by Reinke, Sara
She moaned again as he slid his fingers inside her, one at a time, until he’d tucked the first three fingers nearly to the knuckle into her sheath. She was so tight against him, so soft, so amazingly wet and warm, and when she moved, drawing him in more deeply, her mewls becoming sharper, more insistent.
“God, woman.” He gasped, his forehead pressed to hers, both of them breathless and flushed. “Sabes lo que estás haciendo a mí?” Do you know what you’re doing to me?
“Make love to me,” she whispered.
As much as he wanted to—as long as he’d dreamed of it—he shook his head. “Don’t say that.”
He feared it would be too much, that if he tried, even if she consented, she’d become frightened, that it would trigger horrific flashbacks for her. There were other ways he could please her—so many he could imagine—that he thought would be safer for her, that would help her realize that not every man in the world meant to hurt her or take what they wanted without offering anything pleasurable or satisfying in return.
“I want to,” she said, grinding against his hand, clutching at his arms. “God, Elías, please.” She kissed him fiercely, making him groan with his own mounting, staggering need. “Please make love to me.”
He couldn’t refuse, not when she was begged him like that. How many nights had he been awake in bed, imagining being with Pilar in his mind, touching her, tasting her? Too damn many to count; too damn many to deny her.
She helped him shove and tug at her dress, then she yanked at his shirt, ripping buttons loose with her frantic, eager effort. He stumbled out of his pants, kicking them across the kitchen floor, then caught her by the waist and picked her up, feeling her legs lock around his middle. Carrying her in his arms, crushed against his chest, he stumbled from the kitchen to the corridor and from there to his bedroom. There, he laid her back against the tangled mess of his bedsheets. He kept a box of condoms in his bedside drawer; as he reached for them, he looked down at her.
Bathed in moonlight, she was stunning, her beautiful body—all of its lush curves and long, lean lines—so exquisite, so tantalizingly revealed. Her dark hair had pooled beneath her and around her head in a glossy tumble.
God, she’s beautiful, he thought, and all at once, he hesitated again, uncertain. “We don’t have to do this,” he breathed. “It wouldn’t change anything—how I feel.”
Because I love you, he thought, and she smiled softly, reaching between them and slipping the condom from his hand. “I want this,” she promised him again, tearing open the foil package. Her breasts hitched with every eager staccato breath. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes round, her lips parted, breath bated in anticipation. “I want you, Elías.”
She sat up, curling her fingers slowly around the thick base of his aching, erect shaft. He gritted his teeth, sucking in a sharp breath as for a moment, she toyed with him, stroking up and down, her grip tightening and relaxing with every stroke. By the time she’d worked the condom over him, he was amazed he hadn’t swelled enough to burst through its thin confines. He didn’t even give her time to lie down; he fell against her, pressing her back against the bed.
“Sabes lo que estás haciendo a mí?” he whispered again, cradling her face between his hands.
He meant to go slowly, to ease himself inside so that he wouldn’t hurt her, but she surprised him by hooking her fingers into his ass and dragging him into her, pulling him in deeply.
“Wait,” he groaned, and he had to stop, to take her hands and pull them away so that he didn’t come. She had him so hot, so aroused—he’d wanted her so desperately and for so long—it was all he could do to rein himself in, to struggle and regain some control over himself.
When he was able to move again, he took his time, relishing every moment of wondrous friction as he slid out, nearly to the tip, then plunged back in again, burying himself in her warmth. Even through the thin latex of the condom, he could feel how hot and wet and responsive her body was to his own as she moved beneath him, against him, with him. Within moments, she clutched at him again, her fingernails digging into his back as he brought her to climax. Her entire body tightened beneath him, and she cried out his name, arching her back, straining against him.
It was too much, the sudden, powerful contractions within her, gripping him forcefully, drawing his own release. With a cry, he jerked against her, his entire body shuddering as waves of bright, stunning pleasure rocked through him. In the aftermath, he crumpled forward, sweat-soaked and exhausted, gasping for breath and trembling with Pilar tucked beneath him, her legs still encircling his waist.
“Madre de Dios,” he said shakily.
She turned her face toward his, her lips dancing lightly against his ear. “You can say that again,” she murmured, making him laugh.
Propping himself with his hands, he raised his head and shoulders, looking down at her. “Are you all right?”
Pilar nodded with a smile, then reached up to cradle the back of his head in her hand, to pull him down so she could kiss him on the mouth. “I want more,” she whispered, surprising him and—even more surprising—stoking a fresh new erection at the very idea.
He nodded once, kissing her, feeling her thighs tighten around him. Me too, he thought. God Almighty, I never want this to stop.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Pilar lay awake, nestled in Elías’s arms, watching as the digital clock on his nightstand ticked off another minute: 2:03 a.m.
I should go now.
He was sound asleep behind her, had been for the better part of the last hour, having drifted off, exhausted, after they’d made love again for at least the fourth time that night. The warmth of his body, the soft rhythm of his breath, the weight of his arm as it lay draped across her waist and the light pressure of his fingers laced through her own comforted her, lulled her into an all too tempting state of contentment.
Because I don’t want this to end, she thought. I don’t want to lose this feeling…to lose Elías. Not tonight, not ever.
But Tomás Lovato still troubled her, the memory of seeing his bike parked outside of that tavern replaying in her mind over and over, a nagging temptation that she found harder and harder to resist with each passing minute.
I might not get another chance, she thought. And I might not ever get a shot at Pepe, not directly at least. So this could be it. Taking out his lieutenants hurts him, too, in the end. Maybe that will be enough. Maybe then I can get on with my life.
Pilar rolled slightly, looking back at Elías as he lay spooned against her. His forehead was still damp with sweat from exertion; his dark hair clung to his skin in tousled tufts. She leaned over enough to kiss him lightly on the brow. He murmured in his sleep, words she couldn’t make out, but didn’t stir as she then slipped out of bed.
Her dress was in the kitchen, along with her shoes, but before going to retrieve them, she knelt, naked, at his bedside.
My work stays at the office, he’d told her earlier. My gun and handcuffs are in a drawer in my nightstand.
With a cautious glance at the bed to make sure he remained undisturbed, she slowly eased the nightstand drawer open. It was dark, but she caught a glimpse of light from the alarm clock wink off of something metallic—a pair of handcuffs resting on top of some magazines inside the drawer. Moving slowly to minimize noise, she carefully lifted them from the drawer.
Rising to her feet, she leaned over the bed again, taking Elías gently by the hand and rolling him over onto his back. He groaned softly but remained asleep, even as she clasped one of the cuffs around his wrist, then latched the free cuff on to one of the headboard posts, tethering him to it.
I’m sorry, she thought, bending over and kissing him again, feeling ashamed of herself but unwilling to change her mind and turn him loose. I can’t take a chance on you waking up and trying to stop me.
Even though he hadn’t said anything to her about Miguel Torres, he hadn’t needed to; she could read his mind. That was why he’d come to her house that night.
He’d meant to confront her about it, or at least question her. He didn’t suspect her directly but thought she was involved. And if he’d felt it was warranted, he would have arrested her too. Because even though she didn’t need telepathy to know Elías was falling in love with her, she also didn’t need it to realize he was a good police officer and wouldn’t shirk his duty.
Not even for me, she thought, stealing out of the bedroom, leaving him asleep and cuffed to the bed.
As she re-dressed in the kitchen, she thought about taking his pistol with her. This idea was quickly dismissed. Real life might have been more boring for cops than on TV, as he’d pointed out earlier, but she’d watched enough forensic documentary shows to know they could trace bullets just as easily in fact as in fiction. Rounds from Elías’s gun would direct the blame back at him, and she couldn’t do that to him, no matter her need for revenge.
Because I’m falling in love with him too.
The thought stopped her in her tracks. It occurred to her that she could go back into the bedroom, set him free, slip out of her dress and get back into bed, all without having changed anything that had happened that night. In the morning, she’d have to face her friends and family who may or may not understand her feelings for a human—who may or may not approve of them—but it wouldn’t have mattered.
It’s not too late to stop this, she thought. To put it behind me, move on with my life. Dad would have wanted that, wouldn’t he? More than anything else, that’s what he always told me—he wanted me to be happy.
On the counter directly across from her, she saw a butcher block. She went toward it, moving slowly, like sleepwalking, and began withdrawing knives from it one by one, examining each in turn, assessing their heft in her hand.
It’s not too late to stop this, she thought, even as she settled on one—a slim, lightweight paring knife with an unusually curved blade. It was small enough to be wielded deftly in hand-to-hand combat, but long enough to penetrate a man’s chest cavity and viscera, to strike deep into the heart.
It’s not too late to stop, she thought again, even as she returned to Elías’s bedroom and opened his closet. She found a jacket hanging inside, a suit blazer that she shrugged on over her dress. She tucked the knife down into the deep hip pocket, keeping it camouflaged but within easy reach.
“What are you doing?”
Elías’s voice, sleepy and hoarse, startled her, and she whirled to face the bed. His eyes were open; he blinked dazedly at her, his expression bewildered. When he tried to sit up, his arm caught against the short length of chain between the steel cuffs, and he blinked in surprise. Squinting at the headboard, he realized what she’d done. “Qué es esto?” he asked, puzzled. What’s this? He thought she was playing; she could read his mind and tell.
She took a hedging step backward, inching out of the room. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Really, Elías, she wanted to plead. I’m sorry. I just don’t want you involved—can’t risk you getting hurt.
“Pilar?” He looked at her, confused and with mounting concern. “Where are you going?”
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” she said, and his eyes widened.
“What are you talking about? Let me go,” he said, shaking his arm, rattling the handcuffs. “This isn’t funny. Come on.”
“I’ll be back,” she promised again, then turned, darting down the hall toward the living room.
“What? Pilar, no, come back! Where are you going?”
He was still calling for her when she rushed out the front door, slamming it behind her. On her way out, she’d stopped long enough to grab his car keys off an entryway table where she’d seen him drop them upon their arrival earlier. As she took the steps down to the driveway two at a time, she fought against the stinging heat of tears as they welled in her eyes.
I have to do this, she told herself fiercely. There’s no other way. Not after what they did to me. Not after what they did to my father.
She looked up at the darkened windows of Elías’s condo before thumbing the alarm off on his Charger, automatically unlocking the car doors. I’ll come back and let you out, I promise, she thought as she slid into the driver’s seat. I don’t want to hurt you, Elías, but I have to do this. One more time, then maybe it will be enough. One last time—to make them pay.
****
“Pilar!” Elías shouted, his voice hoarse from the strain. He’d pulled against the handcuffs as much as he could, but couldn’t reach across the bed in full, could hardly move from his supine position. “Pilar, goddamn it!”
It was too late anyway. He’d heard the front door close behind her. Worse—he’d heard the jangle of his car keys in her hand, and shortly thereafter, the chirp of his car alarm disengaging from outside. There’d been no mistaking the telltale rumble of the Charger’s engine firing up, so even though he continued lying there, screaming for her like an idiot, he knew the truth.
She’s gone.
It might have been funny had he not felt so goddamn stupid. And if he hadn’t been left unable to get to his pills.
He looked over at the nightstand on the other side of the bed. Because it also now lay just beyond even his most strained and concerted of reaches, it may as well have been on the other side of the planet as far as Elías was concerned. Pilar had taken his handcuffs out of the drawer on that nightstand—the same drawer he kept his emergency glucose in.
The same drawer I can’t reach, he thought with a miserable laugh.
“Fuck me,” he whispered.
He had a key to the cuffs. No problem there. But the key was on his key ring, which was equally out of his reach, not only because as a rule he dropped it onto a small table just inside the condo door, but because Pilar had taken them. She’d taken the keys, taken his car, and now he was royally screwed.
“Fuck me,” he said again.
His blood sugar normally dropped overnight; as a diabetic, he was at his highest risk for hypoglycemia first thing in the morning, which was why breakfast was a meal that, even at his worst and most noncompliant, he’d never been idiotic or stubborn enough to skip.
And when you add in the fact that I just had at least a four-hour sex marathon—more than a strenuous workout—I’m probably looking at a blood sugar of around 75. And dropping fast.
Which wasn’t good, but not alarming. Not yet. At around 70 milligrams of glucose per deciliter of blood, he’d start to feel the first signs and symptoms of hypoglycemia. By 60, the symptoms would grow more serious and severe. And if they dipped below 50, his consciousness and neurological functioning would be affected. He’d become confused, incoherent, even suffer seizures or lapse into a coma, suffer irreversible brain damage.
I’ll be back in a few hours, Pilar had told him.
Elías looked at the clock. Where was she going? he wondered. Had making love with him upset her after all? Had he hurt her unintentionally? Frightened her? He struggled to think, racking his brain, replaying the entire evening from start to finish, trying to figure out when, where and how he might have fucked up.
I’ll be back in a few hours.
But why? he wondered. Was this her idea of a prank, some sort of sexual practical joke?
Where the hell could she have gone?
He was breathing hard from both physical exertion and mental stress and tried to force himself to calm down. Because if I don’t, my blood sugar’s going to sink like a goddamn rock in a pond, he thought.
”Fuck me,” he whispered again, closing his eyes.
****
He’s not going to be here, Pilar thought as she pulled the sleek Charger into the mostly vacant parking lot outside of Boone’s Tavern. Look at this place. It’s practically empty. He’ll be long gone and ancient history.
And then she spotted Tomás Lovato’s blue-wheeled motorcycle in exactly the same spot where she’d glimpsed it earlier. Nearly five hours had passed since then, but the bike remained. And that means Tomás is still here too.
The corner of her mouth hooke
d in a grim, humorless smile. “Bueno,” she murmured as she slipped into a parking place along the shadow-draped side of the building, away from any direct glow from nearby streetlights. Good.
Before opening the door, she glanced at herself in the rearview mirror and felt a moment’s hesitation. It’s still not too late, she thought. She could turn around and go back to Elías’s house. She could undo the cuffs, beg for his forgiveness, try to explain things to him and hope that he would understand, forgive her…love her anyway.
She reached behind her, gathering her thick hair in her hands, twisting it into a loose top knot against the back of her head. Taking the knife from her pocket, she pushed the blade down through the makeshift bun, securing both in place. At first glance, the exposed hilt could be mistaken for a hair accessory, especially to man who wouldn’t know any differently—and especially if he’d been drinking for the last five hours.
The Nahual didn’t metabolize drugs or alcohol in the same way as humans. Just as their healing abilities were heightened, so, too, were their metabolisms. It took massive amounts of alcohol consumed over a steady and prolonged period of time for one of the Nahual to enjoy the full effects of inebriation that a human could experience in a handful of drinks and a quarter of the time.
Since Pilar doubted that Tomás was at the tavern because of its ambience or allure, she suspected he’d been drinking. A lot. Which would mean his guard would also be down, his ordinary physical prowess hampered, his rationale impaired.
“Bueno,” she said again, stepping out of the car.
When she walked into the bar, she saw a pair of human males and a woman playing pool in the far corner of the room. The trio stopped what they were doing—the men so they could watch Pilar breeze through the entrance in her gossamer dress, her high heels clicking against the wooden floor, and the woman so she could shoot daggers in Pilar’s general direction with her eyes. Another human sat at one end of the bar, hunched over and dazed, his drunken gaze fixed distractedly on his own reflection in the mirror behind the service counter.
