Page 50 of No Darker Temptation

“Yes you can. Open wider for me, you can take all of it.” I do as he asks, let him in as much as I can, and when he hits a place inside me that makes my body convulse, he groans. “Fuck, just like that. Move your hips for me, baby. God, you’re such a good girl. So fucking hot and tight, you were made for me.”

At this point, I’m delirious. I climax so hard, so long, I don’t realize where one ends and the next one begins. He fucks and strokes until I’m too sensitive and almost want to tell him to stop. But it’s too good and I want him to take me to oblivion and back.

“You feel so good I think I’m losing my mind. My sanity,” he seethes against my hair, breath hot and delicious against my skin. “I’m going to fuck you until your body conforms to the shape of me. Until you’re as sick and obsessed as I am. And whenever you call out God’s name, you’ll be calling for me instead.”

He pistons into me and that’s it. I’m coming, screaming, crying, body rocked by tremors stronger than an earthquake, and he finishes inside of me with a final powerful thrust. He moans my name over and over again, the sound brutal and harsh as it claws its way out of his chest, and I orgasm all over again. Neither of us can carry our own weight anymore and we sink to the tile floor, a jumble of limbs still tangled up in each other. I don’t have time to think about the state we’re in or the fact that we’re on the bathroom floor, which is the last place anyone should be sitting.

We’re both panting and struggling to catch our breath when there’s a knock on the door.

“Guys?” It’s Lettie. “Everything okay? The mayor wants to give his speech now…is the dress ruined?”

Fuck.

FORGING ALLIANCES

Alejandro

Ican still taste Dahlia on my tongue when the mayor says, “By year’s end, Walsh and Collins could pose a serious threat. Their cocaine is Peruvian—some of the rarest in the world. Last quarter the profit margins were skimming off the top of a million euros. This quarter they’re expected to make almost twice that.”

“How do you know?” Dimitrio asks, obsidian eyes narrowing.

Saenz takes a long draw of his cigar, brows pinching with irritation. “It’s my job to know.”

Considering we bankrolled his last election, he’s right about that. We don’t line his pockets out of the kindness of our hearts.

“Their newfound influence is changing the power dynamic of the city,” Saenz continues. “We’ve only ever had one Irish family here—the O’Neils—and they’ve been operating almost as long as Don Salazar has. A few decades ago, there were a handful of Italians and as the years went by and they continued to migrate to New York, families like the Russian Belovs and Maslovs moved in. Now that the Markis are trying to plant roots for the other Balkan clans, it’s becoming overcrowded. New alliances are forming and not all of them are for the better.”

Dimitrio and I exchange a look and I put out my cigar, suddenly sick of all the smoke gathering around me. “What are you saying?”

“What I’m saying is if the Twelve Apostles intend to keep control of Barcelona, someone needs to make a move. And that someone needs to be you.”

“I doubt anyone would take kindly to us stirring up trouble,” Diego says. “Considering not everyone was pleased when we withdrew from legitimization last year.”

“Some but not all. In fact, I think the majority of them are relieved. They’re like bloodhounds—they can smell a reckoning from miles away. And this city is due for one.” His gaze darkens, tone suddenly impassioned. “But I will not have it happen under my watch. My reputation won’t survive it and I can kiss the next election goodbye.”

No one speaks and I’m glad because I need the silence to think. Saenz is right—too many families operating in a city this small is bound to create conflict. The only reason why twelve have survived for so long is because half of them intermarried, consolidating their power and forming indissoluble alliances. That said, I can’t sit around and do nothing any longer.

I finish the last of my drink and leave the empty glass on the edge of my desk. “I want you to take care of it.”

“Take care of it?” Saenz echoes.

“Walsh and Collins are able to get their drugs into the city because they have a bulk of law enforcement on their payroll,” I explain. “No doubt, Sandro helped them secure those alliances. You want to rehabilitate your image? Take a page from America’s political books and launch a tough on crime campaign. You’re going to start cracking down on corruption in the police force.”

“That won’t be enough. The problem is much bigger than just drugs in the city⁠—”

“Let me worry about the rest of that. By the end of next week, Dimitrio’s going to have a list of names sent to your office.”

Saenz contemplates saying more, brows drawn together and lips pursed, but eventually nods in response.

“And I don’t just want them destabilized,” I warn. “I want them dead in the water.”

By the time I get home, it’s well after midnight and Dahlia’s already asleep.

I find her with her head resting on my pillow, fingers gently cuffing the white pencil she uses to sketch on her iPad, and her hair tumbling down her shoulders. She must’ve fallen asleep waiting for me because the lamp is on and her hair isn’t braided, something she tries to do at night so it isn’t tangled in the morning.

I slide my arm under her neck and gently reposition her. She has the strangest way of sleeping, always curled in on herself, as if awaiting an attack in her dreams. I’ve tried everything to break her out of the habit from switching sides of the bed, buying body pillows, waking up a few times a night to uncurl her fingers from the death grip that leaves her palms red and bruised in the morning, but to no avail.

Once I pull the blanket up to her chin and put her iPad on the nightstand to charge, I strip out of my suit, grateful to toss it down the laundry chute. A hot shower helps to ease the tension in my shoulders and by the time I return to bed and turn the lamp off, Dahlia is in her curled-up position again as if I hadn’t moved her at all.