Summary: Miguel doesn’t like it when you ghost him.
Pairing: Miguel Galindo x Reader
Words: 2905
TW: language, sex, consensual angry sex (but kinda has shades of non-con), physical violence, choking
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The roar of the engine rips through the quiet of your suburban street. Two wheels ignite the pavement as you steer the bars left, your modest bungalow finally coming into view. Everything is as you left it except for a pair of black cars with tinted windows parked on the adjacent street. A visit from the president, you think wryly.
A window rolls down and you spot those clear-framed sunglasses and a salt and pepper beard (just begging to be sat on).
“Shit,” you mutter, and it reverberates within the confines of your helmet.
The moment you turn to your driveway and your engine sputters to a stop, the driver to the Bentley steps out. The kickstand scratches on the concrete as you pull the helmet over your head, your hair flowing out to fall down the small of your back. You don’t look behind you, but you can hear the set of footsteps encroaching upon your space.
“I know where you’ve been.”
His voice is deceivingly placid, but you can sense the dark clouds and looming thunderstorm. The click of Italian shoes stops a few feet from where you’re standing, then you hear his men retreat a safe distance — far enough so they’re not privy to your conversation, but close enough to intercept if you decided to hurt a hair on their boss’ precious, pretty head.
“You’re tracking me now?”
“I wouldn’t have to if you were honest with me.”
You chuckle at the irony of it all. Miguel Galindo — the man who keeps more secrets than the United States Treasury — is telling you to be honest with him.
The statement is infuriating, but it’s low on the list of things he does that make your blood boil. The demand to be truthful when you can’t expect the same in return is, frankly, unsurprising since you know what you got yourself into when you started sleeping with him. But it’s still bullshit. There’s also the possessiveness, the jealousy, the refusal to acknowledge you want more from him than he’s willing to give.
You know it’s like diving in quicksand getting involved with the leader of a drug cartel, but you can’t help it. Reason flies out the window the second he shows up in his perfectly-pressed shirts, expertly-coiffed hair, and that stupidly gorgeous face. The fucking nerve.
He’s not even your type. He’s wound up tight, doesn’t have a speck of dirt under his fingernails, and can’t hang and have a beer with your friends. At least, that’s what you tell yourself when you try to resist the biological need to mount him. He’s not what you go for, seeing as you’re the kind of girl who gets around town in a Harley and makes a living tinkering with engines. But his infuriating way of getting whatever he wants works on you, because you’re really not that different from the other girls. You may be one of the boys, but you’d still be a hoe for Galindo if he asked nicely. And the fucker’s really good at that.
He’s got a way of smoothing out your rough edges (with his tongue).
The door doesn’t slam behind you even though you have every intention of slamming it in Miguel’s face telenovela-style. He follows you inside the house, through the living room, into the kitchen, cornering you between the fridge and the hard wall that is his body.
“Why haven’t you been answering my calls?”
You take a swig from the orange juice carton and swallow hard, the citrus burning your throat. Putting it back in the fridge, you turn around and duck under his outstretched arm to move out of the claustrophobic space.
“Stop walking away from me” he calls after you. “And stop ignoring my questions.”
You’re in the narrow hallway on the way to your bedroom when you feel a tight grip on your arm and your body slammed onto the drywall. It nearly knocks the wind out of you. Wincing at the sudden impact, you blink a few times before you see Miguel’s reddened face inches from yours. The knot between his brows is deep and his eyes are so intense you can’t bear to return his stare.
There are moments when Miguel can be on the aggressive side when you’re having sex, but it’s something you’ve both consented to and discussed. You love it when he’s rough, sometimes egging him on to push your limits. But he’s never been like this outside of sex even when he’s angry with you; he’s never let any form of physical violence take over.
A little part of you is scared as you’re suddenly reminded of who he is and what he’s done. You’re not oblivious. You’ve heard the stories. You know about the yellow raincoat deep in his closet.
And yet, another little part of you located between the apex of your thighs is awakened.
The shallow breaths between you in such a cramped space is the only sound that exists for a long, drawn-out moment. The rise and fall of his chest stretches the perfectly-pressed shirt until it forms creases around the buttons. He runs his hand through his hair in frustration with himself, then he takes a step back and groans. “Fuck.”
“I think you should leave,” you say with a crack in your voice, unsure of whether or not it’s really what you want. “Please go.”
“Tell me why you left.”
“Miguel.”
“Why did you disappear without telling me?” he asks, almost pleading. “We were fine up until a week ago, then all of a sudden you don’t want to see me, you don’t want to talk to me, you want nothing to do with me. What is it? What did I do?”
“I don’t want to do this right now.”
Miguel slaps his palms against the wall, forearms on either side of your head. You close your eyes like you’re bracing for impact but it never comes. “You bailed on our arrangement, and I’m not leaving until I have answers.”
“Our arrangement,” you repeat with bitterness laced in your voice. “The arrangement where you only crawl back to me whenever it’s convenient for you — only when you’re looking for a warm body to share your bed. But the rest of the time, you’re cool with the rest of the world thinking you’re some hotshot bachelor. You have no clue, huh?”
“Is that why you’re running from me? Because of a fucking label? Because I don’t think it benefits either of us to make you my fucking girlfriend?”
“Please,” you say. “This last week, I’ve come to realize I deserve more than to be Galindo’s puta.”
“What do you deserve?” His mouth close to your ear, his breath trailing fire on your skin. “To be the Mayans’ puta?”
“Fuck you, Miguel.” You push him off you, but in a second he’s cornered you against the wall, his hands firmly gripping your shoulders.
“You can’t speak to me like that.”
“Fuck. You.”
He grabs you by the chin, forcing you to look at him. “Try that again and —“
“— And what?” You spit back. “You’ll bash my head in? Cut my arm off? Choke me to death with your shirt?”
He backs off a little like he knows he’s on the verge of doing something unspeakable, even for him. This is what you find so confusing about him. He has these moments where he’s compassionate and loyal, where he uses his brilliance for the benefit of others, and then there are moments where he’s too immersed in the terrible things he’s done that he isolates himself. He won’t let anyone he actually cares about see that part of him. He won’t let anyone he loves see him when he’s the man on the other side of that wall.
But something vicious inside you sees that moment of vulnerability and decides to stab it with a knife and twist until he bleeds out.
“Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t tell me who I can’t hang out with,” you say about your friends. You know it works because his expression darkens with anger the moment you bring it back to the Mayans; something about your relationship to the club is like picking at an old wound for Miguel.
“I tell you what to do because I own you.” He presses his forehead against yours, his hands restraining your hips so you’re trapped with nowhere to go. “I even own the Mayans. I own every single fucking person on either side of this border. They work for me and they fall to their fucking knees for me.”
“If you own me then claim me.”
Miguel looks into your eyes, his brows creasing and his lips parting. If he doesn’t want to be with you, then he’s not worth all of the pain. Even if he makes you feel good, it’s not worth the hurt when he leaves and pretend you don’t exist.
“Make me yours, Miguel.”
He thinks about it a second too long, and you push him off.
Miguel retaliates in a flash with his hand around you throat and his whole body slamming into you. He chokes you.
He doesn’t even slacken his hold when his eyes give away how startled he is by the force he’s inflicting upon you. His grip stays the same even as you gasp for air and your eyes are wide in horror (and arousal). Your face is pointed to the ceiling as you feel the anguished cry from your lips turn into something along the lines of a mischievous smile.
You buck your hips into his, and when he doesn’t change course, you spit in his face.
Miguel chokes harder. He’s crushing your throat so tight you feel your eyes bug out of your skull, and now you’re legitimately terrified you’re going to die of asphyxiation. Everything goes blurry and all you remember is the onyx gleam in his eyes and the bright white canines that you wish would scrape at your skin until you’re bleeding crimson for him.
But then he lets go. His breaths are ragged while you’re coughing up a storm, trying to take in as much oxygen and save what’s left of your lungs. You’re doubled over, palm over your chest when you see him standing on the opposite wall. His fingers are running through his hair, his mouth muttering curse words in Spanish. You stand a little straighter as you let your fingers trail along the side of your neck, throwing him a challenge by smiling slyly in his direction.
Shoving you against the wall and forcing his thigh between your legs, he kisses you. One hand wraps around the front of your throat while the other caresses down your cheek. It’s violent and tender at the same time.
It’s infuriatingly Miguel.
He continues to strangle you but no longer with the same merciless force as before. Not when he’s simultaneously distracted by the taste of your tongue tangling with his, or the sensation of you rubbing on his thigh. His deft fingers loosen the buttons of your jeans and pulls them swiftly down to your knees. You kick them off, but not far enough.
Miguel pulls away from the kiss and his chokehold to bend down and slip your jeans entirely off your legs, throwing them down the hall. He kisses and licks and bites your inner thigh on his way up then all the way down as he slides the lacy thong out of the way. Hands slide up under your white t-shirt, grabbing a handful of your tits. He squeezes with the same force he had on your neck and you gyrate onto his clothed erection.
Hands wrap under your jaw, tilting your head up so he can kiss you. It frees you up to work on his trousers and his underwear, getting them out of the way so you can feel the hot, thick length that you’ve craved. As much as you’ve missed the feeling of being filled up by Miguel, the memory doesn’t come close to the real thing. He bucks into your hands as he cradles your face, his head buried in the leather-clad junction of your shoulder.
“You feel so fucking good, baby.” He jerks into the tight ring formed by your fingers. “Don’t ever try to leave me again.”
You loosen your grip and let your hands fall to your side.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“You can’t make me —“
He wrings your neck in both hands and, this time, he lifts you off the ground. You claw at him in your state of panic, heels kicking against the wall so you can get down. Fear is coursing through every cell in your bloodstream. He’s going to kill you. Miguel Galindo, your lover who also happens to be a murderous cartel boss, is literally going to be the death of you.
He buries his cock inside you. The tilt of his hips alleviates some of the pressure around your throat, allowing you to balance precariously on his length. He saves you by fucking you. You’re up against the wall, one hand tight around your throat and the other slides down to your hip as he pounds into you. Each stroke a ferocious testament to his bond of ownership.
The lights begin to dance in front of your eyes and the narrow hallway becomes a never-ending spiral. It might be from the lack of oxygen to your brain, or the merciless fucking, or a wicked combination of both. Miguel is in some sort of daze, laser-focused on one thing and one thing only and that’s claiming you so you’re at his mercy. His eyes are the darkest they’ve ever been and you wonder, in a brief moment of lucidity, if this is what he looks like when he’s ordering a kill.
You slide down the wall as his grip loosens and his legs give out. Falling on the floor, you feel his weight on top of you, never disengaging his cock from your slick walls. He drives into you a few more times while he tries to catch his breath, and while you try to get some long, deep breaths of your own before he’s got his hands choking you again.
He kneels. He pulls your ass off the floor so your back is arched, and he impales you to the hilt. You’re so wet and wired for him, but this new angle is hitting a new spot and it hurts (but in the best way.) Your body tries to rumble out a moan but he’s stifling it down and all it can do is simmer inside of you.
This position opens you up and makes you even more vulnerable. While he keeps one hand on your neck, squeezing with every downward stroke, he takes his other hand to your clit. He doesn’t even give you time to adjust to the sensation as he circles and pinches with his fingers. He sticks a couple fingers in his mouth and lubes them up, positioning them over your over-sensitized clit. At this point, it becomes too much and your muddled brain doesn’t know if it’s experiencing immense pleasure or pain. You just know you’re going to die if you don’t get your release soon.
“You’re mine.” He pants with deep, hard strokes. “You will always be mine.”
There’s nothing about the way he says it that makes you feel comforted or makes you feel like you’re getting what you want. Being his girlfriend is a silly thing to ask of him — you know that, but you can’t help your heart from wanting what your head knows is a terrible idea. For a long time now, you’ve wanted to hear Miguel say those words. You dreamed to belong to each other.
You just never expected those words to come out as a threat.
Rolling your clit between his fingers and fucking you faster and stronger, you feel the wave crash over you and your whole body convulsing from the base of your belly outward. When you come, you lose your breath and pass out.
All you remember next is a haze. You’re gasping for air like you’ve just woken up from a nightmare as you feel Miguel pulling out. He’s still kneeling over you but he shoves your legs on either side of him. Still on his knees, he sits up so he’s towering over you. He grips his length with the hand he used to choke you and he jerks off, finishing in milky hot streaks all over your stomach.
When it’s all over, you roll to your side, clutching your bruised neck and coughing weakly. Everything hurts. There’s an ache nestled within the left side of your chest, right below your ribcage, and it makes you wonder if you’re having a heart attack. Chin on the floor, you blink a few times to see Miguel on his feet. He’s straightening his clothes — buttoning his trousers and smoothing down the wrinkles of his shirt. He walks toward the door, but before he leaves he looks at you with a mix of pity and an empty sort of affection. The kind one has for an object they desire, not for someone they love.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says quietly then adds, “answer your fucking phone this time.”
Summary: The unbearable loneliness of loving a bad guy takes its toll.
Pairing: Miguel Galindo x Reader
Words: 2744
TW: mild language, mentions of depression and addiction
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“Let’s go for a drive.”
The rough voice breaks through your thoughts, and your immediate reaction is to grind your cigarette on the pool edge like you’re trying to hide a dirty habit. You release a nicotine-laced breath you’ve been holding and look up with guilt stamped all over your face. The owner of the voice looms over you, hands on his hips and an eyebrow raised. The blue glow refracts off the planes of his face, casting deep shadows under weary eyes. You hate that your insomnia is disturbing his sleep; you know how busy his days are and how stressed he is juggling his work on both sides of the border.
“Where are we going?” You take his offered hand, pulling yourself up so you’re face-to-face with him. He keeps his hand on yours. The water drips down your bare legs as he leads you back into the house. “Miguel.”
“You can’t sleep.”
“Let’s go back to bed,” you offer as you tug on his hand. He stills and looks over his shoulder, his expression soft and apologetic. “I can try.”
With a solemn shake of his head, he squeezes your hand and leads you through the side door into the garage. He reaches for a set of keys with an enamel racehorse.
“Should we get Paco or Nestor?”
“No,” he says. He opens the passenger side door to the red Ferrari convertible — his first car gifted to him by his father when he was barely old enough for a learner’s permit. He’s kept it all these years for its sentimental value; but you don’t recall the last time he used it (or the last time he drove — he always gets chauffeured). “We won’t go too far. Promise.”
When he gets into the driver’s side and starts the engine, you can’t help but feel like you’re at fault. You hate making him feel like he has to worry about you when he’s already got so much on his plate. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” He asks with a soft smile before he kisses you. “You’ve done nothing wrong, my love.”
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Somehow you feel like every other thing you’ve done to lead you to this man has been the wrong decision. Sure he’s made you the happiest you’ve ever been. He’s made you believe that you can love someone so much you’d be willing to sacrifice your world just to be a part of his. And yet, here you are overwhelmed with guilt over the fact that you’ve isolated yourself from everyone else you’ve ever loved just to be with him.
Once you’re on the road, Miguel leisurely drives through the bends and curves of the Santo Padre hillside. A long stretch of road opens up and he revs the engine before he bolts through at breakneck speed. As your back presses into the seat, you glance sideways to see the smirk on his face and the concentration in his eyes as he changes gear. Looking at him like this — genuinely happy — brings you a sense of calm. When it’s just the two of you, it reminds you of how much fun you have when you’re with him.
He’s the hand that pulls you out of the deep blue waters.
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Miguel drives for another fifteen minutes before you stop at a lookout point overlooking the border wall. It’s a sight to behold to see the agricultural side of Santo Padre set in opposition to the vibrancy of light over in Santa Madre. In a way, it parallels the state of your life right now. Isolated up in the hills with just Miguel to keep you sane, while the life you once had continues beyond the metal gates of your new home.
“We need to talk,” Miguel says as he parks the car and leaves it idle. The ensuing silence is like fog — so thick and ominous. You want to wait it out, wait until it lifts before continuing on this conversation. “At some point, you need to tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”
You smile weakly in his direction.
“Babe.”
You swallow hard, parting your lips like you’re ready to divulge every self-critical thought contributing to your depression. But the words halt at the tip of your tongue. You can’t tell Miguel you’re losing yourself by being with him. You love him too much to hurt him like that. “I need some air.”
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November in the desert is really no different from the rest of the year, only the nights are colder. The moment you step outside, your body wants to retreat back into the warm leather comfort of the Italian sports car, but you surge on. The ivory silk robe flutters in the breeze. Your bare feet hurt from the jagged surface of the earth. Standing on the edge, you look down below at the rocks — their flat surfaces lit by the pale glow of the moon. It’s a long way down from here.
“Come back.”
He wraps his hand around your wrist and pulls you from the edge and into his arms, wrapping you in a tight embrace. Your arms fall limply at your sides only prompting him to squeeze a little tighter. “Miguel, you’re hurting me.”
“I — I’m sorry.” He pulls away but still keeps you within arms reach, and he presses a long kiss to your forehead. “I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong here. Please tell me because it’s killing me to see you like this.”
“Like?”
“Sad,” he says then chews on his bottom lip. “I don’t know. Depressed?”
Tears — the kind that burn — well up in your eyes.
He kisses one closed eyelid after the other, then he sighs.
“I’m sorry I’m like this,” you say quietly. Memories of the last several weeks enter your brain, and you’re reminded of those sleepless nights, the surface-level conversations over dinner, the lack of motivation to go into town to get anything done. Apart from your job, which you don’t even find to be a refuge anymore because you’ve noticed how everyone treats you differently, you’ve holed yourself up in that mansion on the hill. “This is probably not what you had in mind when you asked me to move in with you. But this is me, Miguel. This is who you get.”
He presses his lips together in a tight line and looks up at the night sky. He shakes his head, refusing to believe you — wanting to believe the honeymoon version of you. The girl who was falling in love and who could pretend that nothing else mattered, that it was just the two of them against the naysayers. But she’s gone. You left her down in the valley when you chose him over your family. When you chose the cartel over your own brother who died of addiction. When you chose love over principle.
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Miguel walks back to the car and sits on the hood. He leans forward, resting his palms on his knees, his head hanging low. You can tell he’s pondering whether or not he’s made a mistake taking this huge step with you. It was easier when you started; no one else had confirmation you were dating the leader of the drug cartel. It was all rumours and whispers. Now, you essentially belonged to him.
As your friends and family found out, they began to stay away from you. A lot of them warned you not to fall for his charm. A few, who were never really your friends to begin with, used your connection to try to get something for themselves. If they weren’t using you to get to Miguel, they were leaving you in the dust.
The worst was your family. But who could blame them after the hell you all went through when your brother died from a heroin overdose 15 years ago? Miguel had been in the East Coast at the time, and wasn’t even involved in his father’s cartel business. He didn’t kill your brother, but to your family, he might as well have.
It’s fucked up. You know how fucked up it is to fall in love with him with your family’s history. It’s selfish and weak. This whole relationship is a ticking time bomb, and once it inevitably explodes, you’ll have no one else. And for what? Because he treats you like the queen in his castle? Because he fucks you so good you forget the terrible decisions you make?
Your mother once told you that you’ve given up everything just to be Miguel’s puta. You stay awake at night and tear through an entire box of cigarettes, thinking about what she said and always coming to the conclusion that she’s right.
How can you love and resent him at the same time? The push and pull takes a toll on the heart, and you’re just so fucking tired of it. You just want to go home, curl up in your mother’s arms where no one ever questions the context of that love.
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If you were to take away the fact that he is the Galindo Cartel, it changes the context of your love. A businessman recruited your help in offering refuge to the children of one of the men in his payroll — a man working legally as a sub-contractor for the development of the agricultural park. However, ICE caught wind of the fact that the man was not a US citizen, ambushed him on his way to dropping his kids off at school, and imprisoned him in a cage along the border. He was a single dad of two young daughters; his wife had died of cancer only a year prior.
Miguel’s hands were tied as Lincoln Potter and the rest of the DOJ prevented him from getting involved with affairs that concerned immigration. But Miguel wasn’t a heartless man. He used his resources to find you and ask you to help him secure a place of refuge for the man’s daughters. “I heard you were the best at what you do,” he told you upon first meeting you. “So can you help me?”
A man in his power and position asking you to help him caught you by surprise. But it wasn’t the humility that left you speechless; it was this desire to be the best leader he could be by protecting his people and treating them well. It was his heart.
And after that, Miguel just never stopped surprising you.
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You suppose it’s easy to think of a cartel kingpin as completely heartless. A sociopath who has nothing to contribute to society. And for people who see the world as black versus white, good versus evil — you can see where they’re coming from, but you refuse to take such a binary approach. You don’t want to come across like you’re idealizing Miguel, because everyone who’s been critical of you throughout your life has said you have the tendency to romanticize your partners. But you strongly believe there’s more to judge in people than the worst acts they’ve done. It’s true he’s all they say he is, but he is so much more.
He is darkness and light, and all the shades of grey in between.
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Standing in front of him, you place your hands on his hunched shoulders. He stares up at you — sadness swimming in those brown eyes. It isn’t fair. He only wants to be with you, but you’re making it so hard to let him do that when you’re closing yourself off. He’s the reason everyone else abandoned you. He’s all you’ve got left, and you can’t abandon him. You’ve made your choice. As awful as it is to be disowned by your family and to be judged by people who know so little about you and Miguel, you would persist through it all if it means you can continue to love and be loved by this man.
“Te quiero mucho, Miguel.”
He takes your hand and presses it firmly against his lips. “Yo también te quiero, cariño.
You begin to take a seat beside him. A brow raised to ask the unspoken question if it’s okay to sit on the hood of a car that costs more than what most people make in a year. He laughs a little and pats the space next to him, then he drapes an arm over your shoulder. You lean into him and stare out at the night sky — a gradient of black to amber from the lights below.
“My sister asked me not to come to Thanksgiving dinner at my parents’ house,” you say. “She asked me not to come for Christmas or holiday or birthday parties as long as I’m playing house with you.”
Miguel runs his hands over his face and sighs. “Jesus. I’m so sorry it had to come to this.”
“Me too.”
“Is there anything I can do?” He turns to you, eyes pleading for answers. He’s a man of action, who can’t sit idly by as people hurt you and make you feel terrible. But he knows better than to fight back against your family, even though you can tell it’s the equivalent of putting him in restraints. “I don’t want you to lose them.”
You breathe out that last tiny shred of hope. “I already have.”
“I don’t want to lose you,” he admits.
“You won’t.”
“But —“
“— I choose you.”
“You shouldn’t have to make that choice.
---
As the quiet settles, you think now is the time to tell the truth.
“My brother didn’t drown in the Salton Sea,” you tell Miguel for the first time in your relationship. The drowning was a story your family made up because of the shame associated with addiction. Your neighbours knew the story of your brother going to the beach on a summer weekend, and not waking up hours after a swim because of secondary drowning. “He was at the beach that weekend, but he bailed on his friends to try to score heroin. He got caught up in this bad crowd that pressured him into injecting more than he was used to…”
Realization dawns upon Miguel. He knows why people avoid him and don’t like him; it doesn’t phase him anymore. But the unyielding hatred he’s gotten from your family has been a source of confusion for him. Until now.
“You didn’t cause the overdose that killed my brother, but to my family, it’s like you handed him that needle.”
“I’m sorry.” A tear falls to his cheek and he quickly wipes away the evidence.
Wrapping your arm around his waist, you tuck your head under his chin. “It’s not your fault. I would never blame you for what happened. My family can’t understand that. I can’t make them understand that — no matter how hard I’ve tried. And I’m done. I’m so tired, Miguel. I’m so tired.” The sobs start to come out and you’re shaking. He wraps his arms tight around your body, his steady breath soothing the back of your neck.
“I understand now why you need to push me away sometimes,” he whispers softly against your skin. He strokes your hair and rocks you gently against his body. “And I’ll give you whatever you want — the space you need, the time it takes before you’re better. But please don’t leave.”
“I couldn’t.” You look up at him with tears streaming down your face. “The thought of losing you kills me more than the reality of having lost everyone else.”
Miguel holds your face in his hands and presses his forehead to yours. His eyes are sealed tight as he breathes against your parted lips. Something about sharing the air he breathes makes you feel like you’re enveloped in the comforting thought that you’ll be fine. You’ll make it out of this dark hole and find the light, and Miguel will be on the other side waiting patiently for you. You feel safe in his arms. You know he believes in you. Not this shadow of your former self, but you. And even if you can’t be that person tonight, he’s still here. He’s not going anywhere and he’s not letting you go. He breathes you in and that’s all it takes for you to feel enough. The thought settles you and you curl up into him, letting the steady beat of his heart lull you into sleep.
A couple of days ago, I came out of Tumblr hibernation to say that I was working on something and here it is. As per usual, it’s a drabble that turned into a 3486-word one-shot. Featuring Miguel Galindo (duh) and YOU (or a character of your choice; I have one in mind but I’ll keep her a secret for now).
Warning: Sexual Content
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Arouse
Summer of 2009 - Santo Padre, CA
A blur of neon lights swirl across your eyes as the brass and accordion swell with the sounds of Santo Padre’s annual summer fair. The desert air tastes like cotton candy with a heat that surprises you in the back of the throat. It’s customary when La Feria’s in town that you and everybody’s cousin come out to gorge on elote and tacos, ride rollercoasters on rickety tracks, and watch people in this dying town momentarily forget they live in this dying town.
Your best friends are all about tradition, and as much as you hate to admit it, so are you. So you indulge and join them, because, really, anything is better than spending another Friday evening home alone, wallowing in sadness over your cheater of an ex-boyfriend. It’s been six months, but it still stings — like a papercut that refuses to heal. Why would it when you insist on picking at it with questions of whether you should have followed him to San Diego instead of staying here to work at your tío’s restaurant? You think moving out there would have solved the distance problem, which caused the unwanted celibacy problem, which made every college-aged girl an irresistible temptation in your ex’ eyes. He can’t help it; he has needs. It’s tough when you know he’s wrong, but you still blame yourself for not doing enough to keep him happy.
You’ve never been at your best when threatened with the fear of being alone.
—
The crowd grows denser as you pass through the stretch of colourful carnival games. Desperate for cool relief, you wrap your hands around your hair sticking to the back of your neck. A cool breeze rushes up the length of your spine, and you close your eyes, savouring the sensation before it’s gone. When you open your eyes, the first and only thing in focus is a face so sharp and crystal clear that everything else blurs into the background. You hold his smouldering gaze. You follow every line and every curve of his face, memorizing the slope of his nose and the mischievous curl on the corner of his lips. That steady thrum of a heartbeat drowns out the noise, and time has conspired to stand still for just the two of you.
Until you hear your name. You break the stare, ducking your head as hair falls over your flushed face. Someone takes your hand, and it takes a second before you realize it’s your friend dragging you farther into the crowd. “What’s wrong with you?” She laughs, totally indifferent to what had just happened. “It’s like you’ve seen a ghost.”
—
As the night deepens from a haze of purple to black, you go through the motions of listening patiently to stories you’ve heard before. You love your girls, but your head’s not present in the moment. You try not to give yourself away, but you’re searching through the throngs of people, hoping to catch a glimpse of that man in the blue shirt. Maybe your eyes were playing tricks on you; maybe it was just a mirage of a gorgeous man. God knows you’ve been thirsting for affection from the opposite sex. As much as you hate to admit it, your ex-boyfriend had a point — long distance relationships are nearly impossible because you lose that ability to have sex whenever you desire. It’s frustrating. And ever since you broke up with him and blamed yourself for simultaneously not doing enough and doing too much for someone who didn’t deserve it, the frustration has only grown tenfold.
You’ve tried. You’ve gotten close with your own fingers, but you’ve just never gotten to that place. Last week, you agreed to go on a date with an old acquaintance from high school before you chickened out when he asked you if you wanted to cap off the night in his apartment. You’ve always been known to go after what you want but, lately, it all feels as if there’s nothing worth wanting.
Except a strawberry-chile raspado.
—
The man scoops shaved ice into a plastic cup and prepares your treat right in front of you. Your mouth waters at the mere thought of the sweet and spicy flavours on your tongue and the refreshing ice down your throat.
“Dos piñas, por favor.”
The voice is warm and deep like thick honey poured into a glass of intoxicating amber. A flash of blue creeps into your periphery, and you find yourself standing shoulder to shoulder with, what you thought was, your desert mirage.
He looks straight ahead, just as fascinated as you were moments earlier, but this time you’ve got something new requiring your utmost concentration. You study him from the corner of your eye, noting his clean-shaven face and his genetically-blessed bone structure. He’s well-dressed — almost too well-dressed for La Feria — but he carries himself with so much confidence that he doesn’t look out of place. He’s got a boyish charm to his features, but the lines on the corner of his eyes suggest he’s older than you, but not by much — maybe in his late 20s.
“Aquí está su fresa y chile, señorita.”
He smells really good, too. Like being cloaked in expensive leather while sitting in front of a crackling fire in a log cabin nestled deep in the Northern California woods.
“Your raspado,” the stranger says, while handing you the plastic cup with the domed scoop of red shaved ice.
“Sorry. Thank you.” You say quickly, taking the cup from his hands, skin stirring upon contact. A little bit of the ice falls onto the back of his hand. “Shit. I’m so sorry.” You grab a stack of paper napkins on the counter to help wipe it off, but he’s already ahead of you, placing his hand to his mouth and licking the trail of sweet, red juice. Not once does he stop staring at you.
Suddenly, the thought of submerging your body in a vat of shaved ice doesn’t sound all that terrible. It’s boiling hot, your cheeks are burning, and your limbs feel so loose, they’re melting. Your heart races. Your breath quickens. It’s been a while since you’ve genuinely had this feeling but you recognize it straight away. You’re aroused.
—
“Holy shit!” Your friend manages to yell and whisper at the same time. “What was that? You and that guy were totally eye-fucking back there.”
“What?” You scoff. “We were not.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you have to find out.” She pushes you back in the direction of the food stall, where he’s still waiting for his order. “Go!”
“No way!”
“Why not?”
“Because he ordered two drinks so he’s probably getting it for his girlfriend or his wife.”
“Nope.” Your friend says, crossing her arms over her chest. She nods in their direction, and you look over your shoulder to see the man hand one pineapple shaved ice over to his mother. “Awww, isn’t that so sweet? Total hubby material.”
“Lorena,” you warn her.
“You’re so into him.”
“Cállate.”
She rolls her eyes and flips her long, dark hair over her shoulders. “Ay, maybe you should let him fuck all that negative energy out of you.”
You playfully shove her and make a disgusted face, but in your head you’re thinking that may not be the worst idea in the world.
—
You love your girl friends but you also want nothing more than to kill them in this moment. The teasing is relentless. And now that they’ve caught onto you being “hot for the hot guy”, they’re making a conscious effort to stalk him around the carnival. You follow him a few feet away as he walks the fairgrounds with his mother, your heart warming as he places a hand on the small of her back to guide her through the crowds.
She pulls him toward a line for a ride. He puts his hands up and looks like he’s telling her it’s a bad idea, but she insists, smiling brightly at her son. As soon as they fall in line, your friends are dragging you to the same ride of spinning, vomit-inducing cars.
He doesn’t even notice you’re standing right behind him until your friends start giggling, pretty much giving away the fact that you’ve been following him all night. The stern expression on his face softens and he smiles at you and your friends, before turning back to his mom to place an arm around her shoulder.
As you approach the gate to the ride, his mother steps out of line. “No, no creo que pueda hacer esto.”
“Mamá, esta fue tu idea.”
“Lo sé,” She says as she takes another step back, looking over her shoulder like she’s in search of something or someone. “Pero no puedo, Miguel.”
“Mamá.”
“No. You stay in line. You’re already the next one to go,” she tells him with motherly authority. “Encontraré a tu padre.”
Miguel hesitates to follow her but stops when he sees her flanked by two burly men in black. He breathes a sigh of relief and shakes his head, and a seed of doubt plants firmly deep in your belly. You already know he’s not from around here, but something in your gut tells you he isn’t supposed to be here either.
The alarm bell rings and the gate opens. As the tide rushes in, you hear the faint laughter of your friends standing on either side of you. They exchange a knowing look and, in hindsight, you should’ve known they had something up their sleeves. As you near the brightly-coloured two-person cars, you feel a nudge toward a very specific red car decorated with metallic gold lightning bolts.
“What are you doing?” Panic rising in your voice.
“Trust us,” they say as they practically shove you into the tiny space next to the man you and your friends have been stalking all night. Before they abandon you to a slow death, one of your friends leans into your ear. “You’ll thank us later.”
Neither of you say a word as people climb aboard the cars and the outdated speakers make their choppy safety announcement in both English and Spanish. Arms and legs in the car at all times. Seat belts securely fastened. Eyes straight ahead so you can pretend the sexiest guy you’ve ever laid eyes on isn’t studying you with a morbid, heated curiosity.
“What?” You blurt out. “Do I have something on my face?”
Miguel chuckles but doesn’t answer the question, leaning back into the seat to look straight ahead.
The ride starts like a gentle cycle — slow rotations around a pole smattered in multi-coloured, seizure-inducing lights. As if a traffic light signalling GO, green flashes before your eyes just as you feel that first contact of skin. The back of his fingers brush along your thigh. They linger even as rainbow bursts into vision and the ride picks up speed.
As you spin in circles, metal tentacles raise you high up in the air and drop you in stomach-turning speed back to earth. The first time the sudden drop hits you, your hand grabs onto his knee. You’re about to let go (even if you don’t really want to) when he turns his head to face you. Miguel’s shaking his head. Streaks of neon burning brightly behind the sly smile.
It emboldens you and you grip tighter, your hand rising higher up his leg. He follows your lead, fingers tracing the top of your thigh, dancing hotly over smooth skin, pressing down with every sudden drop. The tips of his fingers disappear under the hem of your short dress, teasing you and making you ache for him to go that extra distance. But he doesn’t. Not yet.
His eyes are molten chocolate, fixed on yours like he’s daring you to go even further. You don’t know if it’s the ride or the man in front of you, but you’re dizzy, your stomach feels light as air, your nipples are sharp points poking through the thin material of your dress, and your panties are soaked.
The ride slows down like a spinning coin flopping on one side. And it’s over just like that. Miguel pulls away, head looking straight on and hands nowhere near your body. You miss him already — the way he touched you, the way he looked at you, the way his breath kissed your face you could almost taste his sweetness.
When the ride finishes, you’re both breathing a little heavy. You think this is the point he runs, never to be seen again. Instead, he surprises you when he takes your hand and helps you hop off your red thunderbolt. He ushers you down the line of people leaving the ride and, momentarily, you spot your friends just outside past the gates. You begin to raise your arm to wave in their direction, but he pulls you the opposite direction before your friends have a chance to see you.
Everything you’ve ever been taught about strangers and avoiding dangerous situations fly out of the window when this man is holding your hand and leading you into a white canvas tent. Miguel unzips it, guides you in, follows you inside, and zips it closed until you’re swallowed by darkness.
You don’t even have time to ask him what’s going on before you feel a pair of strong hands on your waist, pulling you flush against him. Immediately, you become aware of the fact that the arousal you felt on that ride was shared unequivocally with this man right in front of you. He’s hard. He’s pressed up against your body and he’s turned on because of you — and if that doesn’t make your body ache in need for him, surely a kiss will.
Miguel’s lips find yours in the dark. Warm and soft and pliant — he searches to be satiated. You wrap an arm around his neck, deepening the kiss, pulling him backwards until you bump clumsily into an equipment crate. He lifts you and settles you on top, positioning himself between your open legs.
Hot kisses pepper your neck, and he asks if this is ok. And you want to scream that it’s more than ok, but all that comes out is a catlike stretch to expose your neck and a throaty “yes.”
Hands explore your hips, your back, gripping your neck before gently tugging at hair. Miguel’s a mix of tender and rough. A mix of beauty and danger.
You kiss along his jaw until you find his mouth. Your tongue swirls with his. Your fingers trail along the edge of his jeans to pop off the button, shimmying them down his thighs, which feel sinewy with muscle under your touch. “Eager,” he says with a quiet laugh, almost as if he’s mocking you. But you don’t care because you know he wants you just as much. You can feel the weight of him pressing against your inner thigh, and you scoot just a little bit closer, squeeze just a little bit tighter.
He hikes up your little dress to your waist, one hand reaching higher to cop a feel of your tit, thumbing your nipple into a stiffer peak. Next, panties are off so quick, they drop from your ankles onto the floor — gone forever. Whoever finds them when the lights are on is going to be in for a surprise.
Fingers are on you, in you. You gasp at the sudden breach but you savour it like every morsel of the best meal you know you’ll ever have. He breathily laughs into your kiss as he discovers just how wet and wanton you are, like he can read your mind and figure out how long you’ve gone without this kind of intimacy. You moan when he slides his coated digits across your sex, thumb and forefinger manipulating you to a level of arousal you don’t think was ever humanly possible.
You’re seeing bright lights dance across your shuttered eyes. The work he’s doing is testing your limits not to scream, but you don’t think the carnival music is loud enough to drown out all the noise your body is begging you to make. So you repress. And he only works harder. You’re panting now. Sweat beads at your temples as he retrieves his fingers and runs them over your lips like a hot glaze. Without words, he orders you to take them into your mouth. It’s so fucking dirty, but you secretly love it. Your taste on your tongue, you take his two fingers deep in your mouth, gagging when he hits the back of your throat.
Miguel is quick to kiss you fierce. “You’re so fucking hot in this little dress.” He kisses you again, tongue darting out to wrestle with yours. “I bet you had no idea what you were getting yourself into when you were fucking me with those eyes out in public.” He sucks on your bottom lip. “So naughty. I could tell you wanted to hold more than just my knee on that ride.” He grinds his clothed erection against your sex and you both moan in anticipation. “You think the ride’s over? Baby, I’m about to give you the best fucking ride of your life.”
In seconds, he’s got his underwear off, a condom ripped open, and the tip of his cock probing at your entrance. He kisses you longer and harder, and just enough to stifle the moan when he enters your tight heat. It’s been a while since you last got fucked, but even then, you know you’ve never been stretched full like this, never had someone reach you in places that surprised you. “Fuck me.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.” Miguel rocks into you, settling himself down to the base and breathing out a “holy shit.”
Scooting yourself to the edge of the crate, you wrap your legs around his hips. He grabs a handful of your ass, kneading the flesh before pulling you completely off the edge. And, holy shit is right, because he delivers on that promise to give you the best ride of your life.
He lifts you effortlessly, rising and crashing down on his cock. You wrap your arms firmly over his shoulders, grasping onto his back, feeling the muscles work under his shirt. His breath is hot on your neck, hot grunts matching the breathy moans you can’t contain. You’re already so aroused that it doesn’t take very long before the relentless pounding and the way he’s sucking on your neck and the filthy words in your ear take you over the edge. Your whole body is electrified. It feels like you’re shaken from your core and everything is tighter and looser at the same time.
Miguel groans as he feels your release wrapped around him, and it seems like he’s coming close as well. He plants you down on the equipment crate, and leans over you, forearms on either side of your head. His eyes are so intense they scorch you; it almost feels as if, in that moment, he’s branding you like cattle. Something about the way he looks at you hurts your pride, but you love the way he feels too much to push him away. He fucks you. Harder. He fucks you so good tears well up behind your lidded eyes. Faster. Your belly tightens like a coil put under so much pressure it can only spring free. Deeper. He buries himself deep, deep inside you; he kisses you gentle and sweet while his fingers brush over your clit. It releases the pressure and you’re crashing again — this time, with him as you feel his heart pound like a drum against your chest.
—
When it’s all over, it’s over. Miguel doesn’t say anything except you should leave first. Once you’ve pulled your dress down your legs and tied your knotted hair with an elastic, he unzips the tent and motions for you to leave. The light from outside filters into the tent and you get a clearer picture of his stoic face. You stand in place for a few seconds and he blinks with impatience. You want to see him again, but you’re under a very strong, chilly impression this was only a one-time thing for him. That, maybe, it’s something he’s already regretted.
You lower your head and begin to walk past him. This night was incredible. A night to ruin all the succeeding nights trying to find something that can even come close to replicating what you felt in that dark, dingy tent. But you deserve better. You deserve someone who can return what you give. And, just from the distant look in his eyes those last few seconds together, you know Miguel is not going to be that someone.
