There was nothing as erotic as watching Torres lick her pussy, his dark head nestled between her pale thighs, the muscles of his broad shoulders contracting under tan skin, as his mouth worked to bring her to climax, the sight alone was enough to make her come.
His head lowered. Gently he licked her thighs, and then the delicate folds, and then the wet opening of her body. Her hips bucked as he made intimate contact. The sensation was almost too much and it was made greater by the feeling that he shouldn’t be doing it, it was too intimate, too personal. She would never consider doing it with anyone else, but nothing was off limits with Torres, there were no rules. His tongue darted in and out of her, making love to her with his mouth.
Her hands fisted in his hair. Higher, she needed him higher. She needed him to suck on her clit, just one stroke of his tongue. That is all she needed. He knew it but he wouldn’t do it, not until he was good and ready. If it were possible to die of desire, she would be six feet under.
Oh God she needed him higher. She arched her back, trying to reposition herself, open her body further to him. “Please, Torres,” she begged. Her hands fisted in his hair pulling his dark head higher. “Please.”
Torres raised his head. On his face was a lazy smile. He was enjoying this, making her suffer. He was a sadist. “Please what, Gatita? What do you want from me?”
“Make me come,” she begged.
“You know I will. When are you going to learn to trust me?” His smile was devious but his eyes were hooded with desire. This was torture for him too, he wanted to be inside her, but he was proving a point…a frustrating…erotic…exquisite point.
Her head fell to the side. This wasn’t an argument she would win.
Moments later, he returned to the top of her thighs.
She groaned. This might kill her. She needed to come soon, the pressure that built was nearing painful but he was keeping her there, in a holding pattern, not allowing her to make her final ascent. She thrashed about, rubbing herself against his face. The course stubble of his chin bit into her flesh. It hurt but it felt too good. God she needed more…the pain the pleasure…him…she just needed him.
“Torres,” she moaned.
With that cry, his tongue found her clit. She sucked in a ragged breath. It was good, too good. Her legs shook, bright colours flashed behind her eyes as she came hard against his mouth. Her whole body shook with it, as wave after wave of pleasure hit her.
For a precious moment, the world stopped, everything was good. She remembered what happiness felt like.
She closed her eyes and tried to capture the feeling so she could remind herself that she still could feel something.
Beth didn’t have long to languish in the peacefulness of the moment. In seconds Torres was above her, his thick cock at the entrance of her body. With one powerful stroke he was in her and the carnal assault on her senses began again.
She was climbing again, each stroke pushing her higher. “Oh God, Torres, I’m going to come again,” she cried. A powerful spasm rocked her body as she came around his cock, her flesh moulding around him, merging with his, becoming one. Tremor after tremor rocked her until her body could give no more, but still he thrust into her, his cadence merciless, his restraint gone.
She bit into her lip to stop from screaming. Her flesh was too sensitive. Every stroke was agony…and bliss. She loved this part, when it was just about him. It hurt but she loved it. He was using her, fucking her. It was hard and fast, no finesse, just frantic need. She felt used…and sore…and needed…and cherished…and loved. They didn’t say the words, but her body knew. There was no amount of physical pain too much for this.
She watched his face. She loved that face, the scarred bearded face. She ran her hand along the slash on his cheek. With a low animal grunt, he came and warmth flooded her.
He collapsed onto her. He rolled over, so he did not crush her, their bodies still entwined.
Gently he pressed a kiss to her temple.
Beth smiled. She was home.
Beth was draped over his chest, her head resting just above his heart. He ran his hand over her thick blonde hair. He waited for her breathing to change, become slower and deeper, a sign she was asleep.
She was asleep but he didn’t move. She wasn’t dealing with her sister’s death. Nobody dealt well with death, but they dealt with it. They cried or got angry, or in his case he joined the DEA and made his life’s mission to destroy the man who had killed his best friend. He still missed Moses Archila, he always would. He still thought about the sound of the gun. Waking up in the hospital and knowing his best friend was dead and he could have prevented it was the hardest thing he had ever endured. It was worse than his flesh being burnt off in the roadside explosion, worse than being a prisoner in the Colombian jungle.
The guilt would never leave him but he dealt with it.
Beth wasn’t even dealing, she was ignoring. It was what he expected; it was what she did. At first she surprised him, she cried and shook and swore. She grieved.
And then she shut down; all her emotions were gone, pushed down and turned off. She was ignoring the fact her sister was murdered. But she couldn’t ignore this forever. Eventually it would come out and it would be raw and brutal and ugly and she would have to fight to not be drawn under. But he would be there.
He gently pulled his arm out from under her head, replacing it with a pillow. He crossed the room. He needed to work.
But first he needed to pick up her clothes. He could only smile. The woman was completely incapable of getting clothes is a hamper…or wrappers in the trash. In her defence, she got them close, sometimes within a few inches but she never could fully commit. Lucky for her she had lots of other talents, some of which she had just demonstrated.
Torres put Beth’s shoes beside the closet door and before he reached for her pants. As he folded them, a pamphlet fell out, the cover catching his eye: Helping Your Child Understand Prison, Advice from the California Department of Correction.
Torres took a deep breath. Her dad. She had gone to see her dad. He folded the pamphlet and put it back in her pocket. She didn’t want him to know, so he would pretend he didn’t.
A chirping noise pierced the silence of the inky darkness. On instinct Beth’s hand reached out to silence her alarm but the noise continued. It was too early. And it was Sunday, why was her alarm on?
Beth gave the alarm another hard whack. When that didn’t silence it she gave the cord a hard yank.
“It’s your phone.” Torres’ deep voice was a gravelly whisper. He had been asleep too which meant it really was an ungodly hour. Beth glanced at the clock. She had to squint to make out the numbers: 3:38.
She slid her finger across the screen to accept the call. It was an unknown number. “Thomson,” she said.
“Agent Thomson, this is Detective Jamison from Carrizo Springs.”
“Uh huh,” she murmured. Beth glanced at the clock again. It was too early or too late, either way her brain hadn’t fully engaged. Carrizo Springs. She wasn’t working a case there. She couldn’t even think offhand where it was in relation to her.
“Sorry to bother you at this hour but there is an alert on file that says to contact you when there is anything to do with Los Treintas.”
Beth sat up, giving her eyes a good rub. “Yeah that’s right. Thank you. What is going on?”
“There was an incident tonight. A Border Agent’s house was vandalized. No confirmation yet, but it appears that his wife and children are missing.”
Beth’s heart stopped in her chest.
She shook her head. They weren’t