My Redemption

by Jane Henry

  With his free hand, he fumbled for his zipper, and his erection sprang free.

  “Oh my God. You don’t wear underwear,” she whispered inanely, glancing downward, then giggled at her own observation. “I don’t know what I expected, I mean, badass that you are and all, but… Holy shit.”

  He snickered as his teeth clamped gently around her sensitive flesh, but then it was his turn to hiss out a breath as her hand snaked into the opening of his pants and gripped him tightly.

  “You’re playing with fire again, little girl,” he warned her, his voice rough as sandpaper.

  But her eyes met his with that determined spark that never failed to light him up. “I think I can handle this, Daddy,” she whispered, and his dick literally throbbed.

  He braced his knee on the couch and leaned over her, trailing his hand down her stomach to toy with her curls. “Let’s see about that, baby.”

  God in heaven, her pussy was completely drenched, and Diego felt his mind short-circuit for half a moment with the knowledge that she—his Nora—was every bit as turned on by this as he was. He stroked her folds carefully, loving the way her hips rose to meet his, and his eyes rolled back in his head as her hand stroked him in the same rhythm.

  “More, Daddy,” she begged, releasing his cock so that she could tug impatiently at his jeans. “I want you in me… now.”

  He hurried to comply, shucking his heavy boots, as well as his t-shirt and jeans. He resumed his place above her, his fingers playing with her core while his mouth claimed hers in a brutal clash of teeth and tongues. But when she reached up to try to pull his body down to her, he shook his head.

  “I don’t have a condom, Nora.” He’d long ago stopped carrying them, knowing that the fucking things expired and he wasn’t planning to use one. “And you left your purse in your car.”

  “I don’t care,” she cried, writhing against his hand. “Please, Daddy. I want you inside me so badly.”

  Fuck. His eyes squeezed shut and his breath caught, more aroused than he’d ever been in his life. His urge to claim her, to please her, to own her, was a fire in his chest, but even then, his need to protect her overrode all else.

  “Not today, little one,” he told her firmly. “Not without protection. Not without discussing it first. But Daddy’s going to take care of you. You’ll see.”

  He plunged two fingers inside her and she bucked off the sofa, whimpering softly. He slid down the couch and braced his forearm over her pelvis, holding her in place, while he laved her warm pussy with his tongue until her head flew back and she came apart for him.

  He continued to work her gently with his tongue, riding out her orgasm, but the moment her tremors stopped, he lifted himself up in one smooth movement and rose to straddle her.

  “Fuck you’re sweet, baby. Sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted. Was that good? Hmm? Tell me, little girl.”

  She moaned beneath him, her lip caught between her teeth and her eyes still hazy with lust. “Do you want me to…” she began, but he cut her off and his own hand moved towards his cock, jacking slowly.

  “All I want you to do is lay right there. Fuck. Lay right there in front of me, so Daddy can see that beautiful face, those gorgeous breasts.”

  His left hand moved up to squeeze her sensitized nipple, and her pained gasp made his balls draw up tight. He moved his hand faster and faster, loving the way her eyes were glued to his cock as he worked himself.

  “Who owns this?” he demanded, squeezing again roughly. “Who does this belong to now?”

  Her own breath was coming in pants, as understanding of what was about to happen dawned in her eyes. “To you, Daddy,” she whimpered, bracing her hands on his thighs. “You own it.”

  “Fucking right, I do,” he told her, and then he exploded, rope after rope of cum shooting all over her chest, marking her. Branding her.

  He leaned over her, wrecked with the force of his orgasm, and braced himself on one hand while with the other, he trailed a finger through the mess on her chest, smearing it over her breasts, rubbing it into her nipples. Her eyes watched his finger as it circled, and he felt her belly quiver.

  “Mine,” he growled. It wasn’t a question. It was a command. It was a statement of fact as unquestionable in that moment as the pull of gravity.

  And when her eyes lifted to meet his, they were soft and fathomless, with not a hint of a challenge.

  “Yours, Daddy,” she agreed, and she lifted her head to seal her promise with a kiss.

  “Padre. I expected to hear from you yesterday,” the voice on the other end of the phone reproved. Diego sank into the oversized arm chair in the living room, the well-worn leather barely squeaking as he shifted.

  “I apologize, Jefe,” Diego replied, barely keeping the impatience out of his voice. “Many things came up yesterday that required my attention.”

  “Hmmm,” the voice said, and whatever voice-altering equipment the bastard known as El Jefe used made the humming noise not only disbelieving, but downright sinister. “So I heard.”

  A tremor of unease skittered up Diego’s spine. “What have you heard?”

  El Jefe had spies all over the city—hell, all up and down the Eastern seaboard, so it wasn’t a surprise to know that the asshole had spies within Diego’s crew, as well. It had only been a matter of time before he learned that the girl—Camila, had escaped from the warehouse.

  To be perfectly honest, Diego hadn’t given much thought to what would happen to Camila after he dropped her at Centered. He’d figured that Nora, Elena, and Alice would get the girl the help she needed, and that Slay and his crew would make sure Camila stayed safe. But now, thinking about the woman he’d left sleeping safe and warm in his bed upstairs, those assumptions no longer seemed like enough. He couldn’t help but wonder if his rash actions yesterday morning—and again last night—would bring trouble to Nora’s door, and he’d be damned if he’d let his shit touch her.

  She was his to protect, now more than ever.

  El Jefe laughed, high and sinister. “That’s not how this works, Padre. When I contact you, you give me information, not the other way around.”

  As the rising sun turned the sky outside pink and orange, Diego ran his tongue over his teeth and pondered the best response—the one least likely to get anyone, including himself, killed.

  “The man who was on guard duty last night made an error in judgment and entered the cell where the girl was being held. He’s not sure how it happened, but somehow she managed to knock him out and locked him in the cell as she escaped. He woke up a little while later, but he didn’t have his phone on him, so no one knew what had happened until yesterday morning when the rest of the guys showed up.”

  Diego paused, but El Jefe remained silent, so he continued. “I made sure that he was punished.”

  His heart beat quickly, waiting for El Jefe to ask about the details of the punishment. If Tomás, or anyone else who’d felt like Diego hadn’t punished Ricky severely enough, was El Jefe’s informant, Diego was certain that El Jefe would ask, and possibly demand proof that Ricky had been terminated by Diego’s own hand. His stomach churned at the thought.

  But El Jefe turned the conversation in a different direction. “And the girl? What steps have you taken to recover her?”

  “Recover her?” Diego repeated. “How? There were no clues as to where the girl had gone. No cars were missing, so she obviously fled on foot. And you know we don’t allow any type of cameras anywhere near the warehouse, so there’s no security footage.” This was an unusual rule instituted during Salazar’s reign that Diego found to be both a blessing and a curse. It meant he didn’t have any photographic evidence of the shit that went down there, but it also meant that his face was not well-known in criminal circles, nor even by El Jefe himself. “I felt that making inquiries about her would raise too many red flags.” In fact, he’d been nearly certain that El Jefe would praise his forethought. Apparently he’d been wrong.

  “Did you?” El Jefe ask
ed. “Interesting.”

  Diego fought the urge to defend himself, knowing it would only be a sign of guilt.

  “It wasn’t because this girl was a bit younger than the other girls we’ve dealt with?” El Jefe continued. “You wouldn’t have grown a conscience at this late date, would you, Padre? Knowing that the girl would have to be killed to prevent her from speaking to the authorities, let alone testifying against any of you?”

  “No,” Diego said shortly. “I would do what had to be done, as I always have. I’d take no pleasure in it, though,” he added bitterly, hoping that this small amount of truth would help sell the lie.

  It appeared to work. “That’s good,” El Jefe said. “Very good. That’s why you’re indispensable as my lieutenant, Padre. I know I can count on you to take care of your end of the business, while I deal with the complications on my end.”

  “And what complications would those be?” Diego asked, rolling his eyes because he knew that after all this time working for the organization, after all the hours that Slay’s crew had spent backing through Salazar’s twisted financial records, looking for clues about the source of his payments, there was no way someone as private as El Jefe would provide Diego with a single detail about his operation.

  Unsurprisingly, El Jefe laughed. “That’s for me to know, Padre. But back to the girl. It turns out I do have some information for you. She turned up at a shelter called Centered,” he said, and Diego could swear his heart skipped a beat. “She’s underage, so she’s not living on-site, but she’ll be there for counseling for the next few days at least.”

  “Centered,” Diego repeated, forcing his voice to stay level. “I think I’ve heard of it.”

  “Mmm. It was in the news not long ago. Ironically, it’s run by the wife of that man Chalo Salazar hated so much. Blaine?”

  “Blake,” Diego said hoarsely, knowing that El Jefe was just testing him. “His name is Blake.”

  “Ah, yes,” El Jefe agreed. “Runs that club that Marauder had such a hard-on for. Blake called too much attention to Chalo’s organization. He dragged Chalo’s name through the mud before the poor bastard met his maker!” The robotic voice was almost gleeful, but then turned serious. “But that was because Chalo Salazar left far too many loose ends. That won’t happen to us, Padre. Now that you know the girl’s whereabouts, I trust I can count on you to take care of the situation.”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  “It won’t be easy, Jefe,” Diego stalled. “If you know that Blake is involved, you have to know that the same security team that guards his club also guards Centered. Trying to get in there to snatch the girl would be suicide and call unwanted attention to us, just as it did to Salazar…”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” El Jefe said, his voice hard and cold even through the scrambler. “You won’t touch a hair on the girl’s head at Centered. But you will investigate the place. Find out where they have her staying and grab her there. Or while she’s in transit, when her security is weakest. You know how this works, Padre. I’m not going to do your job for you.”

  “No, Jefe,” Diego said. “I understand.”

  “Good. And understand this,” El Jefe continued. “I want this situation resolved by next Saturday. One. Week. No more. Or else I might not find you so indispensable in the future.”

  The phone made an audible click, like it was being disconnected, but Diego sat motionless with the phone still held to his ear for a minute longer.

  Goddamn it. He’d need to call Slay and work out a plan for dealing with this, although nothing immediately sprang to mind. He had one week to figure out a way to bring down the organization—a feat he hadn’t been able to accomplish in years—or Slay and his contacts would pull him from the investigation whether he wanted to be or not. And since sticking around would mean letting El Jefe oust Diego from his position—not simply by beating the shit out of him as he’d done to Ricky, but with torture and double-tap to the head—Diego was definitely not going to fight Slay over being pulled.

  He was surprised, a moment later, to find that his mind had never, even for a second, considered actually harming Camila in order to maintain his cover. Just yesterday, he’d been wondering where his ultimate loyalty lay and whether there was anything he wouldn’t do to complete this investigation. Today, it appeared he’d gotten his answer: Nora. Anything that would hurt her, that would prevent his woman from trusting him fully, was officially off the table.

  Just as he went to lower the phone, he heard a scrabbling sound on the other end of the line, and he realized the call was still connected. He pulled the phone away from his ear and found that the timer was still counting. The call was still engaged.

  Sounding like it was coming from a great distance, he heard the slam of a door, followed by the scrape of a chair. And then a voice, much higher than the deep bass tone of the voice changer, but with the unmistakable cadence of El Jefe’s, said, “Don’t lie to me, Miguel!” There was a slapping sound, and then…

  “Who are you talking to, Daddy?”

  Nora’s shy, sleepy voice greeted him from the entryway of the room, and Diego’s eyes flew to her. She looked so hesitant standing there, as if uncertain now that so much had changed between them.

  Without a second’s pause, he disconnected the call. No way in hell did he want El Jefe to realize that the line was still open, nor give the bastard a chance to hear Nora’s voice at the other end. He shut his eyes and blew out a breath at the opportunity he’d just missed at listening in on El Jefe. Then he opened them, to find Nora approaching him with a small smile on her face.

  “Diego?” she repeated shyly. “I mean… Daddy?”

  He sucked in a breath and held out his arm in unspoken invitation, and she happily sat on his lap.

  “I like my shirt on you,” he told her, running his hands down the faded Red Sox t-shirt that covered her back and loving the way she burrowed against his chest.

  “It smells like you,” she said, her voice muffled against his sweatshirt. “Like wood smoke and the cologne you wore years ago when you… when you rescued me.”

  He switched his grip to run his hand down the warmth of her bare leg, and took a moment to appreciate the fact that he could. That she was here, in his home, in his arms, when he’d never expected her to be. “And now it’ll smell like you,” he said gruffly. “Like grapefruit and vanilla.”

  “It’s my shampoo,” she said, and he smiled.

  “I’ll have to buy that shit in bulk, then. Because I’m pretty sure after last night, that smell alone is gonna get me off. I haven’t come that hard in years.”

  She leaned back and her eyes flew to his face, while a pretty blush stained her cheeks. “Years?”

  “Years,” he confirmed, and her teeth gnawed at her bottom lip. “Why?”

  “Because it’s been years for me, too,” she told him. As he watched, the fire came back into her eyes, and he had to fight a groan as his body responded. They didn’t have time for another round right now, and the next time he took her, he was going to have fucking protection.

  He was about to tell her that he needed to call Slay, and that there was coffee in the kitchen—though that was pretty much the only thing in the kitchen, given how infrequently he came to this place—when she spoke again, haltingly.

  “So what happens now?” she asked. “You’re still… undercover?”

  He pulled her into his chest again and nodded against the top of her head. “Si, mamita. Still undercover. But… possibly not for long.”

  She leaned back to look at him. “Really? What changed? Yesterday you were still committed, and…”

  He shook his head. Even if he wanted to be honest with her about some part of his life or his undercover work, he couldn’t be. Keeping her ignorant meant keeping her safe.

  “Doesn’t matter, baby,” he said instead. But when she scowled at his evasion, he conceded, “I’ll tell you what I can, when I can.” It wouldn’t be much, though. He had far too many things he never
wanted her to know about him. “Tell me about you. Tell me about your friends. And Centered.”

  She nodded, though her narrowed eyes told him that she would hold him to his agreement and wouldn’t let him evade her questions for long. She filled him in on her job, and the various services they provided at Centered. How it had grown from a neighborhood women’s medical clinic to also become a shelter and resource center for both women and children. She talked about the women she’d helped, and the resources she provided them. She very carefully avoided mention of Camila, of the picture the girl had drawn and all the questions that had led Nora to him the night before, but he knew she’d demand answers to those questions, in particular, very soon. And she talked about the incredible women she worked with—women who’d become her friends and mentors over the years.

  “Oh, and I’m heading a fundraiser,” she told him with a laugh. “I’m a little nervous, but Diana Consuelos—she’s one of our main donors—she tells me I need to keep challenging myself if I want to reach my potential. I had this idea where, instead of our usual black-tie fundraisers, we’d do a field day for the kids and parents alike. We’ll have a band, and face painting, and those beanbag-toss booths where you can win prizes.”

  “That sounds great, baby,” he said, loving her enthusiasm.

  She nodded happily. “The last couple of fundraisers, Elena organized by herself, and they were black-tie deals. We wore gowns donated from this pricey Newbury Street boutique. It was fun, but…well, fancy. Not my kinda thing.”

  “You don’t dig the Cinderella vibe?” he teased.

  “Well, the dress didn’t leave much room for the imagination, but beggars can’t be choosers,” she told him, poking him playfully. “Hillary said I looked hot. Next time one of these black tie events comes up, you’ll see what I mean.” Her face grew troubled. “I-if you’re around, I mean.”