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“You’re the most beautiful woman in the room.” The whisper caresses your ear as his finger traces the line of diamonds across your neck. It’s a gift — one that toes the line of elegant and obnoxious. You’d rather never find out how much the necklace costs at the risk of causing yourself a stroke; but you have your suspicions. The size and clarity of the stones suggest it costs more than a year’s rent. So if you die from a clot in your brain from trying to process how much money is wrapped around your neck, at least you can store your ashes in the pretty velvet box it came in.
“This was a bad idea,” you say as you look on at the infestation of retail investors and venture capitalists.
“Having you around makes it less likely that I kill one of these imbeciles.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.” You take his hand as he leads you farther into the hotel’s ballroom. “All these people networking and negotiating all the different ways they can fuck up this town… sounds like my idea of hell.”
Miguel grins, knowing he’s not left out of that equation. He leans over your shoulder and lets his lips linger on your ear. “The gates of hell have opened and you are my plus one.”
The statement and the depth of his voice sparks a flame that radiates desire through every nerve ending. You close your eyes and think of something un-sexy like that Chucky guy who works at the scrap yard and comes to your shop a few times a year to ask if you’re selling pornographic magazines. It kind of works because you’re able to muster up enough courage to turn in Miguel’s arms. You tilt your chin up to look him square in the eye. “I don’t know how you convinced me to say yes to this.”
Miguel smirks. “I can be very persuasive, cariño.” His hands run down your exposed arms, squeezing lightly at your wrists. He lowers his head, his gaze softening. “I know this isn’t your idea of a good night, but I promise to make it up to you when I get you home.”
You roll your eyes at the suggestion, but the corners of your lips lift into a sly smile.
He waves back at a man gesturing for him to come join their conversation. Groaning, he presses a kiss to your cheek. “Come save me in ten minutes.”
And just like that, he’s gone off to charm the suits into investing money toward the Santo Padre expansion project.
One moment, you’re at the bar nursing a gin and tonic while watching your man make deals and shake hands; and the next, you’re overhearing a conversation with a representative from a bookstore chain about how opening a store in Santo Padre stands to make him a big bonus this year. It’s certainly a lot more than you would ever make running your independent bookshop in La Unión — a neighborhood that celebrates both the old and the new in your border town.
“Our research has shown that our stores opening up in these communities leads to lower crime rates and higher education. So, really, we’re doing these people a favor.”
You nearly spit out your drink. “Excuse me?”
The man shifts on his stool to face you. “I wasn’t talking to you, sweetheart.”
“George —” his friend tries to interrupt.
“You were talking about my community, so please tell me more about how your big-box bookstore is going to save Santo Padre.”
The man smirks and takes a swig of his drink. “It might be too complicated for you to understand, but it’s really just basic business development. Commercial chains open up in wasteland communities like yours, then all of a sudden, property values skyrocket and rental costs rise —”
“— And pricks like you displace the people who have lived here for generations.”
“Please,” George says with a roll of his eyes. “Half this town is made up of illegals.”
“George, you shouldn’t —” his friend tries to interrupt again. He grabs him by the arm and tries to nudge him away from the bar.
“— Let me finish,” George says, jerking away. “All the more reason to drive those border-jumpers back to the other side of that wall.”
In a split second, the glass in your hand is empty and the man in front of you is drenched. The room goes quiet and you don’t have to see it to know that all eyes are on you right now. George stares back in shock as the gin and tonic drips from his ruddy cheeks down to his off-the-rack suit.
“You bitch!” He lunges forward and you stumble back, landing on a hard body that catches you by the arms. The body turns, shielding you from the impending attack. When you look over your shoulder, you see the dark braids and realize it’s Nestor — your boyfriend’s head of security.
Behind Nestor, George is being pulled away by his friend before the rest of the Galindo security detail can get to him, which they eventually will before he even makes it outside the hall. “You’re fucking crazy, man!” his friend cries out as he steers him away. “That’s Galindo’s girl!”
The taps are turned on, water running down the porcelain sink to drown out the noise from the hotel ballroom. Staring back at your reflection, you wipe the tears and take a deep, steadying breath. You repeat the mantra in your head: you will not cry, you will not cry, you will not cry.
“Shit,” you remark as you notice the black stain under your eyes. The mascara was supposed to be waterproof but it doesn’t hold up, and now you just want to cry even more because there’s no way you can go back out there without looking like a hot mess. You’re dabbing at your eyes with a tissue when the door bursts open and in walks the man of the hour.
Miguel’s on top of you in a few, quick strides, his hands cradling your face and his big, brown eyes searching for answers. “What the hell happened out there?”
You slink away from his hold, crossing your arms protectively over your chest. You shrug, not really knowing what you’re most upset about. Was it you coming to this event tonight even though you were reluctant to go in the first place? Miguel never forced you to go, but you saw how excited he was when he offered the invitation. He never passed up an opportunity to see you dressed up and have you be the woman on his arm — as possessive as it may sound. Was it the preposterous argument with the man at the bar? You’ve had a few run-ins with xenophobic assholes and you’ve always held your own and never let them get to you. But why cry now? Was it the comment about being Galindo’s girl? Was it the fact that you were only going to be respected because you were associated to the man standing in front of you?
“Por favor dime que esta pasando.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you invited big-box stores to invest in this expansion?”
Miguel’s brows knit in confusion. “You’re mad about this?”
“Why wouldn’t I be mad?” You cry out. “I’m an independent business owner and you’re letting Barnes and fucking Noble have 50,000 square feet of your land to sell discounted books and burnt coffee.”
“Baby,” he says, a tentative smile on his face. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead serious, Miguel.”
“Santo Padre is one of the fastest-growing towns in Southern California. The first phase of the development was a success. The agri-firms created thousands of new jobs. New houses are being sold before we’ve even set the foundations. But, now, we have to meet the demands and that means letting these developers into town so the people can have their Targets and Best Buys.”
“Don’t pretend you’re doing this for the people. It’s greed. You want their money.”
“And so what if I do?” Miguel challenges back, his body looming over yours and his eyes devoid of any care. “You know who I am.”
“Yes, I know about the cartel,” you hiss out the last word. “But I also know you leased out your property so I could sell books for a living. And, similarly, you did that for countless other people in this town who were down on their luck.”
“— Babe, I did that because it was a lucrative business decision.”
“Well, I’m glad this lucrative business decision has paid off in more ways than you could’ve imagined.” You storm off, heels clicking on the marble. He grabs you by the arm and spins you around to face him. “Let go of me.”
“I wasn’t done.”
“I am.”
He loosens his grip just enough for you to walk away if you really wanted to, but his eyes are pleading for you to stay. “Meeting you was unexpected, and you know I’ve been grateful for that ever since. But please don’t be under the impression that I’m developing Santo Padre and employing half of its population out of the goodness of my heart,” he says with a scoff. “You know I don’t make business decisions out of emotion, but I’m willing to make the exception for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I know what this is all about. You’re worried Barnes and Noble is going to drive you out of business because you won’t be able to keep up with their competitive prices. No matter what happens, your business will stay above water. I’ll make sure of it”
“Fuck you, Miguel.” The urge to shove him or slap him across the face is so strong that you feel as if your hands are charged with electricity. Clenching your fists, you take a deep breath and turn away from him. “I’m not going to be your pity side project.”
“I never said you were —”
“While all of these local businesses are going under because they can’t compete, mine stays afloat because I’m Galindo’s girl.”
“Who would say that?”
You gesture to the door and, with a sigh of defeat, you begin to explain what truly got under your skin. “Those guys at the bar. The guy I threw my drink on — he was giving me the rundown of how gentrification was going to save this town from all the uneducated and criminal Mexicans. And he wouldn’t have stopped, but his friend told him who I was. Galindo’s girl.”
“I’m —” he begins to say.
“— And I know I am,” you say with a heavy sigh. “I know I’m yours. Not yours as in your property; but yours as in we’ve chosen each other. I’m with you in spite of all the reasons why I know I shouldn’t be with someone like you. And you’re with me because —”
“— Because I enjoy your company.” His hands rest on your waist, his breath in your hair. “And because you’re the only person who can say ‘fuck you, Miguel’ and make me so hard I could drill concrete.”
You laugh. “No one wants to see that.”
His lips graze the shell of your ear, his hips molding to yours. “But you can feel that?”
You swallow hard. There’s no doubt his presence can be felt from the base of your spine to the curve of your ass. Arching your back, you release a moan that invites him to press into you a little harder.
“I’m sorry those guys were assholes,” he whispers, his arm snaking around your waist. “I’m sorry for being a capitalist criminal.” He shifts his stance so you’re both facing the mirror, staring back at a reflection that makes you revel in the idea of being a woman possessed — of being Galindo’s girl.
Your breasts are heaving, the diamonds across your neck refracting the warm glow of the lights above the sink. His hands course down your hips, fingers dancing around the hem of your little, black dress. He hikes it up your thighs, just far enough to catch a peek of French lace and silk. You reach around to grip the back of his neck, turning your head to skim your lips over his jaw.
“Look at yourself.”
You roll your hips and feel his length, rock solid, down your backside. God, you want nothing more than to be rid of the layers of clothing between you and have him slide in, fill you, and make you scream until you feel like he’s splitting you apart.
“All of this makes you hot.” Miguel’s hand disappears under the skirt of your dress, his fingers trailing upward along your inner thigh. Your breath hitches in your throat when his fingertips slide along the seam between your legs. “All of this makes you wet.” He moves smoothly along the folds toward the apex, and your torso lurches forward, hands braced on the marble counters. It gives him a chance to press farther against your ass, his strong legs on either side of yours, which are already so unsteady in six-inch stilettos. “All of this — all of this corrupt shit that I do — it makes you want me so bad.”
“No.”
“Say it.”
“Fuck. No.”
He hikes your dress up so it’s bunched up your waist, while his free hand dives into your lace panties, fingers parting your slit. You gasp as he lunges in, two digits full, wasting no time to curve inward to find the spot that has your knuckles turning white and your lungs fighting for breath.
“Miguel,” you plead. But he doesn’t relent as he thrusts his fingers up your walls, thumb circling where you need it most. “Please.”
“Look at yourself getting off.” His voice buzzes in your ear, his lips tracing down your neck. “Admit it. Tell me it turns you on knowing you’re in bed with el diablo.”
As much as you try to suppress it, the moan that you release gives him the satisfaction he craves. Your mind wants your body to be stronger than that, but he’s got a hold over you so powerful that it’s both terrifying and alluring at the same time. Your lids are heavy and your vision is clouded by a haze of lust. The picture in front of you is so pornographic it makes your skin burn and makes you shy away into the safe warmth of his neck. Breathing in the scent of his cologne, the coils at the base of your stomach tighten. It’s like a Pavlovian response; you can’t help that his scent makes you salivate for him in an animalistic, illogical way. Your knees tremble, and you feel like you’re only tethered to the ground by Miguel’s arm around your waist.
He’s working to bring you close to that release like only he can. Someone with a natural ability to get a woman off just by looking at her a second too long. Someone who isn’t satisfied with mediocrity — a woman needs to be studied; her undoing needs to be perfected.
You’re so close to the edge as your body thrums with expectation. His name is poised at the tip of your tongue as you hold your breath. And then he slides his fingers out of your walls. He raises them up to show you they’re coated in your arousal, and it’s all too obscene that you have to bury your head farther into his neck. But he tugs at your hair, arching your head to the ceiling, and he presses his fingers to your lips so you can taste yourself. You’re going to fucking kill him after he makes you come.
As your lips part, he slips his fingers into your mouth, down your tongue. His eyes darken until they’re almost black and he swallows hard as he watches you take the length down your greedy throat. Miguel barely has his fingers out of your mouth before he’s kissing you, pushing you against the sink, pulling his tie, hiking your legs around his hips, tugging on his belt. You take his hands to still him, kissing him back slow and steady.
“I have to have you,” he rasps almost desperately. He’s right where you want him.
You push him just far enough to work on his belt and the button of his trousers. “You can have me when I say you can have me.” Holding onto the waistline, you jerk him back so he loses his footing. Then you have his trousers down his thighs, taking his underwear down with them. He’s hard. So. Hard. You can tell by the strained expression on his face that he’s been trying his best to stay patient while getting you off with his hands, but all this time all he wanted to do was fuck you within an inch of your life.
Miguel’s eyes are filled with lust — a desire that’s only reserved for you. It’s a look you know well. It’s a look that makes you weak in the knees, but also makes you feel so emboldened. To have this man at your mercy is a high you can’t even begin to describe in words.
Wrapping your arms around his neck for support, you lift your hips to slip your panties off then shove them into the pocket of his vest. He looks down at the lace fabric peeking out of the silk pocket, and looks up to give you a cheeky smile.
Miguel takes you by the swell of your hips, pressing you against his cock, grinding deliciously against your heat. He takes a sick satisfaction in watching how much it arouses you, how much your body responds to him. But there’s an element of tortuous self-control that twists him up inside as he restrains himself from penetrating you. He watches you as he moves, licking his lips when the head of his dick bumps your clit. You grip onto his shoulders with more force than necessary, and all it does is urge him on as he enters you slowly and then all at once.
Full. You’re so full of Miguel’s cock. And he’s pounding into you so hard that every thrust feels like a challenge, like he’s asking you if you can take more of him. He pulls your hair to the side, exposing your neck so he can leave hot kisses along the side. Your back arches, head resting on the mirror. His palms squeeze tighter on your hips, raising you off the counter just a little so he can get that extra leverage to fuck you even harder.
“There’s something about how much you love this fucking town,” he says in between grunts of pleasure. His voice is muffled by his lips pressed into the tops of your breasts. “I’ve never wanted anyone so devoted. So passionate.”
Your heart beats like a drum, but your brain can’t help being a smartass in the moment. “You’d know the feeling if you cared about something other than yourself.”
He pulls away, slipping out of you so fast, you whimper when he’s gone. His palms press against the mirror behind you and he tilts his head to the side. “I care about you, don’t I?”
You arch a brow.
“What do I have to do to make you believe it?”
“Finish fucking me,” you tell him as you take his dick into your hand, wrapping your fingers over the velvety skin. He stiffens even more as the head leaks with precum. “We’ll talk about your hard-on for Targets and Best Buys when we’re done.”
“Fuck you.” Miguel thrusts into your pussy so hard and deep, it hurts. But the pain gives way to a pleasure that quickly takes you back to that precipice. You wrap your legs and arms tighter around his body. But he’s not even touching you — his hands braced and eyes trained on the mirror behind your head. There’s something so erotic about this sudden shift in him. It makes you ache for him even more. It’s maddening how his intensity — either hot or cold — can make even the most stubborn cell in you beg for him to make you come.
You moan loudly and Miguel’s eyes dart to the door, and suddenly you’re reminded that you’re in a public restroom. Your body stills and you grasp onto the fabric of his suit in fear of getting caught. He shakes his head to assure you not to worry. “Nestor’s outside. No one’s getting in.”
There’s something so messed up about Miguel’s security detail standing outside of the restroom while you two are fucking. But that’s just the nature of sleeping with the head of the Galindo cartel. You thought you knew what you were getting yourself into when you let him kiss you between the stacks of historians and philosophers. You knew the risks. But you let him into your bed anyway because he’s handsome and charming and dangerous. And it’s only a transient period of your life when you can say you’ve truly lived. But what was transient has lasted over a year, and now everyone in town knows you as Galindo’s girl.
You close your eyes as his thrusts even out in pace and rhythm. You moan a little louder this time, and you’re pretty sure the person standing on the other side of the door can hear you. It won’t be the first time.
“Baby, I’m so close,” you say in between shallow breaths. “Kiss me or I’ll scream.”
“Let them fucking hear it.”
Your hands rise to the back of his ears, urging his face to yours but Miguel remains firmly in place. Your lips part and the orgasm tears out of your lungs and echoes into the room. The orgasm is so good it radiates across your belly, to the top of your head down to the tips of your toes. It’s electric.
Your heart is beating so fast and you can’t seem to catch your breath, especially when Miguel is fucking you harder and faster, his thrusts becoming more and more erratic. His palms slip from the mirror, then he’s holding you again. Hands all over your body. Fingers digging into your flesh, lifting you off the counter, sinking his hard cock deeper into your cunt.
“I love —” He pulls and pushes and buries himself to the hilt, grinding down so fucking good, you’re about to climax once more. “— fucking you.”
He growls to match your moans. And you tremble when he captures your lips, kissing you like a man starved of affection. He bucks violently as his grip becomes unyielding, and he releases molten hot and deep inside of you. He arches his hips up into you, every muscle clenched taut as he finishes.
When he pulls out, Miguel lays heavy on your limp body, forehead pressed against the mirror. His heart is racing against your own chest. He turns his head just enough that his lips brush against your temple. “Being Galindo’s girl has its perks,” he says with a soft laugh.
You playfully push him away, hopping off the counter to straighten your dress. “I’ll have to review the cost-benefit analysis of being with you.”
“I look forward to seeing your report on my desk in the morning,” he says, swatting your ass.
You narrow your eyes at him before turning to the mirror to wipe the dried mascara from under your eyes. You press your lips together for a blotted effect, knowing you’ll need a whole train case of makeup to conceal the aftereffects of being freshly fucked.
Behind you, Miguel buckles his belt and shoves the lace panties deeper into the pocket of his vest. He catches your eye through the reflection and winks. “Shall we?” he asks, holding his hand out for you to take. You slip your hand in his and let him lead the way back out to the ballroom.
Outside, Nestor is waiting. His face is serious the second you walk out. He holds it for all of two seconds before he breaks out into an impish grin. “Can I just say one thing?”
“Don’t,” Miguel warns one of his oldest friends.
Nestor giggles and ignores the warning. “If it means anything, chica, you might be Galindo’s girl, but you got my boy here whipped, talking about feelings and shit.” He slings an arm over Miguel’s shoulder and roughs him up a little. “Ain’t that right, Mikey?”