Page 105 of No Merciful Corruption

“Swallow.”

She blinks frantically as she closes her lips. Watching her throat work with a swallow fills me such satisfaction that I’m hard all over again.

Hazy-eyed and panting for breath, Dahlia extends an arm and wraps it around my neck. She pulls me toward her and I obey, accepting her kiss and the stroke of her tongue with an eagerness that fills me to the point of bursting. I delight in the simple pleasure of touching her everywhere. Her beautiful waist, her perfect breasts, the column of her elegant neck. She hums against me with pleasure and surprise and I open my mouth further, welcoming the explorative and possessive touch of her sweet tongue.

After what feels like a century she pulls away but only to catch her breath. She kisses me again and I cradle her face between my palms.

“I love you,” she whispers between kisses. “I love you, I love you…”

“No más que yo a ti.” I kiss her back.

“Do you like my dress?” Her eyes are closed when she asks. “I wore it just for you.”

“I’d ask you not to wear it to dinner tonight but something tells me that was always your intention.”

She smiles and I kiss her twice; once on each lip. “I had intended on torturing you with it all night. Didn’t think you’d give in so quickly.”

“Well…” I lower her onto the desk and cover her body with mine. “It is a very, very nice dress.”

Dahlia giggles as I settle between her thighs and she lifts her hips to meet me.

“As a matter of fact.” I thrust into her and she lets out a little whimper. “I can’t wait to enjoy it for the rest of the evening.”

Dahlia’s laughter dissolves into a moan as I move inside her, far slower than the first time around. As another orgasm builds a little cry leaves her lips.

“Alex.”

I make love to her until she cries out for mercy and I relish every second of it.

* * *

Dahlia

The Ortizes live in a pretentious, ultra-modern mansion in Sarria-Sant Gervasi whose harsh, unforgiving lines and austere color palette assault my senses. From the outside it looks like a house made of Legos; one ugly box piled on top of the other with wide glass windows and a perfectly manicured lawn. Inside is worse. All the walls are either white, dark gray, slate, or navy-blue which makes me wonder if Edith Ortiz has any say in how her home is decorated because no woman would willingly live like a tasteless single man in his early thirties.

What isn’t marble, granite, or stone is honey-colored wood whether it be the flooring or the cabinetry in the kitchen which we pass on our way to the back patio space. The house is open concept and judging by the way this evening’s chef makes a show of lighting a pan on fire, their presence here is intentional. Preparation of this evening’s meal is part of the entertainment.

Large sliding glass doors give way to the yard space: pale gray furniture, simple cushions, and an infinity pool built into the hillside. The only truly remarkable thing about this house is the view. Up in the mountain range surrounding the city of Barcelona, the Mediterranean Sea rests at our feet. La Sagrada Familia is one of very few buildings tall enough to be seen from this distance and the rest of the city glows soft yellow. On a clear, sunny day one could probably see the Balearic Islands from here.

Alejandro scans the faces of this evening’s guests and after a quick head count comes to the same conclusion I have. Most of the Dons are here with their wives and the ones who aren’t sent their sons and grandsons instead. Alejandro says nothing but squeezes the hand resting on my hip before we head in opposite directions. Him to the Dons and me to the wives. We’ll report back later.

I had my presentation to the Families when we first moved back to Barcelona and right before Karina had hers as Diego’s wife. Our “presentation” was nothing more than a formal dinner with the Dons and their wives where we were introduced to one another. From then on, I became a controversial figure among the twelve. The first woman who was neither a wife nor a fiancée to enter the fold but was nonetheless paid the same respect. All the formality seemed silly to me in the beginning but time proved me wrong.

As antiquated as their views on gender roles may be, I had to learn to respect them in order to be respected. I paid my dues and honored the Doñas, the wives of Abuelo’s generation, but struggled to find equilibrium among the wives of Alejandro’s father’s generation. The younger Dons like Don Javier Sevilla and Don Beto Garcia are unmarried and if they were, their wives probably wouldn’t be outsiders like I am.

But I hold my own just fine. In fact, I make my way to Paloma Caceres first.

“Paloma,” I smile and greet her with a kiss on both cheeks. “¿Qué tal?”

Language was another barrier I had to overcome. Most of the Twelve Families are native Catalans, which means they predominantly speak Catalan when engaging with one another. Whenever Alejandro or I are present, I notice they switch to Spanish or even English, depending on the conversation. There were times I felt so isolated by my inability to communicate with them the way I wanted to or paranoid that they were talking about me behind my back. Eventually I stopped caring.

My husband is the most powerful man in this room. I can afford to be disliked.

“Dahlia, Dios mío, te ves guapísima en este vestido.” She takes a step back to admire my outfit and I make a self-indulgent turn. “Es que no puedo. No puedo. Estás divina.”

Ah yes, I remember why I like her so much. She does wonders for my self-esteem.

“Gracias, gracias,” I turn to address the group. “Muchachas, ¿cómo están todas?”