by Tara West
I slide down farther into the soapy bubbles, planting one foot on either side of the tub while Andrés continues to circle my opening with his deft fingers. Then he slides one finger in, and another. Slowly, he begins to tunnel in and out of me.
The pressure is building, burning, raging. I lift my ass, meeting each of his thrusts with a rhythm of my own.
The orgasmic wave that washes over me is powerful, the force and strength of it, causing me to tense up. My whole body spasms as my sheath pulsates and throbs around his fingers, but this doesn’t slow Andrés’s tempo. If anything, he fingers me harder, deeper, and I can feel another orgasm building already.
But he has other plans. He slides his fingers out of me and deftly spins me around until I’m kneeling, clutching the back of the tub. Andrés mounts me from behind and doesn’t waste any time penetrating me. He reaches around my waist and finds my sensitive nub, stroking the already swollen and tender area while ramming into me. My second orgasm builds quickly, jolting me like an electric current.
He draws in a deep breath through a hiss and groans. I feel his head pulsating against my womb as he spills into me.
I collapse against his chest, as he alternates between nibbling on my neck and lavishing me with kisses. I love making love with Andrés. So very much. One of my last coherent thoughts before I let him dry me off and lead me to bed is I could definitely live like this…forever.
Chapter Four
Christina
I’ve gone away for a while. Look after Ty for me.
What the hell?
Way to go Karri. Just the kind of text I want to wake up to. Her son is diagnosed with a serious disease, and she bails. Karri has had plenty of low moments in her life, but I’ve never been more disappointed in my friend than I am right now. I send her several responses such as: Where are you going? How long will you be gone? Ty needs you.
I don’t bother waiting to see if she’ll respond. I get the feeling she won’t.
Mrs. Peterson is going to freak. She was so upset when I called her two mornings ago and told her Karri had left the hospital with her drug dealer ex-boyfriend. After she cried her heart out, she told me she had a headache and had to go. Since then, she hasn’t returned my calls. Now I’ve got to go tell Mrs. Peterson her daughter is gone for who knows how long. She doesn’t need this kind of stress right now. Karri is such a selfish bitch for doing this to her mom and Ty.
I’m steaming mad at Karri as I roll out of bed and pad toward the kitchen. One of the many reasons I adore my boyfriend is I can smell the coffee brewing. I’m going to need a big, strong cup for the shit I have to deal with today. I’ve got a huge project at work that needs to be finished by this evening and now this.
Andrés is leaning against the kitchen counter shirtless, with a serious case of bed hair, looking far more sexy than should be legal. I want nothing more than to shut out the world and my problems and crawl back into bed with him. He looks up from his coffee and flashes a grin, but his smile quickly fades when I shove my phone at him.
He looks down at the screen and swears. “Fucking loco.”
I couldn’t agree more, but no matter what we think about Karri, that’s not going to make the situation any better. “I need to go by her mother’s house.” I don’t know if Karri told her mom she was leaving, but either way, I know the poor woman will be upset.
Normally, Andrés and I stop off at our favorite hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant and eat chorizo and egg tacos before work, but I won’t have time if I’m going to make it to Mrs. Peterson’s.
“You need to eat something, mija.” He leans in and smiles as he twirls a lock of my hair around his finger. “You can be late to work. I won’t let the boss fire you.”
By boss, he means himself. Tio has been letting Andrés manage the paint and body shop this week, kind of a trial run before he turns over five of his successful businesses. I guess there’s more than one perk to sleeping with the boss, but I feel bad going to work late.
They’ve already had to rework my schedule, giving me Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings off so I can go to school. It took the other guys at the shop long enough to warm up to the “little white chick” painting cars with them. I don’t want them thinking I’m taking advantage. I get the feeling they think I got the job only because I’m dating Andrés, although I’ve had past experience painting boats at my dad’s dealership, and I’m majoring in art at school.
“I’ve got a big job to finish,” I say, but I’m distracted because he’s nibbling on my ear.
“Yeah, you do,” he answers, pressing my hand against the erection in his jeans.
I swat his chest and roll my eyes. “That’s all you ever think about.”
“Not true.” He flashes a rueful grin. “I think about breathing and eating, too.”
Looking up at him, I scowl. “Guess you’re going to have to eat and breathe more, because I don’t have time for sex.” Then I do something naughty, I reach down and stroke his hard-on a few times, just enough to get his blood flowing. I lean up and plant a kiss on his lips. “Sex will have to wait till later,” I taunt.
He gasps and reaches for my wrist, but I jump back and grab my coffee cup off the counter. I pick up a spoon and wag it at him. “Later,” I say in the sternest voice I can manage, as I do my best to keep a straight face.
I turn and pour coffee into my cup. My mistake. I should know better than to turn my back on Andrés when he’s horny.
He comes up behind me and growls in my ear. “Tease.” Then he reaches into my jeans, finding the bud of my clit.
I nearly spill coffee on myself as I lean into him and moan. He bends over me, planting a kiss on my lips while stroking more moisture out of me. Then, he abruptly pulls his hand out and smacks my ass.
“Don’t be too late to work,” he says sharply.
I spin around and gape at him. His devious grin stretches nearly ear to ear.
After Andrés makes us the most delicious omelet with pico de gallo and sharp cheddar, I gulp coffee, we share an explosive goodbye kiss, complete with more teasing and groping, then we’re both out the door. This time, I smack his ass as he’s locking the door behind us. I move quickly down the sidewalk before he can retaliate.
* * *
Dead body, I say to myself. That’s what you’re smelling. A dead fucking body.
I had been ringing Mrs. Peterson’s doorbell for about ten minutes when the wind shifted, and it hit me. Shit, did it hit me, something like week old vomit and highway road-kill mixed into one.
This can’t be good, I’m thinking, but my body is rooted to the spot, numb from fear and grief.
I wonder what I should do. Call 911 and tell them something stinks behind my friend’s house? Would they come out without proof? Do I go in the backyard where the smell is and risk finding something I really don’t want to see?
My brain is a jumbled mess of thoughts. Is it Mrs. Peterson back there? Or Karri? Or both of them?
My cellphone shakes in my grip as I dial Andrés. Thankfully, he answers on the first ring.
“Hey, mi amor.” His tone is light and sexy, so far from what I’m feeling right now.
“Andrés,” I say through a sob. “Something’s wrong.”
“What is it?”
“I-I think….” The smell hits me again, this time more powerful than the first wave. “Oh, God!”
“Calm down, mija. Are you okay?”
My throat has constricted, and for a long moment, I’m not able to speak. Finally, I swallow the knot of dread wedged in my throat. “I smell a dead body.” I barely choke out the words.
“Where are you?” There’s a sharp edge to his voice. I can hear his truck engine starting in the background.
“Mrs. Peterson’s house,” I cry.
“Get in your car. Go to the gas station down the street and wait for me.”
* * *
I’m sitting inside Andrés’s truck, sobbing into his chest as the ambulance pulls out of
Mrs. Peterson’s driveway.
Andrés called 911 after he found Mrs. Peterson face-down in some overgrown grass behind the back porch. I refused to look at the body and confirm it was really her, but who else could it have been? I guess I’m having a hard time accepting that she’s dead. I mean, why did it have to be her? I know this is terrible of me, but when I think about my mom—the manipulative, thoughtless bitch who allowed my father to rape me—I ask God why He couldn’t have taken her instead.
The paramedics said they didn’t know the cause of death yet, and the detective indicated she didn’t suspect any foul play. I think life killed Mrs. Peterson. She loved her family with all her heart, and what did she get in return? Her husband suffered a stroke and later died. Her daughter treated her like dirt and then ran off with a drug dealer. The only good in her life was Tyler, but she was restricted to seeing him only a few times a month. I know dealing with his illness also took a toll on her health.
I choke on a sob when I think about Tyler. Mrs. Peterson was the only connection I had to him. Jackson’s dad, Ty’s guardian, has made it perfectly clear I have no part in the baby’s life. The realization I may never see Tyler again hits me like a bullet to the chest, and I sob even harder.
Andrés kisses my forehead and squeezes me tight. Sobs wrack me until I’m too tired and weak to cry any longer. Andrés mentions something about his cousins coming by to pick up my car. He starts the truck and takes me home.
He fixes me a hot bath and pours me a tall glass of sangria. Then he towels me off, dresses me in one of his oversized T-shirts, and puts me to bed.
I don’t recall much else, as the sangria is making my head swim. The last thing I remember before falling to sleep is no matter what crap life has dumped on me in my short twenty-one years, I’m lucky to have Andrés. I don’t know how I could have gotten through these past six months without him.
Chapter Five
Christina
I wake up with a splitting headache as the room slowly comes into view. Daylight filters in through the heavy shades over the window, which means it’s well past time to get up and get ready for school, but then, I don’t know if I can sit through a psychology lecture, anyway.
I’ve got a million things running through my head, and the last thing I want to do is listen to my boring professor harp on social norms, especially considering my life has been anything but normal. Besides, I don’t know if I can keep it together long enough to be seen in public. The nicest woman in the world has just died, probably from a broken heart, and I may never see the baby I love again. I have the feeling I’ll be a sobbing mess most of the day. Why on earth would I want to go to Psychology?
Then I remember we have an exam today. Shit. Knowing my professor, she won’t allow me to take a makeup test. This is my final semester before I graduate. I cannot afford to fail Psychology, a class I’ve been putting off since freshman year. Knowing it’s now or never, I heave myself out of bed and stretch my arms to the ceiling.
I feel like total shit. Every muscle in my body aches, but the tension in my neck and shoulders is almost unbearable. I guess that’s what the stress of finding a dead person will do to you.
Tantalizing aromas of frying bacon and coffee filter into the bedroom, and even though I’m reluctant to put one foot in front of the other, I make my way to the kitchen. As I pass through our small living room, I check the digital clock on the DVR. Damn. It’s already seven o’clock and class starts at eight-thirty.
I don’t even make it to the kitchen before Andrés is there, wrapping me in his warm embrace. Though I know I don’t have time for this, I hug him back as he kisses the top of my head.
“Good morning, mija,” he says against my ear. “Come and eat breakfast.”
“I can’t. I’ll be late for my test.”
But Andrés isn’t taking “no” for an answer as he leads me toward our breakfast table at the end of the kitchen. “Eat, and then I’ll drive you to school, so you don’t have to find parking.”
I look up at him. “You’ll be late to work.”
He shrugs. “I took the day off. So did you.”
“Oh, Andrés.” My eyes water, and I choke up. Damn. I cannot cry today. I have to keep it together, at least until after my exam.
“I know how much you loved her.” He sets a tray of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of me and then wipes a stray tear off my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You need your strength for the test.”
He places a fork in my hand and then goes to the counter and pours two cups of coffee. I pick at my food while staring out the window. Our apartment is bigger than most, a street level unit with a small patch of grass outside the sliding glass door that leads to our kitchen. My friend, and upstairs neighbor, Grace, found this place for me after I had a blowout with my mom. It’s actually not an apartment, but a condo I sublet from a rental agency. It has two spacious bedrooms and ugly shag carpet, a throw back from several decades ago, but it’s cozy and all ours, even if we are only renting it.
Andrés moved in with me at the start of the semester. There are nights when we curl up in front of the television and download a movie, that I feel like we’re an old married couple. Oddly, that feeling suits me just fine. Every night with him in our shag carpet apartment feels like an extended honeymoon.
We eat breakfast wordlessly, but him being here is worth more than a thousand words to me.
* * *
Andrés drops me off right by my lecture hall, so I’m able to make it to class with a few minutes to spare. I use that time to quickly peruse my psychology book. This test is on the many types of personality disorders. My dysfunctional family could have written the book.
Let’s start with the father who raped me when I was fifteen and then blamed it on me for dressing like a slut. Or there’s my mother, who’s had so much plastic surgery, her face looks like it’s made of plastic wrap and her tits look like airbag torpedoes. Add to that her admission that she listened to my dad rape me and did nothing to stop him. I don’t think either of them would qualify for the Parent of the Year award.
My dad died of a massive heart attack three years ago, and I’ve cut off all communication with my mother. Then there’s Karri, who at one point was like a sister to me. She grew up in a loving home, but that didn’t stop her from turning into a drug addict and a dead-beat parent. Yeah, I could pin any number of these personality disorders on them, but honestly, I prefer giving them another label.
They’re assholes.
Plain and simple, and no textbook is going to make me feel any better about the shit they’ve put me through.
As I look around the lecture hall at all the baby-faced freshmen sitting around me, I remember why I’ve been dodging this class for the past three years. I hate psychology. I hate having to analyze why people are selfish and cruel.
I tried to make sense of why my dad raped me until the day he died. Maybe he’d been abused when he was younger. Maybe he’d had too much to drink and wasn’t in his right mind. I wanted so badly to justify why he would have hurt me. I guess it made my pain less real, less significant, if I knew he had suffered, too.
It took me a while to realize the real reason my dad raped me. He was an asshole.
Damn, I hate psychology.
* * *
So yay, I just took the psychology test from hell. I had to analyze the psychotic behaviors of famous scumbags like Hitler, Charles Manson, and Jeffrey Dahmer. I didn’t know who Charles Manson and Jeffrey Dahmer were until I was forced to take this stupid class. Frankly, my world would have been a lot less morbid had I never heard of them.
My next class is an Advanced Arts practicum. I really don’t have to do much but check in and show my teacher a few of my projects. Since I airbrush vehicles every day, I’ve got plenty to show him. In fact, I don’t need to go to Advanced Arts today. I’ve already sent him a text with a photo of a tour bus I airbrushed with the Alamo, the Riverwalk, and a field of bluebonnets, and gotten a positive re
sponse back. My only other class isn’t for two more hours, a digital graphics class I could probably teach in my sleep. I suspect my professor knows this, which is why he’s always looking to me for approval after he posts examples of his work. I send him an email that I’ve had a death in the family, and he answers right away that I can take the day off.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I text Andrés I’m ready to be picked up. Though I want to go home and mourn the loss of Mrs. Peterson, I’ve got to try and get hold of Karri. Her phone has been shut off. I found that out when I tried to call her this morning. Karri’s brother is flying in from Japan, which is where he’s stationed. He could only get a few days leave, so I know I’ve got to make most of the other arrangements, but I don’t know where to begin.
One thing I have to say about my mom is she handled my dad’s funeral very well, from picking the coffin to making arrangements for the mourners who piled into our house. She acted as if she was a funeral pro, and she did it all without shedding a tear. I had always wondered how she was able to keep her cool during those days of grieving and visitors. Karri jokingly refers to my mom as The Spitting Cobra, probably because she had the heart and compassion of a snake, and her words are venomous when she turns them against you.
My phone buzzes, and I read Andrés’s text that he’s ten minutes away, so I find a spot on the grass beneath a shade tree and wait. The day is already starting to warm up, which is weird because it’s nearly winter, but predicting the weather in Texas is harder than finding a fraternity guy without a superiority complex.
“Teeny!”
When I hear that familiar nasal whine calling my name, ice shoots up my limbs and I cringe. Oh, God. What the hell does Jackson want?
I crane my neck to see him marching toward me with purpose, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t hurry.