Chapter 19 #3
When he opens them again he looks hungry and haunted all at once.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, not seizing, just holding, thumb brushing skin like he is testing if I will let him.
I don’t pull away.
The air between us tightens, heavy with everything we are not saying.
His mouth drops toward mine slow and controlled, like he is giving me one last chance to stop it.
My lips part.
My heart pounds.
A knock hits the door, sharp and urgent.
Magic’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade. “Prez. You need to see this. Now.”
Diablo stills. His eyes flick to the door, then back to me like he hates leaving me for even a second.
He stands with a tight exhale. “Stay right here.”
“You mean it this time?” I ask, and I hate the way my voice sounds like it wants to trust him.
His gaze locks on mine. “Yeah. I mean it.”
He opens the door. Magic is there with a phone in his hand, face grim.
Diablo takes it and scans whatever is on the screen, and his expression goes hard.
“What,” I whisper, dread crawling up my spine.
Diablo’s voice comes out low and lethal. “Carmen.”
He turns the phone so I can see.
A notification from a local account. A photo that looks like it was taken through a crack in a car window.
Diablo carrying me out of my apartment, my face pressed to his cut, my bandaged wrists visible, his colors bright as a target.
SAINTS OUTLAWS PRESIDENT SEEN WITH MYSTERY WOMAN AFTER SHOOTING. RUMORS ROCK LITTLE HAVANA.
My hands start shaking again like my body doesn’t know the danger ever ended.
The hospital suddenly feels less like a safe place and more like a stage.
Carmen did not come here to check on anyone.
She came to make sure Miami watched.
And Miami never watches without taking something.
Miami doesn’t let you heal quietly.
Even the hospital parking garage hums, fluorescent lights flickering overhead while engines cough and idle and the air tastes like exhaust and rain that never fully rinses the streets clean.
Diablo’s hand stays at the small of my back as he guides me toward the SUV, palm warm through my thin shirt, steady the way a wall is steady when you are the one shaking.
Vice is in the driver’s seat, eyes forward. Magic is outside for half a second, scanning, then he shuts the door with a final thud like he is sealing us in.
Nobody talks about the posts.
Nobody talks about Carmen’s smile.
Nobody talks about the way my face is already somebody’s content.
The SUV rolls out and Miami slides past in smeared color, palms and billboards and wet pavement shining under streetlights. Reggaeton rattles from a car at a light, bass heavy enough to vibrate the bones.
Diablo’s thumb rubs the inside of my arm above my wrist, slow, like he is trying to calm tremors out of my blood.
“You’re breathing like you’re running,” he murmurs.
“I’m fine,” I lie, because I hate being seen this way.
He makes a sharp exhale that means he is not buying it. His fingers travel to my bandage and stop there, careful, like he is afraid of hurting me worse.
“You’re not fine,” he says. “You’re here.”
My throat tightens. “Miami’s watching.”
“Let Miami watch,” he says, voice low. “They don’t get you.”
I swallow, staring at his knuckle with the dried blood. “You shot Rico.”
His jaw jumps. “He put a gun in my girl’s face.”
My girl.
It hits hotter than it should.
I shift, and the movement makes pain flare at my wrists. I flinch before I can stop it.
Diablo sees it. Of course he does.
His gaze slides to mine, dark and furious and wrecked. “Look at me.”
I do.
He leans closer, just enough that his breath warms my mouth, and he does not touch me yet. That restraint makes my pulse jump harder than a grab ever could.
“You want me to stop the car?” he asks quietly. “You say it. One word.”
I blink. “That’s your idea of romance?”
“I’m not sure I can wait,” he says.
“For what?”
“To taste coconut and salt on your skin.”
My throat burns.
The SUV turns off into a darker side lane where the city noise drops low, where the ocean wind slips between buildings. The engine idles. Vice doesn’t look back as he steps out. He knows better.
The world outside keeps moving, but inside this vehicle it is just our breathing.
Diablo shifts toward me, slow, giving me time to pull away.
I don’t.
His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth where the cut stings. The touch is careful.
His eyes are not.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“Because you scare the hell out of me,” I admit, and the truth tastes like blood.
His mouth hovers near mine. He doesn’t kiss me yet.
“Good,” he says, voice rough. “You should be scared of me.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s honest,” he replies. “I’m not safe. I’m not soft. I’m not the man you deserve.”
My pulse kicks harder.
“But you’re the man I want,” I whisper.
Something in his expression cracks.
His control slips just enough that I see the storm underneath.
“You don’t get to say shit like that unless you mean it,” he warns.
“I mean it.”
The words come out steadier than I feel.
Diablo’s hand slides into my hair, grip firm but not painful, like he is anchoring himself. “Carino,” he breathes, and that one word feels like a chain and a kiss at the same time.
He leans in and finally kisses me.
Hard.
This is hunger.
His mouth crashes into mine like he has been starving since I left, and he is done pretending he can live on air. I make a sound into his mouth that embarrasses me, and he answers with a low growl that goes straight through my ribs.
His other hand grips my waist and pulls me across the seat until I am in his lap, thighs settling around him like my body remembers exactly where it fits. Leather creaks under my fingers as I grasp his cut and haul him closer.
Outside, a car passes. Bass thumps. Miami keeps being Miami.
Inside, the air turns electric.
Diablo’s mouth moves to my jaw, then my throat, kissing carefully around the bruised places, avoiding pain like he is mapping it, memorizing it. His teeth scrape lightly at the skin just below my ear and my whole body tightens.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against my neck.
I swallow, proud and shaking. “You. Inside me, papi.”
That name breaks something in him. His hands slide under my shirt, warm and rough, palms spanning my ribs. He pauses when his fingers brush a sore spot, eyes flicking up to check me.
“You okay?”
I nod, breath stuttering. “Don’t stop.”
That dark smile appears. “Careful what you ask for.”
He pulls my shirt up, just enough to get his mouth on my skin, and the first hot, slow kiss to my breasts makes me jerk. He holds me tighter, steadying me, like he is not going to let me fall apart alone.
My fingers dive into his hair. “Diablo.”
He kisses me again, deeper, rougher, tongue sliding against mine with a kind of control that is barely hanging on. His hand moves between us, and the way he touches me is not rushed, not sloppy. It is deliberate. Like he is taking back time.
I gasp into his mouth. My hips shift, seeking friction, and he makes a sound like it hurts to hold himself back.
“You sure you’re not too hurt?” he asks, voice tight.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes. Don’t you dare make me say it twice.”
His eyes go darker.
He turns his head just enough to glance forward. My gaze follows his. Vice is outside, posture rigid, respectful, his back turned like the city is the only thing that exists.
Diablo’s attention snaps back to me like he can’t help it. His hand slides under the hem of my skirt, fingers finding me wet, and I bite down on a sound that wants to get loud.
He kisses me to swallow it.
“Quiet, mi vida,” he murmurs.
“You hiding me?”
“No. Because I’m trying not to kill everyone who can hear you.”
That should make me roll my eyes. Instead it makes my stomach clench.
His fingers move with slow cruelty, circling, pressing, learning me again like he has been haunted by this exact moment. My breath turns ragged. My nails drag down the ink on his neck as he unzips his pants and his dick slides against me just right.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Diablo’s mouth hits mine harder. “That’s it,” he growls. “Let me have you.”
My body arches, chasing his cock as he slides in. He holds me there, trapped in his lap, one arm locked around my waist like a seatbelt, the other clutching my hair, while his dick is making me forget how to think.
The windows fog. The engine hums. The city becomes a smear of neon outside the glass.
I come apart with his mouth on mine and his cock deep inside me. I bite down on his shoulder to keep from screaming his name into the night. Diablo curses into my hair like a prayer that got turned dirty, holding me through it like I’m something precious and dangerous.
When it eases, I sag against him, trembling, embarrassed by how much I needed it.
Diablo kisses my forehead. Soft. Possessive. Final.
“You still with me?” he asks, voice low.
I lift my face, really look at him. The biker president who runs a one percenter club. The criminal whose money is dirty. The man who can buy access to yachts, lawyers and silence because crime pays better than honesty in Miami.
My man who still treats me as if I’m the only real thing in his world. My outlaw who is painfully engaged for the good of his club. My lover who may have just had sex with me in an alley because it’s too dangerous in his clubhouse where his wife-to-be lives.
“Yeah,” I say, voice rough. “I’m still here.”
His fingers slide under my chin, making me look at him. “Say it again.”
“I’m still here.”
He looks like he’s swallowing relief.
“Are you here?” I ask.
His mouth brushes mine, slow this time, not hunger, not demand.
A vow. “Always, carino.”
Vice slips inside before I’m off Diablo’s lap.
The SUV shifts into gear.
Vice Ink waits.
A war waits.
Carmen waits.
All of Miami may see me as Diablo’s la sancha, but I no longer care.
I’ve got to go home.
And Diablo’s my home.