DIABLO INSIDE

by Amarie Avant

  Wouldn’t say awkward, I think. I just refuse to say those words. Again. Ever. “Chu—Aria. You’re not other women. You’re important to me.”

  “I’ll go cook breakfast now.” Aria begins to climb from the bed.

  I clasp her wrist. “Aria . . .”

  “What?”

  “My hermano.”

  “Oh.” She grabs my robe from the floor, sliding into it. My cellphone rings. I’m tempted to press the decline button, but it’s Papi.

  “It’s my—”

  “Take it.” She tosses a smile over her shoulder and repeats herself in a softer tone before exiting the room.

  I answer Papi on the last ring. On the FaceTime screen is an oil-splattered ceiling. “Papi, come back to the phone.”

  “I hear you, son,” he growls in Spanish.

  “I take it you got breakfast this morning?” I ask, pulling into my underwear.

  “Sí. How much you spend, having food delivered to me? It’s too expensive, Dominic.” He responds in a gruff tone. The sound of tools clatters around in the background.

  I step onto the veranda. “Come to the phone.”

  “But we are talking on the phone. Now, I can work while you talk.”

  “Happy birthday, Papi,” I say, staring at the calm blue shore. “Promise me you’ll stop tinkering with cars a little early today and eat your sofrito eggs, beans, rice . . .”

  “I could’ve made this.”

  “Sí, but you’ve always said La Rosa Restaurant is almost as good as Mami’s while piping hot.”

  Minutes later, we hang up. I mutter, “How the hell am I a reputable attorney? Can’t convince Papi for shit.”

  Leaning my elbows on the railing, I drop my head and knead the back of my neck. First, Aria, then Papi. I glance over my shoulder into the bedroom. Staking claim to Aria was inevitable at first sight. The sweet innocence floated toward me as she trembled in her silky brown skin. That Aria captivated me. This one is becoming more than an addiction.

  Something soft flutters on my forearm, I turn around, beginning to swat at it. An orange butterfly takes flight.

  “Alejandra.” I mutter the very reason why Aria is a craving I’ll have to conquer one day. I want to keep her safe from the world, shit, from herself.

  She’s a gorgeous woman. They all are. For her sake, I hope not to grow disinterested too soon. I exhale guilt. No other woman has come close to snatching out my heart in years, not since Alejandra. And I don’t plan on allowing it to happen again, not in this lifetime.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  El Santo

  Dominic and LeAnna were streaming in the background again. Too consumed by jealousy to watch him fuck her, I snuck downstairs to make a few breakfast sandwiches. I’d been in the process of unlocking the walk-in closet to feed Angelica when three little words grated my ears.

  I love you.

  Not me. But Dominic. LeAnna Jones and I spent all day together on the pier. We’d walked hand in hand. I opened up to her. I blink, and I’m standing in the center of my bedroom—face wet from tears, hands in fists, knuckles ash.

  “You’re not women. You’re important to me.”

  “Fucking pendejo,” I growl.

  “I’ll go cook breakfast now,” Aria says.

  “I’ll kill em. Kill em both with my fucking hands. Mami, it has to be done . . .”

  “What?” she snaps.

  “My hermano.”

  “Sí, your hermano, Dominic,” I grit, doing an about-face. I pause long enough to watch LeAnna hide her dreamy curves in his robe. “Mi amor, I may have one fat skeleton in the closet.” I glance over my shoulder to where Angelica is locked in, snug tight. “But he could never love you. He never loved Alejandra. He stole her, used her.”

  I shove on a hoodie and grab my knife from the top drawer of my desk, swiveling the blade before sheltering it in my hoodie.

  “LeAnna, you don’t know what love is, but you’re desperate for it.”

  Sinking into the wheelchair, I let incapacity engulf me in demeanor and sensation. My legs go dead. I pull the hoodie over my head, lower my chin and grab the doorknob.

  Chapter Sixty

  Aria

  I tell myself Dominic needs more time, milling around his kitchen. He surrounds me. His passion is infused in all the masculine decor. His handsome face is an image always before my eyes: his voice, the feel of his arms around me. I’m trapped in the rapture of him, at his mercy.

  “You’re okay, Aria,” I mutter. I value his integrity and unwillingness to offer lip-service because it behooves me.

  “Yup, I’m good.” I open my phone to look at Roslyn’s mother’s recipe when I feel an intensity like never before. I glance over my shoulder to the hallway, which leads to the garage. For such an open, airy home, no light infiltrates the area. Yet I notice, in the shadow, is Dominic’s brother, seated in his wheelchair.

  “Good morning.” I place on a smile, wondering if he’ll hate me. He’s Dominic’s twin, not just his brother. I cease the tumbling thoughts. “I’m cooking breakfast. We would love for you to join us.” Please respond to me. Please don’t hate me. I want your entire family to love me. Please say some—

  “Why are you still here?” A hollow tone reaches out, clinging to my skin. Damn, it makes me feel dirty all over.

  “Excuse me?” I mutter. My vision adjusts to the darkness, and I distinguish the green glimmer of his eyes. Just like Dominic, and not at all like the man I fell for.

  “Dom didn’t say he loved you, no? My brother and I have twin power. I think you’re breaking—”

  “How do you know what Dom—”

  “Breaking,” his callus voice raises, “through Dom’s defenses. Any other woman would’ve gotten the boot already. Or maybe it was your story about your sister. He’s captivated by you—that must be it. Was it true?”

  Baffled by his nonlinear discussion, I mumble, “Is what true?”

  “You let your twin die?”

  “She’s not . . .” Fighting for oxygen, I place a hand on my chest. “She’s not.”

  A newscaster appeared on the television. I didn’t know it yet, but the reporter was the Nancy Grace of the 90s. She spat the truth. Argued. “For all we know, ReAnna Jones’ body is somewhere in a ditch, while the authorities pussyfoot around.”

  On repeat “body” and “ditch,” swirl around in my mind. Darkness surrounds me.

  Strong hands claim my shoulders. “Aria, mami, come back to me. Come back to papi, chula. I . . .”

  Vibrant emerald gems, honey swimming in the depth of them, appear before my eyes. I shove at Dominic’s chest, but I’m pinned between a freight train and the marble countertop. “I’m going home.”

  He growls. “I apologize. I couldn’t say—”

  I shove at him again. “I already said my declaration didn’t require an obligatory response.”

  “Okay, then what?”

  “I met your bro—” I take a deep breath, and my eyes narrow. “Actually, you lied to me.”

  “You met Dario?” Dominic glances over his shoulder. “When?”

  “Just now.” I stammer, unsure how many seconds or minutes passed.

  “Was he—”

  “Yes! An asshole, go figure.” I slide from beneath Dominic’s penetrating gaze and plant my hands on the cool stone counter.

  “What did he say?”

  “Doesn’t matter, Dom. The first time we screwed, you said you were falling for me.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, then turn to him head tilted.

  “Yeah, I said it.”

  “So?” I ask. “Body” and “ditch” continue to swirl through my mind. Tears well in my eyes.

  “Aria, I have genuine feelings for you.” His hands envelop my cheeks. Our attraction attempts to drown me in all of him. He could tell me anything right now, but Dominic proceeds with honesty. “Yes, I’m falling for you; it’s fucking killing me.”

  “I get it.” I move out of his grasp. “It’s time for me to g
o, Dominic. I started this mess by saying stupid shit. And you’re . . . you.”

  “The fuck is that supposed to mean, chula?” He arches a brow. “Did Dario—”

  “Forget your brother, Dominic. We’re discussing you and I and lust. All that’s between us is attraction and lust. When we met, we were on the same page. I screwed up. I caught feelings.” I gulp down a lump in my throat. The pact Roslyn and I agreed to the other night slams to the forefront of my mind.

  El Santo is out free. The serial killer’s cooling phase has an expiration date. No telling when but my bestie and I have things to do. I have a sister who I will forever feel the sting of regret. Who, according to Dario Alvarez, is dead, and it’s obviously my fault.

  “Dom, I’m done.”

  He encircles my waist, mouth crashing into mine. His teeth clamp onto my bottom lip. “I may not be ready to say words—but—what are words without actions?”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Aria

  Dominic refused to let me leave. He’d only disappeared from my sight for a few minutes to make a very important call before assuming the role of sous chef while we made Roslyn’s mother’s recipe. Then he promised me a surprise for the day.

  He drove us to a mansion on Miami Beach and introduced me to a famous Latin music producer, who owed him a favor. I assumed the shock and awe of meeting an almost billionaire, Chico, was the surprise until the producer escorted us to his backyard, a private beach. He also offered us the use of one of his speedboats.

  The sea glistens, reflecting a cloudless sky. Water mists across my face as Dominic maneuvers the speedboat toward a patch of land off in the distance.

  The ambiance is the perfect combination for declaring those three vicious little words again. Well, at least I love you isn’t detrimental to my heart.

  On land, Dominic holds out a hand to help me over. I narrow my gaze a little. “How many women has the Grammy-winning producer allowed you to bring here?”

  “Seeing how I had one favor when he needed a second set of eyes on legal work, I’d say I cashed in at the right time.”

  “Um-hmmm . . .” I begin, censoring my already exposed heart.

  “No hmmms, mami.” His fingertips trail along my fingers, anchoring me to him. “Can I show you a good day?”

  “Though the day started awful, you can try,” I quip, although he’s never failed me in that regard before.

  We venture along the shore and up a slope. Before us, the sky is an endless palette of bright yellows and oranges from the sun. The water is a dramatic contrast across the horizon. My hands itch to capture a photo. My mind conjures the perfect mixture of colors for a painting.

  Between the picturesque setting and the God-sculpted Cuban at my side, it’s a catastrophe for my emotions. As I linger closer, the sight steals my breath. Damn, Dominic Alvarez.

  Turning toward my kryptonite, I realize he’s been as transfixed on me this entire time. Those emerald gems burn into my skin. Suddenly, I feel naked. My skin thrums with heat beneath his intensity. In his hand is my vintage camera, an all-time favorite of mine. I’ve never shared this over the months, but he’s picked up on it. He’s discovered how the sense of touch torpedoes me back to reality once guilt over ReAnna and Sarah Beckett claws into me. Damn, I’m in too deep while he’s capable of walking away.

  Dominic steps closer. His subdued voice wraps around me like a safe harbor. “The sun reflects so perfectly across your eyes. May I?” He gestures toward the camera.

  “Wow. You understand how much trouble you’re in. You never asked before.” The banter comes with a sigh, not to be matched by the smooth Cubano.

  He lifts the camera, not removing his eyes from me. The sound of the shutter does something to my sex as I stare at him watching me.

  “We were supposed to get to this part later,” Dominic begins to mutter in Spanish.

  “Yeah. Later. But we can’t deny lust.” I close the distance between us and press my lips to him. “A great fuck is all we have, right?” Please deny it. We have so much more.

  Calloused hands slide around the nape of my neck, seeking a fisted grip of my hair. Though eager, Dominic slows to trace kisses down my throat.

  “Don’t . . .” The murmur ribbons from my breathless lips.

  “Don’t?” He growls, aware of my precise reasoning.

  “Don’t make love to me, Dom. If you don’t love me, fuck me.”

  The edges of his mouth pull into a wicked smile. “You said I take, Aria. And I will have you any which fucking way I like.”

  Dominic slides the straps of my dress down my curves. Stepping back, he views me through eyes so like mine when I once obsessed over him from afar. I place a hand over my breasts. The breeze taunts at my nipples, but they were hard much longer than I’ve been naked. “Play fair, Dom.”

  “This isn’t a game, chula. Tweak your nipple for papi.”

  “No.”

  “Slide your panties down, mami.” He glances into the shutter now. When I make no move to comply, Dominic descends to his knees. Even below, an aura of royalty surrounds him. It should be treason not to follow through with a tempting order.

  Dominic lies flat on the ground, one hand behind his head as he peers up through the lens. I roll my eyes, hiding a smile at how my brain imagines the view he’s capturing. The walls of my pussy fatten up, twitch, and no doubt glisten in the wind.

  I widen my stance around his hips and sink directly onto the bolder in his pants. At the click of the shutter, I add a little force to removing his belt, I growl. “I guess I have to run after the dick myself.”

  He laughs at my expense, and I swat at his chest. “You’re not modest, Dominic. Too late for that attribute.”

  “What? I’m taking pictures. Later, I’m painting your sweet pussy. Where should I put it? Above the fireplace in my bedroom? Or the ceiling?”

  I smile, and his sardonic expression melts in response. I hesitate. The day I chose not to send him packing after the first fuck ruined me and not him. The thought slowly cripples my heart.

  He places my camera down, reaches up, and draws my nipple into his mouth. “No matter what, Aria, I’m right where I should be at this moment, so are you. Nothing else matters, mami.”

  There’s something magnetic in the way he stares at me with warm, intriguing eyes. I can’t possibly look away.

  Shucking his shirt, Dominic then runs his hand up my inner thigh. His fingers skim my pulsating, honey walls. He leans up, capturing my bottom lip with his teeth then growls, “Now, fuck me slowly.”

  I run my hands along the massive muscles of his chest, tapering into his rippling abdomen. I travel lower to a huge cock, which is ready to split me in half. Hypnotized by all of him, my thighs have to cling to his waist to stay in an upright, straddling position.

  He brushes the curves of my breasts, worships my hips with a fiery caress. I moan, closing my eyes to his sensual touch. Dominic palms my core. His thumbs stroke excruciating circles. Whether I deny it or not, I’m lost to him. With barely restrained passion, I slide onto his erection.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Dominic

  I’m a stingy pendejo, and I couldn’t give half a fuck about it. A woman has never had me so mesmerized in all the years of my life. Aria rides my dick, gorgeous face controlled by fierce determination. Her hips roll like a wave lapping the shore. Going slow has me painfully aware of the magic drug lining the walls of her sex. Cupping her ass cheeks, I anchor her to me. My erection presses into her hard. Bucking upward, I go insane inside the soft ocean of her pussy. Her fingernails dig into my biceps, which is a sign that her tight pussy is still being stretched by my cock even months later. Still, I piston through her tight resistance.

  Aria screams my name on repeat. I let out a guttural moan, breaking the depth of her, bathing her in the heat of my cum. Aria collapses into me, sex spasming as she mews against my chest.

  I sweep my knuckles along the swell at the side of her breast. Her nipples harden
against my chest, so I stop. Dom, you read all about the chula, had to have her, and refused to promise more.

  “I can’t guarantee you when or if I’ll love you, chula.” The callus words, although sincere, stiffen Aria’s body. She lifts her head. My arms swoop her into a bear hug.

  “Then we go back to my terms, Dom. When I want to fuck, make it quick.”

  “I loved one woman before. Loved her at first sight, Aria.”

  Her breathing shakes out. “Dominic, I’m not hearing this right now.”

  I squeeze her tighter. “Too bad, you have to. We were sixteen—me, her, and Dario—when she moved to town. That day Dario came home, the first thing out of his mouth was that he was in love. For whatever reason, a few months earlier, my twin and I made up this rule, whoever sees a chula first has rights.”

  “Okay.”

  “Dario saw her in an advanced computer science in the afternoon. I had PE with her that morning.”

  “Oh, the entitlement. Did she have a name?”

  “Alejandra, and she came from the same town my papi was born in. Needless to say, I let her go. I had so many options.”

  “Yes, the evolution of the Cuban Lover had to start sometime, right?” she retorts.

  “Years later, I learned Alejandra attended MIT. I’d run into her while checking on Dario. He hadn’t been answering his phone. She said she hadn’t seen either of us in years. We started dating. Did everything we could to make time for each other. In her last year, working on a Ph.D., she was completing a thesis on the migration of butterflies.”

  “Wow, smart. I assume she is beautiful. Has to be beautiful.”

  “Gorgeous,” I reply, mindlessly, though my woman’s skin boils between my arms. “She was gorgeous—like you.”

  “Was?”

  “She was in a car accident with Dario. I went to her funeral. It was the first time my twin had left the house in a wheelchair. I gave a speech, the kind where a man cries his fucking eyes out in front of God, everyone. I held up a tiny engagement ring. Dario snapped.”