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AURORA
We arrive at the house in Puerta de Hierro, followed closely by two black SUVs with armed men, just as the sun is rising over the horizon. I rub my palms up and down my arms anxiously, scanning the property for any signs that Villegas’ men may have followed us here.
Esteban, standing several yards from me near the high fence that surrounds his home, is speaking with one of the guards who escorted us from the airport. He once told me that only trusted staff knew about this place. At first, I assumed he meant people like Maria, the housekeeper, or Jorge, the gardener. Later, I discovered the house is actually guarded by a team. I just hadn’t seen them until the day Esteban took me to see Leila Mansour play her violin at Teatro de Banderas.
That was the day I met Omero Villegas.
A shiver crawls up my spine as I recall the unease he instilled in me even before I knew he was involved with the cartels in Guerrero.
“Are you sure we’re safe here?” I ask Esteban when he returns to my side.
“For now.” With his hand pressed to the small of my back, he urges me toward the house.
I pause inside the door, looking around the space that became so familiar to me in just two weeks. Everything about it felt like mine, like I belonged here. If I hadn’t discovered what Esteban did to Raul, I’d already be packing up my apartment, getting ready to make this my permanent residence.
The irony of it all doesn’t escape me, how both times I made plans for my future, they ended disastrously.
I must make a noise, something that reflects my feeling of helplessness, because Esteban glances over his shoulder with a frown. “I won’t hurt you,” he says. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not.” I take a few more steps into the house. “I’m just tired.”
“Mmm,” he sounds in acknowledgement. “I have some calls to make, but you should get some rest.”
“I don’t know if I can sleep right now.” I glance toward the bedroom door, through which I can see the king-sized bed. The shutters are still closed, and in the darkness, with the tall gray headboard, it’s intimidating and ominous. “The nightmares.”
He nods in understanding. “Your pills are still there. Take one. Get some sleep.”
I tense at the mention of those damned pills. Disgusted with what I did with those meds, how I used one against him, I say, “Flush them down the toilet.”
His lips pull tight, probably remembering the same shameful event. But instead of reproaching what I did, he takes me by the hand. “You need rest.”
“I already told you, I don’t want to go to bed. I’ll have bad dreams.”
“That’s because you’re anxious. You must relax.”
“How?” I dig my feet in, but he tugs me along through the dark bedroom and into the bathroom.
Hitting the light switch, he escorts me toward the huge shower. “I’ll help you.” He drops my hand and turns on the hot jets. Steam instantly fills the space, clouding the mirrors and glass enclosure. Then he stands in front of me and takes hold of the hem of my shirt.
Quickly, I hold it down. “I can do it on my own.”
“Lift your arms,” he orders, completely disregarding my comment.
Knowing it’s pointless to argue, I do as he says. Esteban tugs the shirt over my head, then proceeds to undo the fly of my pants. He slides them down my legs, crouching as he does, his fingertips grazing my skin.
But he doesn’t come back up. Instead, he remains in that position, with his gaze raking every inch of me shamelessly. As if he has the right to ogle me like that. Maybe he does.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispers, running his palms up my legs reverently, until he reaches the edge of my underwear. “It doesn’t matter what’s happened between us, you’re mine. You understand that, don’t you?”
“It doesn’t work that way.” I sigh when he moves forward, touching his warm lips to my abdomen.
“It does with us. We will always belong together.” He tilts his face up, his eyes dark and hungry. They follow his movements as he divests me of the remainder of my clothes.
Then he stands and undresses, revealing he’s as turned on as I am by his sheer proximity. My mouth goes dry at the vision of masculinity he makes, every part of him designed to fit me so well. To please me.
I want him. My body is desperate to have him inside me. And yet… “Esteban, we shouldn’t do this,” I protest weakly when he tugs me into the shower and shuts the glass door behind us. He places me beneath the nozzle, where I’m warmed instantly by the hot water running over me.
“Do what?” He squirts shampoo into his palm, then proceeds to massage it into my hair.
I moan at the delicious feel of his nails against my scalp, the pressure he applies to my temples and the kneading on my neck.
“Hmm?” I shut my eyes, enjoying the relaxing combination of deep and light motions as he rinses it out.
“What should we not do?”
“Oh.” I look at him over my shoulder. “You shouldn’t touch me.”
“All you have to do is tell me to stop.” He bites the crook of my neck, and to my dismay, I tilt me head to give him better access.
“You said so yourself, there’s a lot between us. We’re enemies now.” I whimper when his mouth leaves my skin, but soon, he returns with soapy hands.
He brings me to him, his hard chest against my back and his dick digging into my spine. “I agree with you. Only an enemy would try to kill me.” He nips my flesh, roving toward my shoulder as his arms come around my chest and he begins to wash me.
“Mmm,” I groan, finding it nearly impossible to think, much less come up with an appropriate response as his hands cup my breasts, circling them, rubbing slippery palms all around until they ache with need.
Then he moves downward, leaving a trail of suds over my ribcage and abdomen. When he reaches my sex, he cleans around it carefully, softly, keeping every touch over my slit maddeningly gentle.
Finally, he slides a finger through my folds, where he plays with my clitoris until it swells to his satisfaction. “I love the feel of your little clit, Aurora. On my fingers, in my mouth. Against the head of my dick,” he adds, pressing his hardness into me. “It’s so supple and sweet. Do you like it when I rub it with my cock?”
“Why do you say things like that?” I grab the hand he’s just moved away and place it between my legs once again.
He chuckles. “Things that make you wet?”
“Dirty things that make me wet, you mean. Then I feel guilty for getting wet over the things you say.”
“I like you wet.” With his other hand, he gathers up some of the soap remaining on my belly, then moves it around to my rear and slips a finger between my butt cheeks until he touches my anus. “Here’s something else I like,” he groans, applying slight pressure.
