Devastate (Deliver 4)

A few seconds passed before Van answered. Dressed in only a pair of jeans that weren’t fully zipped, he glanced behind him before opening the door to let Tate in.

As Tate stepped through the doorway, he caught a glimpse of Amber crossing through the far side of the room, wrapped in a sheet and her hair a tangled mess of just-got-fucked.

Camila hadn’t been joking.

“If I’m interrupting,” Tate said, pausing in the entryway, “I can come back.”

“Let’s go out to the patio.” Van turned and strolled toward the back door.

Tate followed him. The guest rooms were set up like hotel suites, with kitchenettes, sitting areas, private bathrooms, and artfully decorated beds and furnishings.

It never ceased to amaze him how much wealth could be amassed through corruption. He didn’t know what the Restrepo cartel was involved in. No one knew but Camila. That said, Matias spent a great deal of time and money fighting a war against human slavery. Tate admired the man deeply for that.

The room reeked of sex. Several belts lay on the king-sized bed, and clothing scattered the floor as if they’d been stripped in a hurry.

A shiver crept up his spine as he entered the private patio and lowered onto the chair beside Van. It was blissfully hot outside, even at dusk. Moisture infused the air, so unlike the parched heat of the desert.

“How long will you stay?” he asked Van.

“Until I know my family will be safe in Texas.”

That wouldn’t be the case until Tiago Badell was six feet in the ground.

Matias had brought in a private teacher for Van’s daughter, so she was probably getting a better education here. But Liv and Josh would lose their jobs if they stayed much longer.

“Spit it out, Tate.” Van shifted his gaze from the tropical landscape and rested it on him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Amber moving through the living area and decided to start there. “Does she know what happened?”

“Of course. I don’t just fuck my wife. I confide in her, lean on her, and trust her. I tell her everything.”

Tate nodded, letting that settle through his rioting nerves. “How did she take it?”

“She cried.” Van’s frown twisted into a smirk. “Then she demanded I talk to you when you returned.”

“I’m not good at this.” Tate leaned forward, bracing his elbows on knees. “I think what’s been digging at me the most is the damage I might’ve done to you.”

“Well, you have a huge goddamn cock, and I felt every inch—”

“You know what I mean.”

“Right.” Van heaved in a heavy breath and leaned back in the chair. “I was raped as a child. You don’t really get over that, but you get through it. I’ve done that, and so have you.” He removed a toothpick from his pocket and set it between his teeth. “What happened between us in that basement might not have been willing, but it wasn’t violent or cruel. You didn’t abuse me the way I abused you all those years ago. You understand the difference?”

“Yeah.”

“The hardest part for me was betraying my wife.” Van twisted in the chair and tracked Amber’s movements through the window. “She sees me at my weakest, and she still loves me.”

“You weren’t weak in Caracas. What you did for me—”

“I was messed up in my head when I returned to her, but she has this deep well of sympathy in her, an ability to identify with how and why I do the things I do.” He rolled the toothpick between his lips. “Don’t know what I did to deserve her, but she’s stuck with me, for better or worse. So to address your concerns, there’s no damage on my end. What about you?”

He laughed uncomfortably. “The sex was the least painful part of that night.”

“But the most painful to come to terms with.” Van softened his voice. “Have you fucked her since you returned?”

“No.” He set his jaw. “I can’t get out of my damn head.”

“Go fuck your girl, Tate. The second you’re inside her, controlling her in the way you both need, the mental blocks will disappear.” Van rose from the chair and held out a hand. “No bad blood.”

He stood, ignoring the offered handshake, and pulled Van into a one-armed hug. “Thank you for everything you did in Caracas. We’re more than even. No bad blood.”

“Good to hear.”

Tate left Van’s room, hellbent on taking care of Lucia in the way she deserved—deeply, passionately, and thoroughly. The intimacy he’d wrongfully denied her, the urgency to connect with her on every carnal level possible, and the cravings he felt every time she was near—it all swelled to hard, pulsating life.

The breath of his soul had been a distant whisper for so long he thought he’d lost it. But he heard it now, felt it growing closer, coming back to him. Maybe it hadn’t been his body that was different, but rather his spirit. That was the part of him that had been severely wounded, reduced to damn-near nothingness.

He found her on the veranda, surrounded by Camila, Matias, and several men in the cartel he couldn’t name.

As he approached Lucia’s back, his emotional aches retreated, fading into the background of his thundering heartbeat.

He stopped behind her chair and brought his mouth to her ear, “Come with me.”

She spun around with a huge grin, and the tabletop candlelight danced behind her, sharing his excitement.

A casual red dress molded to her curves and flirted with her knees as she stood.

His breath stuttered. Three months of poison-free health looked so fucking good on her. Sun-kissed skin, glossy black hair, full tits, a Latina ass that didn’t know when to quit, and their room was a five-minute walk away. He was so fucking hard there was no way he’d make it there.

He clamped a hand around her arm and led her out of the dining area and toward the causeway.

The air around them sparked with hunger—his and hers. She didn’t ask where they were going. She saw it in his expression and fed from it. He didn’t have to be an empath to sense her desire. It materialized in the gasping hitch of her breath, the pebbling nipples beneath her dress, and the look in her eyes that didn’t stray from his face.

He tried to focus on steps. One foot forward. Turn left at the next hall. Pass the kitchen. Watch the wet spot on the marble.

Wet spot. Short skirt. Long, sexy-as-fuck legs. Panties, pussy, tight heat…

Fuck this. He hooked an arm around her waist and shoved her back against the nearest wall. His hands went under her dress. His fingers found the satin crotch of her panties. Her mouth slotted against his, and they crashed into a frenzy of kissing, licking, biting need.

He ground his hips against her, letting her feel the swollen length of him. Then he yanked her panties down and buried his fingers inside her.

Her moan vibrated against his mouth, and goosebumps dotted her arms. The wa

rm, wet clasp of her body sucked on his fingers, clenching and taunting as he imagined her sliding along his cock. Her pussy was the hottest thing he’d ever touched, and it was even hotter when she climaxed.

It’d been three months. Three harrowing months without the taste of her lips and the squeeze of her cunt.

He kept his tongue in her mouth, panting and feasting as he thrust his hand harder, faster, mindless in his pursuit to feel her come. He needed it. Goddamn, he’d missed her so much.

Footsteps approached the corridor, slowed to a stop, and moved on. He didn’t care. Her nails scored his shoulders, and her moans intensified. Her orgasm was within reach.

“Give it to me, Lucia.”

She quivered, ignited, and combusted on his hand, drenching his fingers and throbbing rhythmically. Her tits bounced with the heave of her chest, and her pupils dilated as she stared up at him, burned into him.

“You’re so getting fucked right now.” He unzipped and pulled himself out while fingering her and holding her on that euphoric edge.

She kicked her panties away and reached between her legs, sliding her fingers over his where they sank in and out of her.

“Hold on.” He lifted her, pinned her back against the wall, and pushed inside her silky cunt in one motion.

“Fuck.” He groaned, shaking with the deep-reaching flood of sensations. “Christ, your pussy… So fucking tight. Every bump and ridge is gripping me.”

“There’s nothing between us.” She cupped his face, smiling as she searched his eyes.

No condom. He’d never had consensual sex without one. And as he kicked his hips to meet her body, he vowed to never wear one again.

Nothing felt like this. Nothing. It wasn’t just the bareness between them. It was her. The staccato of her hungry whimpers, the submissive give of her body, and the love shining in her honey-brown eyes.

He pressed tighter against her chest and worked his mouth frantically against hers, his movements unhinged and desperate. It had been too long, and they’d been through too much to put restraints on this. He let his desire take over, driving his thrusts, drinking in her kisses, and digging his fingers into her beautiful skin.