Corruption is the key to success and I’m the collector of all debts.
The first time I laid eyes on my little flower, she was dressed up—a beautiful temptation wrapped in perfection that I wanted to own. Possess. To take away from the pseudo perfect life that reeks with the narcissistic chains—the demands—holding her down.
She’s a pawn.
The daughter of my enemy.
Solimar Quintero is the future Mrs. Alejandro Lucas and doesn’t even know it. She isn’t aware that the man she smiles at—taunts to come closer—is a criminal. A wanted man. A nightmare for his enemies and her future.
I always get what I want.
There’s a sudden prickling sensation—an undercurrent that travels through my body as a giggle meets my ears and my cock swells at the sound. It’s feminine and arousing and I can’t stop myself from looking over at the private section across from mine.
A group of women, in their early twenties at the most, arrive and take their place around the center table where a couple of bottles of liquor await. At once, I’m picking apart their faces, trying to decipher which family in the capital they belong to. None seem familiar, though.
Shooting shots of clear liquid.
All except one.
Motherfucking Preciosa. I can’t take my eyes off the one to the far right and how she moves her hips sensually to the rhythm of reggaeton. She’s mouthwatering, and my heart beats like the stampede of a thousand wild beasts. My muscles tighten. My jaw ticks.
The sounds around us dim and my cock hardens, pulsing, as the beautiful doll across from me twirls. Once. Twice. Five times while her hips undulate to the beat, the bottom of her strapless dress swirling around her mid-thighs.
She’s beautiful. Utterly indecent perfection.
On the last turn, her eyes wander my way and lock on mine. Light grey on my cognac and a bolt of volcanic need rushes down my spine. Licks at my skin. I’m aroused and hungry and near clawing at my flesh, but stay right where I am.
My eyes traverse her short frame in a minuscule blush-colored party dress. I take in how the fabric shimmers, almost glowing around her with each tempting move. From her dainty high-heeled feet to her slim waist and thick hips—to those larger than a handful tits pushed up against the thin fabric—I find her to be the physical embodiment of sin. A temptation I won’t deny myself.
Not when her lips quirk up into a shy smile.
Not when a touch of pink sweeps across her cheeks.
Not when she subtly squeezes her thighs.
I see it. Her. Every delicious inch makes me throb and pinning her beneath me is all I can focus on.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“What’s got you so…oh. You found her.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask Daniel, but my eyes remain on her. Taking in how she bites her lower lip before accepting the shot the girl beside her offers. The little flower throws it back without pause; a small shiver running through her—nipples pebbling into stiff little peaks—as I watch her stand beneath soft lighting. Catalog the rapid rise and fall of her chest. The clenching of fingers around the small glass. “You know her?”
My head snaps in his direction and eyes narrow. “Explain?” I grit out, the malice behind my tone clear. For the first time in all our years of friendship, I want to shoot him. Snap his neck and all because the grin on his face holds a hint of salaciousness. Of a familiarity. “Talk, man, before conclusions are made that are not in your favor.”
“Why so possessive?”
There’s a tumultuous storm brewing within, a thick cord that snaps and I pull my gun out, finger on the trigger before rationalizing my actions. “Now isn’t the time to test me.”
His hands go up and his face loses all trace of humor. “Parce, this is—”
“Who. Is. She?”
“Yes.” He swallows hard, eyes on my finger over the trigger. The same one that’s twitching. “That’s Solimar Quintero, my friend. The president’s daughter.”
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About the Author:
Elena M. Reyes is the epitome of a Floridian and if she could live in her beloved flip-flops, she would. As a small child, she was always intrigued by all forms of art: whether it was dancing to island rhythms, or painting with any medium she could get her hands on.
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