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Why?
Because I’d gotten to finger-fuck her tight, wet pussy first thing in the morning, and didn’t want him within ten yards of her body?
It wasn’t like me to be possessive.
Yet there was no denying that was what I was being.
Maybe it was just because I didn’t get what I really wanted. To be balls deep in that perfect pussy of hers, to fuck her until she was crying and raking her nails across my back, until I pumped my release deep inside her.
In the bathroom, I grabbed the sink counter, head ducked, taking deep breaths, trying to talk some reason into my body.I couldn’t be thinking about thrusting inside of her while she told me whatever was going on with her to have her agreeing to spend the night with two practical strangers just to not have to go home.
I took a minute to brush my teeth, then made my way out, finding her standing there still in my shirt. It was like a dress on her, but still showed off a decent amount of leg. And I was never so glad to keep my house cool than when I saw the pebbles of her nipples pressing against the tee.
Though I made a mental note to give her a zip-up hoodie before Barry got back.
He was too chickenshit to make a move, but I didn’t want him ogling her, either.
“Okay,” I said as she handed me a mug of coffee. “Let’s get into it before you can’t talk yourself out of it,” I said.
To that, she took a deep breath.
“I don’t even know where to start.”
“The beginning is usually the best place.”
“Right, well, after I dropped out of college, I went traveling. And on those travels, I came across coffee in Colombia that I just fell in love with. Eventually, that inspired me to open a shop. And when I did, I wanted to import that coffee.”
“Makes sense,” I agreed, and I was already getting a sense of where this was going.
“I got my cafe all set up and was just waiting on my first order. Which took forever. No problems. Came in just fine. I was on cloud nine, opening up the shop with the best coffee ever. Then when I picked up my next shipment, I brought it back to the shop, and unpacked it.
“This time, though, the coffee cans felt way too heavy. So I opened one up, and buried in the grounds was a brick of white powder.”
“Cocaine,” I said.
“How did you know?” she asked, brows pinched.
“Because cartels like to ship cocaine in coffee. The scent can throw off drug-sniffing dogs.”
“Oh,” she said, shaking her head. “Well, yeah. That’s what it ended up being. And there was one in each container of coffee. I looked up the math. It was something like half a million dollars’ worth.”
“Then what?” I asked, figuring actual cartel members had to come into play eventually.
“Then I got a call at the shop. Like maybe they knew I was there and that I’d found the drugs,” she said. “The voice was all funny. Like they used one of those apps to change it. And they gave me an address to drop the drugs.”
“Where?” I asked.
“A parking lot behind an abandoned building. There was an old library book drop-off box there. A key was under it, like I was told. I unlocked it with the key and put the drugs inside. Then locked it up and left. And prayed to God that it was a one-time thing.”
I could see her with a granny grip on the wheel, her heart in her throat, sure a cop was going to pull her over while she was carrying twenty or more kilos of cocaine in her truck. Then watching over her shoulder as she loaded it into the box, worried again about the cops, but also the cartel men who were surely watching from somewhere.
“But it wasn’t a one-time thing,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee as she tapped her fingers on her mug.
“No, it wasn’t. It’s been going on ever since. Which was why I was antsy the night I closed early. I knew I had to grab my shipment and then drop it off without looking suspicious or drawing the attention of the cops in any way.”
That made perfect sense.
“What happened then? What went wrong?”
