Chapter 15: Luis

On the return to my home, I reflect on Tom's words. His doubts about Arturo, his offer of safety.

Arturo is in the car with me and we are drinking tequila, but not talking. Arturo seems to understand that silence is what I need right now.

Once we're inside the gates, he says, "What did the old bastard want?"

I shrug as I reach for the door handle. "He has some thoughts about who killed Manuel."

Arturo snorts his laughter. "That old fraud? He can barely get out of bed in the morning, let alone put two decent thoughts together."

I inhale as I look back at Arturo. He's right, even if he is a prick. "We should let him die in peace, Arturo. His sons will take exception if we do anything else." I offer a small smile and Arturo grins back. "Go away for a day or two. I want to be alone." I should talk to him about that night, ask about his timing, ask him what he thinks, but I'm tired, overwhelmed, full of grief.

Arturo scowls, flips me off and gets back in the car. I hear him tell the driver to take him into town.

I watch until the car disappears and then make my way into the house and upstairs. I unknot my tie as I walk into the bedroom. Lena is there, asleep in my bed under the covers and I let out a small breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Her hair is wet and a towel is abandoned next to the bed. She showered again. I wonder how her back is as I shrug out of my suit jacket, kick off my shoes and unbutton my shirt.

I can't tear my eyes from her. She's beautiful. Every time I looked at her with my father, pretending to be his girlfriend, I wasn't sure what infuriated me more. My father's little game or the fact that she was off-limits to me. And at that time, I thought maybe the two were fucking.

Now she's here in my bed and I feel overwhelming grief for my father, for me, for her. I want to bury myself in her, find a portal of respite and forgiveness.

I watch her sleep. Her face relaxed and unguarded, small breaths, her hair fanned out on the pillow, her beauty caressing the coldest parts of me. My desire for her is growing, taking over my best intentions to leave her alone until she heals.

I sit next to her and touch her face. Her eyes shoot open and she bolts upright, her hands ready to take out an eye or punch my Adam's apple into my windpipe. I grab her wrists, wrestle her to me, pull her into a tight hug. "Relax. It's just me."

"I slept." Those simple words are filled with anguish, embarrassment, apology.

I pull her tighter, draw my hands through her hair and pull her head back so I can see her face. Her eyes lock with mine. They are wary and fearful, and I don't know what to say to make her trust me. I kiss her mouth, my lips touching hers gently, a soft promise. I don't press, just let the small kisses happen. Then I feel her hands as they move from my grip, steal up my shoulder to the back of my neck. Pressing me to her, begging for more.

I'm used to taking what I want, and most women will give it to me, but Lena is broken and I'm afraid I'll shatter what's left of her. I break the kiss as I stroke her hair, cup her cheek. "I don't want to hurt you, Lena. I've done enough damage."

"It's okay." Her voice is small and I'm not sure what she's offering. Forgiveness for hurting her or permission to take her.

I slide my thumb across her bottom lip and touch the corner of her mouth as I inhale her. She smells like me after a shower and I find that unexpectedly arousing. No pretty soaps in my bathroom. But as I burrow my face into her neck, I inhale all that she is, her fragility, her strength, her femininity. And I want it all.

I come back to her lips, take her mouth, not gently, but passionately, pulling her into me, as close as I can, my hand on the back of her head crushing her lips to mine. Invading her mouth, tasting her with my tongue. Her hands capture my face as she kisses me back. Her tongue tentative, touching mine, slipping into my mouth.

Then she's scrabbling, her hands grabbing at me, at my face, my hair, pulling me into her. Desperate, needy. "Lena." I grabbed at her wrists, pull back. "We should stop."

She shakes her head quickly, back and forth. "No. I can't stop. Please don't stop. I need you."

And I snap. Because I need her too. I need to not think of death, of betrayal, of loss. I need to bury myself in the strength of her resilience and let her bring me back to life. And it's what she needs from me too. We need each other.

We're scrambling now, wrenching our clothes off, kissing and touching until we're naked in each other's arms. I try not to be greedy, try to remember her fragility, but I'm lost in my lust for her. I slam her onto the bed, pressing my body on hers, kissing her, taking her. Her soft gasps are erratic as I rake her neck with my teeth, as my hand finds her breasts, squeezing the mounds, thumbing her nipples.

Her hands are on my back, pressing into me, her nails scraping me. She's whimpering, crying my name.

"Lena," I say as I bring my hand to her folds, touching her wetness. Her desire.

"Please." She arches her back, opens her legs, thrusts herself toward me. "Please, inside me."

It's like she's hollow, aching, needing to be filled, and when I enter her, sink into her, she sobs. Though she's tight, the pressure unbearably exquisite, she takes me with ease. Her breath is heaving, and I try to gentle myself, give her this moment, but she brings her knees to my hips and squeezes me, pulls me closer, like she's trying to fuse with me. Our bodies are bucking, her hands grabbing, stroking, tangling in my hair.

"Fuck," I say as the pressure grows in me, my cock burrowed in her tight silkiness, her body so pliant. She's trembling under me, holding me frantically as her moans increase. Her body, my body together in a reckless cyclone of passion. And then she arches her back, a silent scream as her pussy tightens around me, pulling me deeper. She's coming and I splinter, savagely thrusting, bottoming out against her womb. Driving into her, then losing it, the orgasm shooting through me like a bullet, my groans loud and foreign to my ears before my semen coats her walls.

After, we lay in each other's arms, sprawled across the bed. Not talking, just clinging. I feel like I've found an anchor. I feel like I've found a home.