Corrupt

by Elena M. Reyes

  Summary:

  Corruption is the key to success, and I’m the collector of all debts.

  The first time I laid eyes on my little flower, she was dressed up—a beautiful temptation wrapped in perfection that I wanted to own. Possess. To take away from the pseudo perfect life that reeks of the narcissistic chains—the demands—holding her down.

  She’s a pawn.

  The daughter of my enemy.

  Solimar Quintero is the future Mrs. Alejandro Lucas and doesn’t even know it. She isn’t aware that the man she smiles at—taunts to come closer—is a criminal. A wanted man. A nightmare for his enemies and her future.

  I always get what I want.

  CORRUPT

  (Beautiful Sinner Series) Spin-Off

  was written by Elena M. Reyes

  Copyright 2020 ©Elena M. Reyes

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This work is copyrighted. All rights are reserved. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the author.

  Cover design by: T.E. Black Designs

  Editor: Marti Lynch

  Publication Date: August 12th, 2020

  Genre: FICTION/Romance/Erotica Suspense/New Adult

  Copyright © 2020 Elena M. Reyes

  All rights reserved.

  Acknowledgments:

  Before we get to the book and its yumminess, I’d like to thank each and every one of you that’s messaged, sent positive thoughts, and wished for a speedy recover after my emergency gallbladder surgery back in July. I know this book took longer than what we all wanted, but you guys have been amazing, and all but demanded that I rest and recoup.

  It’s been a rough month, I won’t deny that, but I do feel so much better today than on my last E.R. visit.

  Your kind words, dear readers, have made me smile and pushed me to write this book, even if it was a little at a time. Your outpouring of love and tips for dealing with a life without a gallbladder have been amazing.

  From the bottom of this crazy Latina’s heart, THANK YOU SO MUCH.

  For your patience. For your support. For letting me continue to live my dream.

  I love you.

  Elena XoXo

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  EPILOGUE #1

  EPILOGUE #2

  OUTTAKE

  Glossary of Spanish and Colombian Slang:

  Guaro/Aguardiente = Anise Flavored Liqueur Made from Sugarcane

  This Is Mostly Consumed Neat or Over Ice.

  Güevon = Asshole

  Berraco = You’re A Legend or Amazing

  Culicagado = Shit head

  Parce = Friend

  Listo = Ready, Okay, or Cool

  Tombo = Cops

  Sicario = Hitman

  Billete or Platica = Money

  Q’hubo = What’s Up

  Fresco = Chilled or Relaxed

  Hagale = Okay or Let’s Do It.

  Patron = Boss

  Hijueputa = Son of A Bitch

  Coma Mierda = Eat Shit

  Preciosa = Precious

  Bailarina = Dancer

  Coqueta = Coquette

  Callese = Shut Up

  Mijo/Mija = Son/Daughter

  Prologue

  HER SKIN IS soft beneath my roughened fingertips—yielding—almost melting against me as I pull her in closer. Chest to chest. Lips hovering. She’s like the finest of silks: a motherfucking delicacy that’s been awaiting my arrival and only yearns to please her owner.

  Because she’s given herself to me.

  Every sigh. Every moan. Every inch of her has always been meant for this brute of a man.

  Solimar Quintero is my prize. A reward and coveted possession.

  “Please, Alejandro. I need you.” Those beautifully hooded, light grey eyes are on my cognac-colored ones, and in them I see the same emotions reflected back at me. Hunger. Anticipation. A nearly knee-buckling yearning that makes me throb against her midsection.

  “Say it, Solimar.” My voice is rough, the grip on her right thigh tightening—fingers digging in as I place one leg over my hip and then the other; I have her right where she should always be...

  In my arms, her heat against my cock.

  We’re outside and around the back of her home for the time being. It’s an ostentatious building full of history and memories that only the rich and powerful in the country of Columbia remember with fondness.

  A place full of armed military guards that let a criminal walk right through its door for a little extra cash. Because they need it. Because giving your family a good life in this country is pricey. Because they’d rather live to see another day than end up as an anecdote on the evening news reporting on my extensive list of crimes and misdeeds.

  The beautiful girl pinned by my body moans and the sweet sound settles on the tip of my cock, causing me to flex against her heat. It also pulls a hiss from me, my teeth gritting as I look down and take in how the short, white cotton summer dress has shimmied up and over her hips. Those supple thighs tremble and my fingers on her right one dig in deeper, harder as I enjoy the sinful view.

  Matching panties in the same color as her dress.

  Goose bumps all along her skin.

  Soft satin clinging to the top of her mound.

  Indecent perfection.

  I shift my upper body back, just enough to get a better look.

  She’s wet; the evidence makes the almost translucent material completely see-through.

  My eyes snap up when a needy whimper passes through her lips. “Answer me,” I hiss out, my lip curling up at the corner in a barely-contained snarl. The hunger in my tone is palpable, and so is the need to mark her. To leave bruises behind that’ll remind her of me every time she looks in the mirror over the next few days.

  Of my touch. Of the pleasure only I can give her.

  My inhale is her soft exhale as she shifts a little closer. Just a tiny bit. Her small hands cling to my shirt as her hips gyrate, back arching against the large wall behind her so she can feel every hard inch of me against her core. All that stands between me and her pussy is two thin layers of clothing, and I remove the first without a second thought.

  Without giving a fuck about whose house I’m at.

  Without giving a fuck about who could see us.

  Skimming my fingers to her hip, I grip the thin ribbon there and pull, tearing the delicate satin bow before doing the same to the other side. The material slips down over her mound, exposing the very top of her clit, but gets trapped between us.

  A breath gets caught in her chest and her eyes close. “Papi, I... please!”

  “Answer me, Preciosa.” Lower, my hand encounters her round and firm asscheek. I palm the flesh—squeeze hard enough to make her mewl before gripping the tattered remnants of her panties and tugging them off.r />
  A single pull and she hisses, shaking in my hold when the delicate material rubs harshly over her sex. My little Solimar bites down on her bottom lip, withholding the moans that want to slip free so we—I—don’t get caught, and I find the action sweet. Endearing.

  Pointless, since I’m here to end it all tonight. To collect on a fifteen-year-old debt.

  Eyes on hers, I toss them aside and return to her flesh. Two fingers follow the path down to her back entrance, and I add just enough pressure to cause her legs to shake. For her breathing to stutter. For a motherfucking rush of wetness to coat her inner thighs, and then I brush my fingers a little lower to collect the sweet drips.

  There’s no resistance from her as I return and slip the tip of my middle finger inside. None when I go a little deeper to my knuckle; pumping it in and out a few times before adding a second.

  Solimar’s lips part, but no words come out. Instead, her arms wrap around my neck and pull us closer together. She’s baiting me with the subtle rubbing of those tight little pebbled nipples over my pecs, and I bite back the groan that threatens to escape.

  It’s a silent plea from her with a hint of please that makes my mouth water. My little flower always begs so prettily. Quietly or on a scream, she’s stunning when offering:

  Her life. Her love. Her loyalty.

  A commitment without an expiration date. A future that removes her past and those who reside in it. Those who will become nothing more than a faint memory.

  Because I’m her future. Her only.

  “Say. It.” The need to bury myself deep within her is near maddening, and more so when her tight little asshole flutters around my fingers. It’s the only place I haven’t taken her. The last bit of her body left for me to claim, and it will happen before the end of the night.

  “I belong to you, Alejandro. Only you,” she moans out, lips parting just enough to see the tip of her tongue peek out. I follow how she slides it over the very edge of her Cupid’s bow. How her cheeks flush and perspiration beads over her neck. “I love you.”

  At those words, my eyes close and I breathe in deeply. A unique scent—her sweet, sugary decadence surrounds me, and I groan. I feel her heat. Her wetness as it seeps through and caresses my cock through my slacks sans underwear.

  I’m hard for her.

  I’m throbbing.

  I’m hers.

  My hips snap forward and my dick rubs against the juncture of her thighs, finger slipping a bit deeper inside her puckered hole. There are a few por favor and mas, but I don’t give in. Not yet.

  Not here.

  We’ll be leaving soon enough.

  That thought sobers me at once and after another pump, I slip from inside her tightness. My forehead falls to hers and my eyes snap open just as she whines, her pretty mouth set in a pout. “None of that.”

  “But Alejandro—”

  I silence her with a quick and harsh kiss. “I love you, too.”

  Her grey eyes sparkle, bottom lip trembling. “Baby, I—”

  The click of a single gun interrupts our moment, and I shift my head minutely to catch the sight of the asshole responsible. It’s a man I loathe. Someone whose history with my family brought us full circle and to this moment.

  “You’re a dead man, Lucas,” he says, and my smirk only deepens.

  “Good evening, Señor Presidente.”

  1

  Fifteen years ago...

  I AWAKE WITH a start.

  I’m sweating. In a daze. Unable to comprehend the sudden ambush of loud noises surrounding me and look toward the alarm clock on my nightstand. It reads twenty past eight in the morning, and I try to remember if there’s anything to warrant such a rude upstart—a project starting on the grounds or equipment arriving—but come up empty.

  There’s too much racket to pinpoint. Too much commotion to discern what it is, but it confuses me, and everything seems off—almost eerie until the loud sound of what I think is a truck meeting a wall forces me out of my bed.

  My house shakes and I stumble, fighting to find my equilibrium as more shouting comes from the opposite side of our family home. This large, Spanish-style house with over a hundred acres surrounding the two-story, eight-bedroom structure has several large cultivating fields whose product is known worldwide. And, because of its size, it should be nearly impossible for me to hear what sounds like a war zone outside this bedroom.

  None of these noises are familiar in the everyday life of a rancher. None of what they’re shouting makes sense.

  “What the fuck is going on?” I mutter, grabbing on to the door’s handle and pulling it open. Another loud boom reverberates, and the corridor feels as though it’s trembling, the picture frames—photographs of my siblings and me from over the years—meeting their demise against the terrazzo floor. Are we having an earthquake? Fuck, my family! Shards of glass fly across the floor and as I rush toward the stairs to head down, I cut the bottom of my foot on a rather large piece.

  It digs deep, slicing through flesh that now gapes and bleeds all over the floor. Rivulets rush to the surface, staining the stone flooring and my pajama bottoms, but I don’t stop to inspect.

  Ignoring the sting, I hiss with each step I take, leaving bloody footprints behind. My eyes shift from side to side the closer to the landing I get, noises becoming more defined, and I grip the handrail hard as a barrage of bullets sound as though they’re being fired close by. Too close.

  The voices are louder now, and male. The gunfire is clearer, and it’s heavy artillery.

  One of the few things you learn while helping your father out in the fields is how to protect yourself from various dangers. Shooting a gun is something I do well, my aim better than my old man’s, and it’s because he took the time to teach us to respect the weapon and not fear it.

  There are thieves, wild animals—drug smugglers—and sometimes tough decisions have to be made.

  Diosito, please don’t let that be here. Please protect us.

  I search for my family and come up empty. No one is around, and after turning the corner that leads toward the kitchen and back entrance, I come to a dead stop. Heart clenching. Stomach churning.

  My mother is on the floor and on her knees, clinging to my five-year-old sister in her arms. Her eyes are on mine, though, and yet she looks a hundred miles away.

  Her face is a pallid color. Her fear is palpable.

  Choking me.

  And it’s the motherfucking pain in her expression that makes me fall to my knees and crawl across to where she sits completely still. I want to hug her, shake her, but instead take a moment to slow my breathing and erratic heartbeat. Freaking out could lead from a bad decision to a stupid mistake.

  “Mamita?” I call out after a minute or two but get no response. Nothing. Just blankness. If it weren’t for the rise and fall of her chest, I’d think she was dead. “Ma, what’s going on? Where’s Dad?” Nada, and as I take her in fully, I notice the blood on her right arm and the rapidly forming bruise on her cheek. “Who did this? What the hell happened?”

  My sister, Lourdes, cries, unable to focus on me or help, and her wails are so loud they hurt. However, she’s okay from what I can see, but my mother isn’t. Blood seeps from her arm, the rivulets pooling on the floor beneath us as the trickles become a puddle.

  I check her, lifting the short sleeve of her top, and find only one bullet wound and it’s a graze. Deep, but not with an actual entry, and everywhere else she seems physically okay. She’s in shock.

  “Mamita, quien?” I try again, softer, my eyes darting past us where the firing of bullets has ceased. “Please, at the very least get up and hide. I’ll find the others.”

  Her lips part but no sound comes out. Instead, she whimpers, and it’s the most agony-filled sound I’ve ever heard. It’s also at that moment that multiple heavy footsteps enter our home.

  I don’t know how many. I don’t know why these people are here or where my father and older brother are.

  We�
�re not criminals. We’re law-abiding citizens. Our family is successful: the owners of one of the largest coffee plantations in the country.

  Then, there are my father’s political ambitions and ideals, something that isn’t a secret. He’s a respected member of the community, and with the backing of the middle and lower class of the country, a front runner as a presidential candidate in this year’s elections.

  However, from the look of the men inside our home, none of that matters...

  Colombia’s military is inside our house and armed to the teeth; their faces are expressionless as they surround us between the living room and the corridor that leads to our kitchen. Their rifles are pointed at us, their fingers on the trigger.

  For a few minutes, no one speaks. They don’t so much as blink.

  It’s a waiting game.

  To see if we do anything that will justify the shooting.

  Something that becomes apparent a few seconds later as the general walks in with my father and brother behind him. Both of them are being dragged, their bruised bodies nearly passed out.

  My reaction is instant. Not even my mother’s sudden yell to stop makes me pause.

  The bastard closest to me and to the right doesn’t have time to react as I ram his legs with my shoulder, knocking him off balance. And as he stumbles, the gun slips from his hold and I grab it while dodging a lazy punch. His reaction time is slow, almost unskilled and unprepared as I take possession of the weapon.

  A bullet to his hand also stops him from trying to grapple with me and save face.