Buried (Hiding From Love #3) (19 page)

“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.

“
2
Te 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
1
cabron
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.”