Buried (Hiding From Love #3)

by Selena Laurence

  I release one of her breasts and slide my hand down between her legs. When I run my finger through her folds, I discover the wettest, warmest paradise I’ve ever felt.

  “Please tell me that’s not just from the hot shower,” I rasp into her hair.

  “Uhh…no,” she gasps as I insert another finger. “It’s all you.”

  I begin a slow, steady rhythm in and out of her, and she grinds against my hand, keeping the time.

  My balls are so tight that I think they’d pop like overfilled water balloons if anything touched them. I can’t keep this up for very long.

  “Beth,” I breathe heavily. “You need to know something… I haven’t been with anyone in four years.”

  She stops moving, her muscles tight around my fingers. “Can I ask you a question?”

  I whisper, “Yeah,” in her ear.

  “Do the guys in prison… I mean, is it true? What they say?” she asks in a small voice.

  I slide my fingers out and gently turn her, placing my palm along her face so that she has to look at me.

  “Yes,” I tell her firmly. “That does go on, both when guys want to and when”—I clear my throat, memories of guys screaming in pain as they were attacked in the showers crashing down on me for a few seconds—“when they don’t.” Her eyes drop, but I press my thumb into her cheekbone slightly to get her to look back at my eyes. “But not to me. Never. I made it my personal mission to avoid two things while I was in, and that was one of them.”

  “What was the other?” she asks.

  “Death,” I say simply.

  She blinks a couple of times, and I can see the shift when she decides to avoid thinking about yet one more horrifying thing. A small smile curls the ends of her pretty pink lips.

  “So, four years, huh?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “That’s a long time,” she tells me as her hand snakes down between us and finds its way around my cock.

  I jerk against her. “A really long time.” I swallow and try to count the tiles on the wall in front of me. “Which is why we need to focus on you first.” I gingerly remove her hand from my dick. Again, I’m questioning my own sanity here.

  She gives me a pouty face, and I have to chuckle.

  “Listen, I’m going to make you see stars and then you’re going to return the favor by promising not to judge me too hard because I think I’m going to have to get inside of you and just let go. I have no patience left, linda.”

  I kiss her, openmouthed, putting all my feelings into it, every sweet memory, every burning desire, every dream and hope and wish I’ve had about Beth for the last twenty-some years. My hand finds her core again, and I bend down to suck her nipple into my mouth at the same time. The water is peppering us, and the sensations of her slick channel around my fingers, her firm nipple in my mouth, and the warm moisture all over my body are like I’ve hit the Triple Crown of pleasure.

  Within a couple of minutes, she’s back to grinding against my hand, and I’ve walked her to the wall, leaning my weight against her as we both seek the most pressure and friction we can get. I can’t help but thrust against her stomach as I finger her, her little gasps and moans spurring me on in my quest to give her one hell of an orgasm.

  I reach down with my free hand and lift her leg so that her one foot rests on the built-in bench next to us. With her opened up more, I drive my fingers in deeper, using my thumb to rub little circles around her clit at the same time. I find that special little patch of skin inside her and focus friction there as I work her clit. Her breathing picks up until she’s rasping out breaths, her entire body trembling.

  “Oh, oh, oh God,” she moans.

  I thrust in one last time, pressing the heel of my hand against her clit and rubbing that spot inside with my middle finger. Once, twice, and she comes apart, screaming my name, her entire body convulsing in wave after wave after wave.

  When the pulsing inside her finally ends, I carefully withdraw my fingers, holding her now relaxed form against mine as I turn us and sit down on the bench. She straddles me and kisses the side of my neck, her fingers digging through the back of my hair.

  “If that’s you out of practice, I don’t think I can live through the other you,” she tells me.

  I chuckle, trying really hard not to thrust against her soft slick bottom that’s placed so conveniently on my lap.

  “I perform well when the object of my efforts is so fucking sexy,” I say as I kiss her. I feel her smile against my lips.

  “Now,” she whispers, “I think you said something about being inside me?”

  “Huh. Yeah? Did I say that?”

  “You did.”

  “You sure about this?” I ask, looking into her eyes.

  She strokes my cheek with her thumb as she cradles my face in her hands. “Completely,” she answers.

  “Gracias a Dios,” I answer, casting my eyes upwards.

  She laughs, and I reach up behind us to the shelf where I put the condom. I tear the foil with my teeth, watching her dark eyes the whole time. I let go of her to reach between us and roll the condom on, and she stays on my lap, watching everything I do. When I’m wrapped up nice and tight, she lifts, knees on either side of me on the bench. I look up at her, with all of her dark, wet hair streaming around her face and shoulders, her serious eyes looking down on me, her pink, swollen lips slightly parted.

  “2Te amo,” I tell her.

  “I love you too,” she answers just before I pull her down and thrust into her.

  I first had sex when I was sixteen, after junior prom. It was a cliché—me and my date in the back of the little twenty-year-old Honda I bought with my lawn mowing money I’d saved for three years. It was uncomfortable and awkward, and neither one of us talked about it again. The next time I got laid was senior year when I had a girlfriend for a few weeks, before the obligations of my soccer season sent her looking for a boyfriend with more time and money to spend on her.

  So, when I joined the RH, I wasn’t much in the way of experienced. But fucking became the one bright spot in my hellish life. The RH had girls, lots of them, and they knew exactly what guys liked. So the first couple of years, I went a little wild, drowning my sorrows in tits and ass and whatever pussy I could get my dick into. Apparently I was decent at it. The girls were always happy to oblige, and I got the nickname Guapo. At some point, it lost its luster, but for a while, it might have been the one thing that kept me going day after day as I learned to throw a punch, shoot a gun, push drugs, and take orders from assholes like El Jefe.

  But never once, in all those years, with all those girls, did I feel even one ounce of what I feel right now with Beth. It’s like some sort of switch has been flipped inside me, and there’s this light, this heat, this fucking thing glowing in me. It feels so incredible that it nearly brings tears to my eyes. There is no other woman for me but this one. I know that the moment I’m inside her.

  She. Is. Everything.

  I start to move in and out of her, and my mind is abuzz, just this pool of blinding, humming electricity. I thrust harder and faster, my hands digging into her hips, my breath stuttering in and out of me so fast and so shallow that I’m afraid I might die from the lack of oxygen. It’s like the best high you could ever have, and it’s nearly as frightening. I know, right then, that I’ve found my addiction. I never cared about drugs. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be drunk. I know well how addicting adrenaline can be, but I never enjoyed what you had to do to get that kind of rush—risking your life in a gun battle always seemed like a really dumbass way to get a high.

  But this. This, I will crave. I can feel it already. I will crave this feeling that I can only get from being inside this woman, and it will haunt me for the rest of my life. It immediately becomes my personal goal to be inside Beth Garcia as often and as long as I possibly can.

  And on that silent promise to myself, I thrust one last time, yelling my passion in Spanish as an orgasm the likes of which I’ve never felt
rips through me, and Beth follows right behind, finally collapsing in my arms, her head on my shoulder, our hearts beating in perfect unison.

  * * *

  1 Telenovela = Spanish soap opera

  2 Te amo = I love you

  I finally understand the difference between having sex and making love. And God, is making love better. I’ve had boyfriends, I’ve had sex, and I’ve had orgasms. But until today, I’d never had Juan. I’d never made love, I’d never felt what I feel as we lie in bed together, both sated from a couple of hours of serious orgasmic activity.

  Juan runs his finger around my belly button in little circles, causing my tummy to flutter and dance a little jig. His eyes are closed, and he has a look of relaxation on his face that I haven’t seen since I found him again after all the years apart.

  “We’re going to have to get up eventually,” I say, staring at the ceiling so I can’t see Juan’s very delicious chest and try to jump him again.

  “Mmm. Why’s that?” he mumbles

  “I’m hungry.”

  He opens one eye and peers at me. “Hungry? Shit, mujer, how can you be thinking about food after everything I just did for you?”

  “Hey, a girl can’t live on love alone, and those peanuts and stuff in the mini fridge wore off about an hour ago.”

  Juan sighs. “Okay. I guess we can get up. Might as well face whatever the hell we’ve got to deal with next anyway. Putting it off won’t make it any easier.”

  “Juan?”

  “Yeah, linda?”

  “My family… They’re going to be sick worrying about where I’ve gone.”

  Juan looks at me with sad eyes, and I know he feels like this is all his fault. “I know, and we’ll talk to Miguel about it today. He mentioned letting you contact them yesterday. Let’s get ready so we can go see him.”

  He sits up and climbs out of the big bed before he makes his way over to the walk-in closet.

  “Madre de Dios!” he exclaims as he walks into the closet. “You’d better come here and see this, linda.”

  I hop out of bed and go stand in the doorway of the closet. “Oh. My. God,” I whisper.

  Inside, a room about the size of my living room at home is stuffed, floor to ceiling, with clothes. Pants, shirts, jackets, hats, scarves—every type of clothing item you could think of. It’s like an expensive boutique has vomited all over the place.

  One side has women’s clothes, the other men’s, and the back wall is nothing but shoes. Probably close to one hundred pairs altogether.

  “Um, wow,” I mutter, walking in deeper.

  “Yeah,” Juan answers, seeming mostly speechless.

  “He did all this? When he knew he’d be bringing us here?” I ask as my fingers skim the smooth fabric of a very pretty sundress.

  “I guess so.” Juan looks at me. “This is kind of nuts, isn’t it? I mean, he’s kind of crazy, right?”

  I nod. “It’s pretty crazy. But sort of weirdly thoughtful too.”

  “Well, I guess we can find something to wear in all of this.”

  “Yeah. Assuming any of it fits.”

  Thirty minutes later, I’m dressed in a pair of silk, drawstring-waist shorts that fit perfectly along with a loose, sleeveless, silk tunic to match. Juan has on a pair of khaki shorts and a dark, V-necked T-shirt that clings to his well-toned chest like it was custom made. I picked out his outfit.

  “I feel like a fucking 1cabron in this shit,” he complains, tugging on the neck of the shirt.

  “You look really hot,” I tell him as I run a hand down his chest. “You should wear stuff like this more often.”

  Juan looks down at me, his eyes blazing. “I’ve been dressed like a two-bit gangster or in pretty, orange PJs courtesy of the state of Texas for seven years, chica. It may take me a while to get the hang of this, but if you keep looking at me like that, I’ll wear whatever you want.”

  I smile at him. “I’ve got lots more looks just like this one. Keep putting on these tight T-shirts.”

  He takes my hand and walks to the door, pausing with his fingers on the doorknob. “I’m pretty certain he doesn’t want to hurt me,” he tells me quietly, “but I don’t know what he’d do if I tried to leave, and I have no idea what he means to do with you. You have to promise me you’ll stay aware all the time and you won’t do anything without checking with me first.”

  I swallow, sadness washing through me that we have to leave this little paradise we’ve created for ourselves this morning. “Okay.”

  “I meant it when I said I’ll get you out of here as fast as I can. But it might take me a few days to figure out his setup. He’s got a lot of men, I don’t know the area, and we don’t have any money. I won’t lie to you, linda. It’s not going to be easy. He’s got the entire Mexican government on his payroll from what I can tell. When you get out of here, you won’t be safe until you’re over the border.”

  “When we get out of here,” I correct. “I won’t go without you.”

  He smooths his hand down my hair. “Okay, linda. You and me against the Mexican cartel. Let’s go see what’s out there.”

  We walk through the house, led by our personal bodyguard, Ryan. I can’t help but smirk when he introduces himself. He stands a stocky five foot nine, with dark skin and hair, a true mestizo—a mix of Native Indian and Spanish—and the incongruity with the Irish-American name sends me into peals of laughter.

  “Beth,” Juan said out of the corner of his mouth as I struggle to stop giggling. “Don’t piss off the big guy with the semi-auto in his belt.”

  “It’s okay, Señor Juan,” Ryan says from ahead of us in the hall. “She’s laughing at my name, I bet, and I don’t blame her.”

  I feel bad immediately. Just because he works for the Santos Mexicanos doesn’t mean the guy has no feelings.

  “I’m sorry, Ryan. I’m really not laughing at you. I’m still tired from traveling all night and it makes me laugh at stuff I shouldn’t.”

  “It’s okay, Señorita. Really. My mom had this thing for Ryan O’Neal, the American actor? So she named me after him. Everyone’s laughed at it my whole life. I’d change it, but honestly, it’d break my poor madre’s heart, so I put up with it. She’s just never understood how mismatched I am with the name Ryan.” He shrugs.

  I can’t help but smile at him as we turn a corner and come to the large, central staircase that ends at the house foyer. “You’re really good to be so considerate of your mother,” I tell him.

  We reach the bottom of the staircase and Clara appears from a hallway to the left.

  “2Buenos tardes,” she exclaimes cheerfully. “Did you sleep well?”

  I can feel my cheeks heat as I remember everything that came after the sleeping, but Juan answers politely. “Yes, thank you, but I think my Señorita is hungry now.”

  “Of course, mijos. How would you like to eat on the patio by the pool? I’ll have one of the girls bring your food right out and I’ll let your father know you’re up.”

  Juan nods, and Ryan gestures behind the staircase, where the foyer continues back to a set of glass doors.

  We find ourselves on a large, Saltillo-tile patio partially covered by a pergola. Beyond that, there are two steps down to a swimming pool that is a perfect crystalline blue. On the opposite side of the pool sits a pool house. The entire patio and pool enclosure are surrounded by lush, tropical foliage, bushes, flowering shrubs, and flowing, vine-covered trees. It looks like someone has dropped a Beverly Hills pool into the Amazon.

  The patio is large enough to host a party on, and there is a large dining table that seats twelve as well as two smaller café tables and a seating area complete with an outdoor fireplace and sofas.

  We choose one of the smaller four-person tables and sit down as Ryan goes to stand quietly near one of the posts that supports the patio roof. I notice him speaking into his wristwatch and pressing two fingers to his earpiece as he listens.

  I look back at Juan to see him scanning the area carefully.
“What are you seeing?” I ask quietly.

  “A lot of money,” he says, looking at me from under his lashes.

  “You couldn’t have had a father who had all this legitimately, could you?” I mumble. “It would have been pretty damn nice to come visit once a year and sit by this pool for a week.” I wink at him.

  Juan smiles weakly. “Yeah, sorry about that, linda.”

  I put my hand over his on the table. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to deal with all this so I’m saying a bunch of stupid things. I promise not to do it around him. I’ll get it under control.”

  Juan shakes his head. “It’s fine. I don’t know how to deal with it either—” His eyes shift to something over my shoulder, and I turn in time to see Miguel Ybarra approaching us, followed by two servants carrying trays of food.

  “Buenos tardes, mijos,” he says as he reaches our table and gives us a small bow.

  Juan immediately stands, and I note the sign of respect to his father. “Buenos tardes,” he answers.

  The older man gives him a small smile and then looks at me and asks, “May I?” as he gestures to the empty chair next to me.

  “Of course,” I answer quietly, instinctively going back into mob-girlfriend mode—be seen and not heard.

  He sits, and Juan follows as the servants begin to set plates and glasses on the table.

  Once a spread of fruit, salad, grilled meats, and tortillas has been set out, the servants retreat, and Miguel speaks.

  “You both slept well?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Juan answers.

  “Good. Please eat. I will do most of the talking for a bit.”

  I shoot Juan a look, but he’s focused on his father, his face impassive as he nods and began to eat. It almost frightens me how he can turn the gangster stuff on and off like a switch. One moment, he’s a sweet, passionate lover, the next an expressionless, cool-as-ice mobster.