Page 88 of No Merciful Corruption

My lips purse. “No.”

“Liar.”

He rams into me without warning, filling me in a single go. My head kicks back as my body arches into him, a silent cry leaving my parted lips as he grips my hips to hold me in place. Each plunge inside me is deeper and fuller than the last and my lungs burn with the inability to take in a single steady breath. He guides one leg around his waist and lifts the other so my ankle rests on his shoulder. When his hands roam over the expanse of my body it’s with a sense of entitlement. Every inch is familiar to him, belongs to him.

Goosebumps rise in the wake of his touch and the raised edges of his scarred palms against my smooth skin makes me pulse with need. A humiliating sound leaves my throat when he rises to his knees and powers into me, the intimate, filthy sounds of wet flesh meeting flesh echoing in the otherwise silent room. My body practically levitates off the bed and he presses the heel of his palm against my stomach to keep my in place. His nails dig into my flesh as I count the times he enters deep enough to reach my womb.

“I…” Fuck, I can’t even get a word out. “More.”

He ruts into me like a madman and I thrash against the bindings, desperate to release myself from their hold. This seems to amuse him so he rewards me by dragging his tongue along my bottom lip. A strangled moan claws its way up my throat but I bite down on the inside of my cheek.

Climax rips through me and my inner walls pulse and clench around him as my release coats my inner thighs, hot and wet and soaking the sheets beneath us. My cheeks heat with embarrassment as he looks down, the angle at which he holds me putting everything on display. Alejandro slows but only enough to stave off his own orgasm as he fucks me through mine. When he picks up the pace again, I want to tell him I can’t take it anymore. My chest feels like it’s going to collapse. All over my body tingles and vibrates.

His free hand dips into the space between us and he strokes my clit in tandem with the strokes of his tongue against my already sensitive nipple. I squirm and struggle beneath him, hating how I can’t touch him the way he’s touching me but secretly loving the fact that I can’t. Orgasm builds into delirium and I abandon myself to the unforgiving rhythm of his hips thrusting against mine, lifting my body to meet his whenever I can. A buzzing sound fills my ears as a blistering flush washes over me, heating my skin from scorched ears to clenching toes. Release finds us both and the rough, guttural moan of his pleasure vibrates inside my chest. I feel his heart racing and pounding against mine as he finishes inside me and I can’t tell if the deep, pulsing ache in my core is me or him.

“I can’t tell you,” he murmurs against my skin. “How many times I dreamed of this.”

I can hardly breathe much less speak. “Of what?”

He reaches for the binding around my wrists and removes it. When he intertwines our fingers, he glides his thumb over my engagement ring and wedding band, lost deep in thought. An immeasurable amount of time passes where he struggles to articulate himself. Maybe he’s searching for the right words or the right language or perhaps the right emotion. I don’t know.

I lift my head to capture his lips with mine, kissing him as deeply as he’ll let me. He kisses me back and we make love until that same inexplicable emotion begins to fill me too.

The only word I can think of is content.

THE LAST FOUR YEARS

Dahlia

Barcelona during the summer will always be my favorite.

On a rainy day, the humidity can be insufferable but the irritation of such inclement weather pales in comparison to a day like today; low hanging sun, deep blue sky, and a light breeze. I walk all of Placa de Ramon Berenuer el Gran until it turns into Carrer de la Tapineria and admire the view. Tourists smiling for photos, a line of people gathering outside of the famous hot chocolate spot Lettie and I can never seem to get into, and a flurry of children run past as they chase each other in what seems to be an intense game of tag. I catch snippets of German from their chastising mother as she tries to keep up with them.

Although I’ve lived here for years now, Barcelona still feels so new. I may not be able to pronounce the Catalan street names properly or carry myself like a native but I almost prefer it that way. Not quite Catalans and not quite a visitor but something in between. An admirer, perhaps. I could walk these streets with my eyes closed and know that a few paces ahead, tucked into the alcove of the Museu Frederic Marès building, there’s a man who sits near the trees and plays old boleros on a guitar so lovely and frail, it must be decades old. The way he caresses every note with such tenderness always sends a pang of longing through my chest.

He's there today, same as he is every Sunday and I leave five euros in his guitar case. I always catch him in the middle of a song so we’ve never really spoken except for when I compliment his music. But he smiles at me like he knows me and I suppose in a way, he does.

On Avinguda de la Catedral a street performer makes a pair of matching flowers out of red and purple balloons for two brunette little girls. Wind whips through the vibrant green trees lining the avenue, rustling a few leaves free. A couple shares an ice cream on a bench together with a toddler sitting in their stroller in front of them. When the leaves fall and settle on the toddler’s lap, he squeals and holds up the leaves for his parents to see.

I cross the street and pass by Hotel Colón, wishing it was for sale because given the opportunity, I’d snap the property up for the Narvaez portfolio in a heartbeat.

The restaurant across the street from the Cathedral of Barcelona might be a bit of a tourist trap but my God is the view worth it. Nearly eight hundred years of architecture history towers over the avenue like a feast for the eyes. Having seen a number of renovations over the centuries, it’s current façade with lateral towers is only a hundred and some odd years old.

It's Gothic-style renovation was part of a broader movement in the 19th century to restore and complete other medieval structures in the city. Much of the Gothic Quarter isn’t even as old as it seems, a fact of which has always fascinated me. I take it as a challenge. Identifying which buildings are truly medieval, which were restored, and which ones were constructed after the fact during the city’s expansion.

Luckily for me, my favorite table is open and so I duck under the shade of an umbrella and wait for a server to bring a pair of menus. I’m so lost in my own thoughts I hardly register the light touch of a woman’s hand on my shoulder.

“Am I interrupting?” Regina says.

I smile and get up from my seat. “Hardly.” We greet each other with a kiss on each cheek. “I was thinking about the Cathedral.”

“You and that Cathedral.” She sets her bags down on an empty chair and sits across from me. “I’d suggest you buy it but I don’t think the Pope would approve.”

“Neither would Alejandro,” I quip. “Even his wallet has limits.”

My comment manages to strangle an unwilling laugh from her. Regina is too serious a woman to ever be caught expressing joy which is why I take supreme pleasure in getting her out of character whenever I can.

“Did you order yet?” She asks.