Chapter 3
PILAR LOPEZ
The sunlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, forcing me to open my eyes.
At first nothing registers. Not the pounding headache or the fact that my entire body feels hollow and certainly not Joaquin’s body pressed tightly against mine.
It takes every bit of strength for me to keep my eyes open and every ounce of willpower not to relish in the intimate way the man who broke me is currently holding me. Instead, I remind myself of the facts.
He’s using you, Pilar.
You’re nothing but another notch in his belt.
A body he can use, abuse, and break.
Something easily discarded.
Those cold-hard facts are the exact thoughts that ran through my mind as I sat in a sleek leather booth last night and stared across the crowded club at Joaquin.
He had no idea I was there, and as crazy as it sounds, that cut me deep.
Not deeper than the abortion, but it still hurt.
You see, I’ve always had this idea that love is more than an emotion, that it’s a connection.
It’s walking into a crowded room and not being able to see the person you love but knowing they’re close.
It’s feeling their presence because whenever they’re near, you’re whole.
The first time I felt it was three years ago.
I was working at the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach as a maid and had just finished making up one of the guest rooms. I pushed my cart into the hallway and the door across from the room opened.
I felt him before my eyes even met his, before my browns met his blues.
I knew the man dressed in a sharp suit was the other half of my soul, the piece I was missing. The love that would complete my life.
However, to him, I was simply someone who’d bring him clean towels and sadly, three years later, I’m not sure much has changed.
While I don’t change his linens anymore, I’m still just something of convenience.
I’m a willing body and a decent piece of arm candy for the occasional business function.
I’m not the missing link to anything. Not his soul and surely not his heart.
In fact, I’m not even certain Joaquin has a heart, because if he had, he wouldn’t have acted the way he did or said the things he did when I told him I was carrying his child. That undoubtedly was a missing link, a piece of him he so easily wanted ‘taken care of’.
“You’re awake.”
The sound of his raspy voice startles me and I instinctively turn my head. Our eyes lock as he reaches out to gently caress my cheek.
“You scared me,” he murmurs huskily. “I thought I lost you for good.”
As badly as I want to believe him, I know better.
Nothing scares Joaquin unless it jeopardizes his place in the underworld, another point he proved when he handed me the money for the abortion.
A child didn’t fit his lifestyle, he claimed.
To him, it was an unfortunate mess that needed to be swept under a rug.
Anger floods my veins as I recall laying on top of the sterile table.
I stared at the halogen lights above me with my legs spread open and cried as they drained the life from my body.
He wasn’t there holding my hand, assuring me I was doing the right thing.
Nor was he there to remind me of his argument, citing a child of his would only suffer because of the choices he made and the lifestyle he lived. No, Joaquin wanted no part of anything.
Not the child.
Not the abortion.
Not the heartache.
I suppose I’m lucky he provided a car to drive me to and from the clinic. Maybe I should get down on my hands and knees and thank him for the heating pad he bought me when I told him the cramping was unbearable. I bet he’d like that.
“Pilar, say something,” he pleads.
Funny, that’s why I went to the club last night.
There was so much I wanted to say, so many words I wanted to use as weapons, but when the opportunity presented itself, I just couldn’t do it.
Instead, I looked for a way to alleviate the pain.
A man slid into the booth next to me and unlike Joaquin, he noticed the hurt in my eyes.
I should’ve been wary. I should’ve remembered Joaquin’s boss didn’t like drugs in his club, but when that man slipped the baggie into the palm of my hand, all I knew was I held something that would erase the debilitating pain consuming me.
Swallowing, I focus on Joaquin’s handsome face. There was a time when I would’ve been perfectly content just staring into his eyes after a long night of making love.
“I wish I never met you,” I whisper, watching as regret flashes in his blue eyes.
Expecting him to release his hold on me, he surprises me by keeping his gaze locked with mine. Fearing he will see right through my defenses, I turn my head. Joaquin reaches out, touching a hand to my cheek and with ease, he forces my eyes back to his.
“You don’t mean that,” he argues softly.
His thumb gently strokes my cheek and the simple touch is too much.
My resolve starts to crumble just as it always does when it comes to this man.
That’s how this thing works between us, I finally get the courage to say I’ve had enough and he strips me down with a single look, a gentle touch, maybe even a false promise, but never the three words I yearn to hear.
Tears sting my eyes as I meet his gaze.
“You’re right, but— ”
My words die as he silences me by touching a finger to my lips.
“Don’t,” he murmurs. I’m not sure if the lone word is a demand or a plea. I want to believe it’s the latter, that he is finally willing to fight for me, for us. That he’s ready to let love lead. The storm of emotions raging in his eyes says so, but I need the words.
I need action.
I deserve both.
But all I get is his skillful mouth.
Determined lips press against mine as his fingers thread through my hair, holding my head in place as his tongue slips inside my mouth.
I close my eyes at the sensation and against my better judgment, I return the kiss, letting my tongue mingle and dance with his.
A groan rumbles from his throat as he rolls on top of me, nudging my legs apart.
Lifting my hands to his cheeks, I spread my legs and welcome his weight. In the back of my head I know I’m a fool, that I’m letting him use me, but I’m too weak to fight. I need this connection. I need to feel him one more time.
Tearing his mouth from mine, his lips travel down my neck, sucking, licking and nibbling as his hands roam under the t-shirt I’m wearing, searing every inch of skin they touch.
Suddenly, his assault on my neck ends and my eyes flutter open at the loss.
Crooking his finger, he urges me to sit up and as I do, he brings the t-shirt over my head, tossing it to the side as I lay my head back against the pillow.
His eyes rake over me like he knows it’s the last time he’ll ever see me naked, committing my body to memory.
Then his hands follow the path of his gaze, starting with my breasts, paying extra attention to my overly sensitive nipples.
He flicks and pinches the buds before taking them between his teeth.
Pain.
So much pain.
That’s his specialty. He tears me apart, gives me a dose of agony and then he delivers me the sweet. With controlled patience, he licks my nipples, soothing the sting before his mouth lowers to my belly.
Flat.
Barren.
He peppers kisses over my olive skin and a tear slips from the corner of my eye. From the moment I found out I was pregnant, I imagined what I would look like with a rounded belly and I looked forward to the day he’d lay his hand over it and feel our baby kick for the first time.
Lifting his eyes to mine, he pauses and for the first time, I see the sorrow in those blue orbs.
I see the pain too.
And regret.
But most of all I see grief.
“Lo siento,” he rasps before lowering his gaze back to my belly. I almost believe him . . . almost.
He places another kiss to my belly before he hooks his thumbs around the thin waistband of my panties, dragging them down my legs. Bare and on display, I watch as he leans back on his haunches and stares at my pussy. A feral groan escapes his lips and I commit the sound to my memory.
There’s a sliver of me that is vindictive, a part that wishes to make him hurt a fraction of the way he’s made me hurt and it’s that piece of me that’s calling to me right now.
I want to tell him to take a good look at me, to remember how it feels to be buried inside of me because after today he doesn’t get the privilege anymore.
Instead, I tell him to grab a condom.
Biting the inside of his cheek, he makes quick work of removing his shirt before roughly freeing his long, thick cock from his slacks. Leaning forward, I wrap my hand around his shaft, letting my thumb graze the head as Joaquin pushes his fingers into my hair.
“Chupa mi polla,” he rasps.
Before I do as he requests, my eyes flit to his. I bend my head and lick the come from the tip of his cock.
Remember me.
“Fuck,” he groans, holding my head steady as he thrusts past my lips and into my open mouth. I slowly take him, sucking and licking until the head pushes against the back of my throat and I gag. In one quick move, he pulls out of my mouth and pushes me down against the bed, spreading my legs.
“Knees against your tits, Pilar.”
I’ve always loved the way he takes control in the bedroom, almost as much as I love the filthy things he whispers when he’s fucking me, and normally, I wouldn’t think twice.
I’d draw my knees to my chest and watch him pound into me, craving the fullness I know I’m sure to feel based on the angle, but not this time.
This time our bodies are fighting a war against our hearts.
“Not without a condom,” I grind out.
“Pilar— ”
“You weren’t there,” I interject.
Those three words are all I need to say before he reluctantly reaches into the nightstand and produces a condom. I turn my head at the sound of the foil crinkling and again, tears fill my eyes.
“You trying to punish me, love,” he questions as he hooks his hands under my thighs and bends my knees. Giving me his weight, I turn to meet his gaze and note how dark his eyes appear.
“Punish you . . . ” I repeat, narrowing my eyes in confusion.
“I’ll let you,” he continues. “You can revenge fuck me all you want, sweetheart, but it won’t change anything between us.”
“This isn’t a revenge fuck. It’s goodbye.”
I wait a beat for his words but all he gives me is his cock, roughly pushing his entire length in one thrust. A gasp expels from my lips as I hug my legs to my chest as my pussy stretches to accommodate him.
Leaning forward, he takes my head in his hands, the lower half of his body remaining perfectly still.
“Never that,” he growls.
Desperate for him to move inside me, I arch my back, pushing my pelvic bone against his.
“Please,” I whisper.
“Please, what?”
Let me go.
“Fuck me,” I whisper.
And that he does.
He fucks my body.
My mind.
And lastly, he fucks my heart.