Page 2 of Birdy

“I can’t no more. I’m tapping out for tonight,” I pant, literally tapping the side of the seat. “I’m already going to be walking funny as hell tomorrow, allcojaand shit.”All limp.

Ángel’s chest vibrates with amusement. “That’s the point. I want you to remember me all day while you’re waiting those tables. Every move you make will screamÁngel was here.”

It won’t just be tomorrow, though. No, I’ll feel the aftermath of Hurricane Ángel fordays.And then it’ll wear off, and I’ll be fiending like a junkie searching for their next fix, waiting out the weeks until he finally comes back to me.

Where he goes, I don’t know, but I don’t ask questions. That’s how our arrangement works: long-distance with absolutely no strings. I don’t know shit about him that isn’t business-related, and what he knows about me is because I solely work for him.

I don’t even know his last name.

You see, Ángel—the faceless, illusive Arcángel to the rest of the world—owns the Upper Echelon, an international, highly-covert organization of different syndicates bringing in millions of dollars per year to the man. He remains unknown in the obscurity of the shadows, hidden behind his pit bulls who delegate the workload amongst us. He doesn’t lift a single finger, either, unless it's to sign our checks. Not a soul dares to complain nor question his modus operandi, for we are the elite—brimming with the power and luxuries he’s bestowed upon us for our loyalty and fierce work ethic.

Each syndicate provides him a different source of income. The Bratva import and export the finest women around the world. The Irish wash cash and produce the Cadillac of counterfeit. The Yakuza eliminate deadweight and shady asscomemierdas.

And then there’s me—la JefaoflosMarielitos.Most of us came here on rafts, made the ninety-mile trek from Havana to the Keys. The younger few are second-generation Cuban-Americans, but they work just as hard.With the port right in our backyard, we’re in charge of product: large street-grade quantities and black-market prescriptions.

The only difference between the rest of the Upper Echelon and me?

Arcángel chose to forego anonymity when it came to me.Herecruited me personally, swore me to secrecy with my name scripted in blood on the dotted line, and after a couple of months under his thumb—making him more profit than the other mobs combined—he made his move.

He wanted me, and now he’s got me. Everything was gravy at first, the perfect arrangement: prime dick without strings, but I should’ve known a fine,fine,and sinful man like Arcángel would change the definition of perfect eventually. Lately, he’s got me chomping at the bit for more and more every time he touches down in Miami.

“Déjame quedarme esta noche contigo,”he murmurs.Let me stay the night with you.

The words haven’t even fully registered, and my entire body goes rigid in his hold.

What the hell...

To say I’m shocked is only putting it lightly. Is it what I’ve been low-key wanting? Yes. But that doesn’t lessen the utter and unexpected surprise of his request. Ángel never spends the night. Ever. Hell, we rarely even fuck in a bed. Most of the time, this car is our spot. On select occasions, I’ve found myself beneath him in various hotel suites, and on a few rare others, he’s taken me in my bed. He owns a vacation home here, admitted that much to me over a year ago, but he’s never taken me there.

Could that change tonight?

With what little strength I have left, I ease back, my pussy clenching around his semi-hard length as I take him in within the obscurity of night. The sight of him makes me clench harder.

He really is beautiful.

Aside from those hypnotizing gray irises and his smooth, slightly sun-kissed skin, everything else about the man is dark, hard, and delicious. A straight nose, prominent cheekbones, full lips, and a square, stubble-dusted jaw make up his face. He keeps his dark hair short, too, like buzzed short, but God does it suits him well.

Shows off all those tats creeping up his neck.

“Where?” I ask him, ignoring the renewed heartbeat of my clit.

“Where else,mami?”He chuckles.“En esa casita tuya.” In that little house of yours.

Of course. I don’t know why I thought any differently.The man is elusive for a reason, and aside from knowing what he looks like—and what his fat cock feels like inside me—I’m no more special than any of his other employees.

So why does he want to stay with me all of a sudden?

“You never stay the night, though. Why now?” It’s not that I don’t want him to, I’m truly just...stunned.

Ángel grins, that signature devious smirk of his playing on his lips as he pins me with that overcast stare. “I told you, I can’t get enough of you. I don’t know what you’ve done to me,pero te lo juro que últimamenteI leave here, and you’re all I think about.

He swears you’re all he thinks about.

Doubtful.

“You sure you don’t mean my pussy?”

“Both.” His grin spreads, a greedy stare dropping to where we’re connected. “If I could have you every day, I would, and that’s exactly what I want.” Palm ghosting up my side, he squeezes my tit and gives it a little slap, then continues up to my jaw, his grip gentle yet still commanding.

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