“What?” he said against her collarbone.
“Please, just - ”
He cupped her breasts and her head kicked back. She offered her chest up to him freely, begging for more contact as he took her nipple in his mouth. It was a tight, hard little button and she gasped as he grazed it with his teeth, her hands moving to his head, fingertips digging into his scalp. He banded an arm tight around her waist, holding her snug while he sucked. She moved her hips, ground hard against him. One of her hands left his head, pawed at his chest, and kept going so she could touch herself through her panties. He pulled back a second to watch her, to marvel at the completely different, wound up, sexual creature she'd turned into. Then he nudged her slim little fingers out of the way and stroked her with steady, firm pressure. She bucked against him.
"Christ," she hissed. "You're gonna…you hafta…" he felt her lips on top of his head and went back to her tits, kissing and nipping. Shit, he'd promised to "make her feel good," but his self-control was fraying. He was so hard, and if she kept up this grinding routine he'd blow his load before he ever made contact.
"I need you to fuck me," Alma whined, still moving against his hand.
Oh…how could he hold off when she put it like that? Carlos buried his face between her tits, kissed the soft flesh of the little valley there. "How do you want it? Hmm? Tell me."
Her arms went around his neck and her hair fell over his shoulders like a curtain. "Hard," she said in his ear. "And deep. Really deep. And slow. God…I wanna feel it."
This was good. The more she said, the more excited she became, the less likely she was to freak out and shove him off. Because this time, he wasn't going to be able to stop. "Keep talking."
"I want you on top," her voice was pleading. "Fuck me, fuck me please…"
He pulled her down to the bed with him and rolled over her.
**
Alma could feel the muscles moving and pulling along his ribs, in his back, his shoulders…he was just one big straining, rolling bundle of muscle on top of her. The bed springs creaked in time to the rush of exhaled breath in her ear that accompanied each thrust. Carlos pounded inside her: slow and hard, just as she’d wanted. Forward and retreat. God, he was thick, rubbing her wet walls in all the right places. Her legs were tight around his waist, his hip bones digging into her inner thighs. His weight pushed her down into the mattress, the smell of man sweat and cologne on his neck filling her nostrils as she clung desperately to him.
But she had to keep her eyes open, because every time they fluttered shut, she saw Sam. So she watched the ceiling and let every conscious thought dissolve, until she existed only in this moment, with this man, lived each stroke of his cock inside her.
He pushed her knees up further and came with a curse and one last hard thrust that sent her over the edge. This time when she shut her eyes, all she saw were starbursts against a black backdrop. He was heavy and still on top of her a moment and she welcomed the weight, the way her inner muscles still pulsed around him. When he finally withdrew and rolled over to lie beside her, she felt cold and exposed. And then shame slammed into her headfirst.
“Oh, God,” she murmured. Her body was still flushed, her heart rate still uneven, but the reality of the very real, very primal act wouldn’t be ignored. Alma put a shaking hand to her lips. “What did we do? Oh, shit what did we…” she trailed off because she thought she might cry. Her emotions felt like they’d been tossed around in a cocktail shaker; she had no idea what she was feeling.
She sat up and made a move to leave the bed, but a hand curled around her wrist. Stopped her.
A light sheen of sweat had left Carlos glowing. The veins in his arms and neck were popped out from exertion, his eyes still scary-intense…in a way. It was a good kind of scary: the kind that left her shivering and flushed even as tears spilled over her eyelids.
“It was wrong,” she said weakly, voice breaking.
His thumb rubbed up and back over her pulse point. “He asked me to look after you,” he countered, voice thick. “It’s not wrong, sweetheart. You know I…”
He didn’t have to say it. She knew. Alma nodded, took a deep breath, and weighed her alternatives. If she put her clothes on and went home, she’d spend a sleepless night curled up alone, berating herself for her lost job, her lost self-control.
So she lay down beside him again, welcomed his kiss. Let his mouth take away her protests. The few minutes their bodies had been joined had been the first time she hadn’t felt anything but good, so she hooked her leg over his hip and resolved not to say another damn word the rest of the night.
6
The sun was shining. Brightly. Its rays making him squint even though his eyes were still shut. Carlos didn’t understand how he could possibly have slept so late considering he couldn’t really sleep at all lately, and then he shifted around and realized that he wasn’t alone in bed.
His eyes flipped open. Alma was on her side, facing him, her mahogany hair a wild tangle around her shoulders. One smooth arm and a creamy stretch of her back were exposed, and he felt the soft touch of her breasts against his chest. Morning sun skimmed her face, painted her cheek gold, highlighted the soft curve of her lips.
A thrill ran through him as he recalled their night together and stared at the living proof of her sharing his cramped little bed. How long he’d dreamed idly of having her naked skin against his, and though that reality was tainted by the grief that had brought them together, he wouldn’t have traded this moment.
Alma’s lashes fluttered and those pretty brown eyes opened slowly. She lifted her head and he watched panic flicker across her face. “Oh,” she pulled in a little gasp. Her hands splayed across his chest and she pushed backward.
“You okay?” Carlos prodded, though he knew she wasn’t, his voice full of morning gravel.
She glanced up at his face for the first time and slowly, he saw the fight-or-flight instinct drain out of her. “Yeah.” She took a deep breath and then another. One corner of her mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. She smoothed her hands across his pecs, now leaning into him instead of away from him. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
He didn’t believe that, but damn did he want to. Wanted to think that as she stretched upward, meeting his kiss, she wasn’t pretending he was Sam.
**
Alma washed her hair with a dollop of the Axe body wash along the edge of the tub, stretching her back in a luxurious arch as she massaged the suds into her scalp. She had a feeling that when she let herself in her own front door later, the photos and smells and little reminders of Sam would crush her, but for the moment, one wonderfully mindless moment, she enjoyed the grab of her muscles, the soreness and fatigue, the finger-shaped bruises along her hips. In some part of her mind, she’d always known that she and Carlos would fit together like they had, that the spark between them could ignite into something hot that burned through friendship in a heartbeat.
And if she was honest, it hadn’t only been about Carlos. Hormones and loneliness had left her hungry, desperate.
When she pushed aside the shower curtain, wrapped in one towel with another on her head turban-style, she found Carlos at the sink brushing his teeth, dressed for work in jeans, boots and a Good & Green Landscaping shirt. He was the same guy she’d known for years, and yet…she was having a hard time seeing him that way this morning.
He spit his toothpaste in the sink and rinsed his mouth while she stood, looking on like an idiot. When he turned to her, one of his patented, sure-to-make-you-smile-back smiles already in place, she heard her phone trill to life beyond the bathroom, and it ruined the moment. Alma should have let it go to voicemail, but the idea of returning Carlos’s smile and asking to borrow his toothbrush was too intimate. So she clutched at the towel tucked under her arms and excused herself, hurrying out to the living room where she’d left her purse propped up against the sofa.
“Hello?” she greeted, breathless, without checking the caller ID.
&n
bsp; “Alma.” Her father. Shit. “Are you alright?”
Tom was never one to interfere in mother/daughter conflicts, even when he should. He liked to go to each of them after the fact, earn a false smile and pretend things were “alright.” “Fine, Dad,” she sighed. “I’m fine.”
“I drove by your place a few minutes ago and you weren’t at home.”
Double shit. “I…” she scrambled, wanting to say anything but the truth. “Spent the night with Caroline.” Alma winced as she said it, knowing the excuse was weak. She and her friend had been on the outs for a while now. Diane would never have the bought the story.
But Tom said, “Oh, are you girls getting along again? That’s good.”
She shivered with relief. “Yeah. It’s long since time we buried the hatchet.”
“Good,” he repeated. There was a pause in which she heard the purr of his Beemer’s engine. He must have been on his way to work. “Well, just wanted to check up on you, sweetheart. After last night.” Another pause, one in which she knew he was looking for her to make some sort of guilty comment about ruining her mother’s dinner party.
“Thanks,” she said instead.
The pauses were becoming ridiculous. “I’m sorry about your job, honey.”
Another thanks, and Alma hung up with a shake of her head. That had been a close call. Even if she was looking at Carlos in a different way, she wasn’t ready for anyone else to.
**
Good & Green signs were posted along the street in front of Dolman Plantation. Which meant Carlos wasn’t surprised that someone had tracked him down at work. Only, when his supervisor told him he had a visitor waiting by the truck, he’d anticipated Sean or one of his associates.
Instead, Tom Harris stood beside his smoke-grey BMW, hands in the pockets of his pressed black pants, a scowl on his face.
Carlos froze, and then scolded himself. He wasn’t some dumb kid working for the Harris family anymore. He wasn’t at their mercy. And if this was about Alma – and that was a great big if – he hadn’t done a damn thing wrong. Tom could get the fuck over himself. Rich prick, he thought, glancing at the car again as he tugged off his gloves and slid them through his belt.
“Carlos,” Tom greeted, saying his name like it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. “Afternoon.”
He nodded in acknowledgment, not willing to indulge in false pleasantries.
“Funny thing: Alma’s car wasn’t in her drive this morning.”
Carlos shrugged.
“But it was parked in front of your apartment complex.”
“She was upset. Wanted to come by and talk.” He frowned. “Seems she can’t do that at your house.”
Tom gave a tight-lipped non-smile. “I’ve known you Morales boys too long to believe you ever have ‘talking’ on your minds.”
“You can believe what you want,” he was being a shit and didn’t care.
“Your cousin was bad for my daughter.”
Carlos snorted.
“Alma had…has…so much potential. Her mother and I just want what’s best for her. And when she gets over her loss, she’s going to realize that.”
“So what’s this then? You telling me to stay away from her?”
He twitched another of those pretend smiles. “Not yet.” Tom turned around, the Beemer’s lights flashing because he no doubt had pressed the fob in his pocket. “I’m hoping it won’t come to that.”
Carlos watched him climb into his prick-mobile and drive off, engine purring, a polite amount of steam snaking out of the car’s tailpipe. He felt his jaw clench. His hands curled into fists inside the pockets of his Carhartt jacket. He wasn’t going to be falsely accused of holding Alma back: not after he’d finally had her in his arms. Which meant he couldn’t give Tom Harris’s pompous ass anything to complain about. It was long past time he got out of the drug business.
Carlos called Sean on his walk back to the planting bed he’d been digging by hand before Tom’s arrival. Got voicemail, cursed, and tried the “office” number. His secretary, the lovely Aisha with the Beyoncé hair and ass that wouldn’t quit, answered and agreed to pass along the message that Sean needed to call him back at his soonest convenience. He checked his inbox for texts before he tugged his gloves back on, but as he’d feared – or maybe figured – there were no messages from Alma.
Damn it, he thought, hefting his mattock and swinging it mercilessly down at the root he was trying to dislodge from the earth. He’d no doubt spooked her: pushed her too hard, too fast. She’d wanted to leave after that first time, but he’d been too wrapped up in her, too spellbound, to let that happen, so he’d coaxed her back to him. She hadn’t refused him, but there was no way she’d been emotionally ready for all that. And he’d seen the bruises on her hips, knew he’d let himself get lost in her body and had let go of all rational thinking. Couldn’t have been any rougher than Sam. The thought made him bitter. Here he was playing with something that wasn’t his, pretending she loved him…
“Hey, bro. What’s up?” Salvador Rubio had been with the outfit about a month, and insisted on calling him “bro” because he thought their mutual Latino heritage made them kin or some shit. Never mind that half the crew was Mexican, Salvador was trying way too hard to be Carlos’s best bud.
Well, his best bud was dead. And he’d fucked his widow last night. Salvador didn’t have a prayer.
“S’up,” Carlos said in monotone, taking another swing at the root and hoping it sent the fellow landscaper on his way.
No such luck. “Did you hear?”
He grunted a response.
“Boss popped Charlie with a random drug test…” he paused with what he must have thought was dramatic effect. They all knew Charlie, in his knit stocking cap and hobo beard, was forever high. Salvador dropped his voice a notch to a stage whisper. “Dude totally failed.”
“Coulda told you that.”
“I heard somebody say they’re gonna start making us all piss in a cup. Can you believe that shit?”
His gut tightened up until he reminded himself that he only sold the stuff, but did not partake. That was one of those things Sean had hammered home: you never got high off your own supply. And he wouldn’t have anyway. That just wasn’t his thing. “Yeah I can.” Because their foreman didn’t want to be liable for any catastrophes caused by employees doing stupid shit under the influence.
Salvador was quiet so long that Carlos thought he’d walked away, but when he propped himself up with the head of the mattock in the freshly-tilled red clay, he saw that his “bro” was still there, hands in the pockets of his Dickies work pants, looking fidgety. “I gotta ask, man,” he finally said. “Do you think you could, maybe, you know…hook me up?”
The implications of the suggestion could be taken several ways, none of which made Carlos comfortable. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“The other day at lunch?” Salvador took a step closer, so close he might have slipped down into the hole at their feet. “I saw what was in your pocket,” he whispered. “I know you deal.”
He felt all the blood drain out of his face. Panic welled up in his throat. He couldn’t afford to lose this job. Even worse, get arrested. Goddamn Sean…goddamn Sam, he thought with a bitterness he’d never felt for his cousin before. That cocky son of a bitch was going to end up ruining both of their lives. “I – I don’t know what you saw,” Carlos stammered.
Salvador grinned in a sleazy, cocky way, like he thought he was too damn cool to get caught. “Chill, bro, I didn’t say anything.”
Carlos wasn’t relieved.
“And I’m not gonna. Look, I think we could both help each other out here. You obviously got product to push and I’ve got a need. How much you sellin’ for?”
His heart hammered against his sternum and he wondered, if an inquiry by a dumbass like this rattled him, how quickly would he crumble if the cops scooped him up? He shook his head, scrambling for an answer. “I don’t work independently. You’d
have to contact my dealer and I…” he clamped his lips shut before he could say anything else incriminating.
“Well who is he?”
“Salvador,” he snapped. “Let it go. This isn’t happening and I’m not talking about it anymore.”
“You don’t have to be a dick about it,” Salvador grumbled. “I won’t tell anyone.” He sounded dejected, sad even, as he picked up his shovel and trudged away.
Carlos let out a sigh that left his lungs so empty they ached. Call me back, Sean, he prayed. For the love of God, call me back.
But by the time he clocked out that afternoon, his phone was still silent. He stared at the screen the whole ride back to the Good & Green headquarters, willing it to come to life in his hand. But it didn’t. And the fact that no one commented on his bizarre fixation with his cell told him just how distant he’d become in the past couple of months. He’d had friends at work, now he struggled to recall people’s names. In some ways, he wasn’t much better off than Alma.
Alma.
Just thinking her name warmed him. As he walked across the crushed gravel lot to his car, the collar of his Carhartt jacket popped up against the nip of the wind, he let his worry and stress fall away and concentrated instead on the beautiful brunette who’d be waiting for him when he got home.
Fuck Tom Harris. And fuck Sean Taylor. He’d figure it out. Just as soon as he got his hands on Alma again, he’d figure it all out.
7
There was a soft knock on his office door and then it swung open, Aisha looking like a mahogany goddess in the threshold. Something about her eyes, though, told Sean this wasn’t business as normal. She had slipped into her role as receptionist with the ease of pulling on a worn-in pair of shoes – Sean had his suspicions that before she’d joined the force, she’d lived a hard life on the other side of the law – but there was a cop’s alertness in the way she glanced at him and then pushed the door all the way open.
“Someone to see you, Mr. Taylor,” she said in her usual, bored tone. She ushered in the guest with a flick of a manicured hand and then excused herself silently. She was a good one, Aisha, and when this undercover stint was over, Sean was going to submit a personal recommendation that she be considered for detective.
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