Vice(61)

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

I’ve never been this turned on before. Never. As she locks up, frozen, unable to move as her body reacts to me, I push my tongue inside her *, groaning, while I rub the pad of my thumb over her clit in firm, quick circles.

“Shit. Oh shit. Please. Please!”

“Please what, Natalia? Please what?” I growl.

“Please f*ck me. Please…f*ck me…now,” she pants.

I’m more than willing to oblige her. I’m on the point of coming myself. I grab hold of the end of my dick, squeezing hard, trying to tamp down the feeling that I’m about to explode, but it doesn’t really help. I’m cursing, hissing the most colorful profanities when I slowly guide myself inside her. It feels…it feels like nothing else. She’s so f*cking tight, for god’s sake.

Time to partake in vice number 4: choking.

I hold myself over her as I push myself deeper, and Natalia cried out. Just as I did back at the tree house, I cup my hand over her mouth, preventing her from making a sound. At the same time, I close my other hand around her throat, carefully closing off her windpipe. Her eyes round out, growing wide, and she holds onto my arm as I f*ck her, driving myself inside her harder and harder each time.

“Come on my dick, Natalia. That’s it. That’s a good girl. Soak me. Drench me. I wanna feel you squirting all over my cock.”

To all of the women out there who claim they’re incapable of squirting, think again. You just haven’t had the right guy inside you yet. You haven’t had my cock inside you, pressing up against your g-spot, pushing you closer and closer toward an eventuality that simply can’t be avoided. My dick can make anyone squirt, and that’s a f*cking fact.

Natalia finds this out as I hold my hands around her throat, slamming myself inside her, no longer holding back. As soon as I feel her muscles tense, her fingernails digging into my forearm, and I see her eyes roll back into her head, I know it’s about to happen. I let myself go. I’ve been warring with myself, holding off my own climax—a nearly f*cking impossible task, given how amazing her * feels—but now I release control, and a wall of fire and insanity overcomes me. My cock throbs inside her as I come, and I plunge myself inside her as deep and as hard as I can, over and over again, spurred on by how wet Natalia is now that she’s done as I commanded and has come all over me.

“Good girl,” I tell her, brushing her hair back out of her face. “Such a good girl.” I release my hold on her throat, and she sucks in a relieved, frantic gasp of air.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, Cade,” she chants.

I kiss her, licking at her lips with my tongue, savoring the taste of sweat and passion on her mouth, knowing she will be able to taste her own * on mine. I shake my head, smiling a little as we both recover ourselves. I press my nose to the crook of her neck and I inhale deeply, commemorating the scent of her to my memory forever. Natalia runs her fingers gently up and down my back.

“I don’t want to go back to my room,” she whispers. “I want to stay here. With you.”

“Then stay.” It’s reckless and so f*cking dangerous for her to sleep here, but I can’t bring myself to let her go just yet. As I roll over, spinning her over too, so that her head is lying on my chest, I realize something, and it’s pretty f*cking scary.

I don’t ever want to let her go.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN





CROQUET





Three days later





Croquet. On the same f*cking lawn where Persephone was mauled to death by wolves only a few days ago. Fernando is one sick, sick bastard.

He is red and yellow; I am black and blue. He expertly knocks his first yellow, and it rolls right through his intended hoop, scoring him a point. I’ve never played croquet in my f*cking life. I have no idea what the rules are, even though I briefly Googled them before we came down here. I’m probably going to screw up any second now, but when Fernando Villalobos asks you to come play a game with him, any game, you say yes, or you brace for trouble. The lawn is damp underfoot, the ground soft and sticky with mud. The rains have been consistent, showing up around eleven in the morning every day, sticking around for a couple of hours, oversized raindrops hammering into the earth, and then stopping in the most abrupt way, like a showerhead being turned off.

“You have been here for a while now, Kechu,” Fernando says. He has a small cigarillo hanging out of his mouth—surprising, since I haven’t seen him smoking before, and he doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who would conform to such a trite addiction. “Are you happy here? I was wondering, because you seem a little…tense.”

Tense is not the right word. Livid is a good substitute. Furious. Consumed by rage. I am all of these things and more, and trying to hide my feelings is growing harder and harder by the day. That’s what Fernando is sensing: my overwhelming need to dash his brains out of his head with my croquet mallet.

“Oh, y’know,” I say. “New York’s a crazy city. It’s a lot quieter here. I’m busy all of the time. I’m adjusting to having more time on my hands here in Orellana.”

Fernando leans on the end of his mallet, listening to me intently. He seems to mull over everything I say, pondering deeply. After a while, he stands straight, smiling at me like he’s an old friend. “I understand. You need something to do here, and I know just the thing. You must teach Natalia about America. For so long she has wanted to know about the country where her mother was born, and I’m ashamed to say I’ve discouraged her from her research. I don’t like to leave Ecuador, let alone visit the United States. It is my hope that Natalia won’t either. But she is a young woman, and young women rebel if they are told not to do something. Perhaps if she learns the good and the bad about America from one of the country’s own citizens, she will see how much better life here in Ecuador is.”