I love you to the point of danger. Danger because where you go, I will go. Because I will do everything and anything to keep you with me. This isn’t the end of us. There will never be an end of us. Ever.”

  I want to cry again. The emotion is building in my chest, squeezing tight. Heat prickles in my head, tempting the tears.

  My heart is a balloon, swelling, swelling. Flying away. I see it, as he says, big and red and I don’t know if it will ever come down, will ever pop.

  Vicente just said he loves me.

  I’ve never felt so free and joyous, both uncontained and grounded. His words, his words, his words. They tumble inside me over and over again until I’m smiling, tasting my tears, and every worry I had is gone.

  The day doesn’t exist anymore.

  It’s just this moment.

  The two of us, living, right now.

  There is no past. There is no future.

  There is just love.

  His love, his incredible, dangerous, romantic love for me.

  And my insatiable, consuming love for him.

  He kisses me, which is just as well because even though I want to say everything I’m thinking, I’m afraid I can’t. My words will fail me. They’ll sound dull and lifeless and they’ll betray the colors I’m feeling inside.

  But where words fail, our bodies speak the truth.

  One of his hands disappears into my hair, the other hand trails up the inside of my leg, soft and teasing, inch-by-inch over my sensitive skin. Even though my body is still sore and drowsy from the day, I’m already shivering at his touch, craving him all over again.

  I love you, my mirlo. I love you to the point of danger.

  He can’t know what those words are doing to me.

  He can’t know just how I feel about him.

  How do you let someone know that you’ve lost your mind and soul to them? That they’ve become the blood in your veins, that they’ve filled that achingly empty black hole inside you?

  He keeps his eyes on mine, burning with new lust that seems to be struck from a match, flames in the darkness, and I’m so turned on already, that I’m wet to my thighs. The adrenaline, the fear, the love, my body is processing it all the only way it knows how.

  “Violet,” Vicente groans as his hand slips down, his fingers finding my clit. I let out a small, anxious gasp as he teases it, his eyes never breaking from mine. “How can you be so perfect for me? How can any of this be real?”

  “Maybe we’re living one long dream. Maybe we both died earlier today.”

  I don’t mean to sound so glib about something that has changed my life and terrorized me to the core. The reminder of what happened, the reality, is dangerous to the moment.

  Vicente responds gruffly as he grabs my hips and parts my legs.

  “All the more reason to celebrate being alive,” he says in a low voice. “All the more reason for you to fly.” He reaches for his cock and runs the crown of it up and down my clit, pausing to dip it briefly inside before bringing it back up. The sound is so loud in this room, so wet.

  My eyes close, surrendering myself to this torturous tease. He’s not pushing in, it’s just a slow slide, back and forth, but I feel myself opening for him anyway, my body at first hungry, then becoming wildly desperate for more. I’m both languid and tense, surrendering and spurring him on as he rubs against me, over and over again.

  I need him inside me. It’s not just about getting off now, it’s about feeling achingly empty and incomplete without him. It’s another way to keep the fear at bay.

  I swallow hard, making a noise that’s nothing short of begging. My heart is starting to sound in my head, my skin is hot and tight, my nipples are hardened pebbles in the air-conditioned air as the sheet brushes against them.

  “I should get a condom,” he says.

  “No,” I croak. “I want you bare inside me. I need it. Now. Please.”

  With a slow exhale, not breaking eye contact, he leans on his elbows and pushes himself in.

  Slowly.

  Very slowly.

  Inch by inch.

  It feels good, then it feels too much, then I don’t even know what I feel because all I feel is him.

  And he is all I ever want to feel.

  This man. This man I love.

  This man who loves me.

  I stretch around him, decadently full. This is nothing like earlier today in the desert where it was hot and wild and rushed. This is a slow dance between us, taking the time to enjoy and worship each other’s bodies, to see how we fit, how good we can make each other feel.

  I’m soaking in the joy of having his heart.

  “Am I hurting you?” he asks, groaning through the words.

  “No,” I say, licking my lips. I look at him, caught in the heated vibrancy of his stare. “This is good. It’s too good.”

  He nods and watches me intently as he pushes in further. His lips part as he sucks in his breath and his forehead creases in lust and awe, like he can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe how good it feels.

  That makes two of us.

  It’s like we’re fucking for the very first time.

  No, this isn’t fucking.

  This is on that other level.

  That other place.

  He makes love to me.

  “Mirlo,” he moans, his hands sliding to my breasts where he pinches my hardened nipples. “Fuck…you’re…everything. And you’re mind. You’re all mine.”

  I am. All of me.

  He’s watching me, watching himself, watching us, where his cock sinks into me, his shaft wet with my desire. He’s entranced by the sight, the slow push in, the slow pull out.

  So good. God, this is so, so good.

  Each rock of my hips, each thrust of his, pushes him in deeper, makes us connect like puzzle pieces. The way his abs clench as he pushes inside, the tiny beads of sweat that gather in the creases, the dampness of his brow. I reach around and tug his firm ass toward me, wanting more, and he drives in so deep that the air leaves my lungs.

  “Vicente,” I groan, feeling the
emotions swirl inside me, a whirlpool that I know will overtake me again before this is over.

  My head goes back again, my eyes pinching closed in shock before I surrender. He’s in me, in so deep, and I don’t ever want him to leave. This feels beyond right.

  This is us.

  This is the edge of danger.

  This is a love that has changed everything for everyone.

  It has changed me.

  With him inside me I am born anew.

  It sets something off from in deep, a whirlpool in my core that’s slowly increasing, spreading, heating up. It’s going to take over me, it’s going to pull me under, and I’ve never wanted to come so badly in my life.

  “Deeper,” I whisper, my voice choked with my sudden need for him.

  He responds instantly.

  With a throaty growl he starts thrusting deeper, one hand in my hair, making a fist. He leans down, pressing his damp chest against mine and kisses me, quick and hot, tasting like sweat. My mouth is ravenous against his, the need inside me building and building. Our teeth clash like warring predators.

  And then we find our rhythm, our bodies coming together in synchronicity. He’s pounding and pounding and pounding me, working up into a frenzy because it is work to fuck like this.

  To make love like this.

  I can’t keep my eyes off of him, the muscles in his neck are strained as the sweat rolls off of him, his eyes are lost in a fiery haze. The sounds that come out of his mouth with each thrust are so deep, real and raw, they nearly make me lose my mind.

  The bed slams back against the wall, the sheets are pulled loose, my breasts are jostling. The whirlpool inside me is now at a roar and I have seconds to hold on.

  I want to live in this moment forever.

  This cusp of having everything I need and still wanting more.

  The buildup. And the release.

  But I can’t hold back any longer.

  “I’m coming,” I cry out, my voice raw and raspy and drowning with desire, trying to hold his gaze. He holds mine back, his eyes burning in victory.

  In big, dark love.

  Then I’m twisted as the orgasm washes over me. My body jolts and shudders and I’m high above this world, fading into the stars, into the black. Only warmth and joy remain as I’m washed up on shore.