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He watched Pacho stride away through the party, only half focusing on explaining the situation to Azul beside him.
The rest of his attention was captured by the way the crowd parted around Pacho, his steps cutting an effortless path through the revelers. He could see Pacho's eyes traveling over the guests, settling on each of Miguel's lieutenants, clearly aware of each face and name he needed to acknowledge. His focus on each of them made the hair at the back of Miguel's neck prickle. There was no reason for Pacho to be aware of Benjamín, of Palma, of Amado. Miguel Ángel was the head of the operation. He was the only name and face that Pacho should know.
There was a part of him that wanted to turn for the house, to avoid the questioning eyes of everyone as he made his way back into the crowd in Pacho's wake. Instead, he nodded Azul toward the revelers and strode back in beside him, handily deflecting each attempt anyone made to press him for information.
Just like the money, they would get their information when they got it.
He and Azul had just finished exchanging pleasantries with one of the governors when Clavel appeared at his elbow. "Boss, there's…" he shifted uncomfortably. "You’re needed in the house."
Miguel frowned at him. "What - ?" he began, but there was an unease to Clavel's expression, a furtiveness to the way his eyes darted toward Azul that sent a chill down Miguel's spine. He reached for a gun he wasn't wearing.
Clavel gave a faint shake of his head. "No danger, boss," he clarified. "Just…" he hesitated. "Business."
Miguel dismissed Azul with a nod toward the Sinaloans, an unspoken command to make sure they weren't getting out of hand. Azul melted obediently away into the crowd, leaving Miguel free to follow Clavel back toward the stairs and into the house.
The heavy muffling of the music from outside as the door swung shut behind them was an unexpected relief. The house was quiet and still around them, echoing faintly with the revelry below. Against the far wall, by the doorway to the sitting room off the entryway, Pacho's pale sicario was lounging with his arms crossed, looking Miguel up and down as if thoroughly unimpressed.
Miguel wasn't sure if the breath of understanding that escaped him was one of relief or increased tension. He nodded toward the door. "You can go, Clavel," he said. He looked toward Pacho's man. "You too," he added shortly.
The man looked at him impassively. "I don't take my orders from you."
Miguel strode past him, wrenching open the door he stood beside. Within the sitting room, Pacho looked up from the bar, where he appeared to be in the middle of fixing himself an involved cocktail, making himself thoroughly at home.
"Dismiss your man," Miguel demanded.
Pacho's eyes slid lazily past him toward the sicario. He hesitated for just long enough that Miguel thought he might invite him in just to spite him, but instead he gave a dismissive little nod. Miguel didn't look back at the sound of the man's footsteps receding toward the door. He stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him. He leaned back against it, frowning.
Pacho finished off his drink by dropping a cherry into it. He lifted the glass teasingly. "Can I make you one?"
"What are you doing here?" Miguel asked flatly instead of answering.
Pacho took a sip of his drink, crossing from behind the bar to settle onto one of the couches that had been chosen more for style than comfort. "I wasn't certain," he said, "that you had said all there was to say." There was a dangerous edge to his voice that Miguel recognized, that he hadn't heard since the night after their first meeting. He felt his neck heating up under the collar of his suit at the memory of that voice pressing against his throat below his ear, whispering filthy things as Pacho's hand slid up Miguel's leg beneath the table -
"Did you not make a sufficiently dramatic exit?" he asked, abruptly cutting off his thoughts before they delved too far into memories of that night. "You needed to come back for a second try?"
"Needed?" Pacho repeated. "No. I don't need anything from you, Miguel Ángel. It's you who brought me here to request something of me, remember?"
Miguel glared at him, stalking across the room to splash a measure of whiskey into a glass. "Do you expect me to supplicate myself before you?" he asked. "To beg on my knees for your favor?"
Pacho breathed out a laugh. "I'm quite certain you are a man who has never gone to your knees for anyone." His eyes went intense in a way that Miguel thought may have been a leer, though the expression didn't reach his lips. "Although I would very much like to be there when you choose to."
Miguel took a burning sip of his drink and settled down across from Pacho, deliberately ignoring his implication that it was an inevitability. He met his intent gaze. "Why aren't you halfway to the airfield by now?" he demanded.
Pacho looked into his glass, swirling it between his long elegant fingers. "I've hardly had a chance to sample your hospitality, Miguel Ángel. A single drink, hidden away before the eyes of god and no other? Not much of a party you have to offer."
Miguel glared at him, gesturing with his own glass around the empty room. "And this is more of a party to you?" he asked.
"The drinks are better," Pacho replied, a teasing smile playing at his lips as he lifted the glass in question to take a long slow sip, seeming to savor the taste of it. When he lowered it, his eyes were on Miguel, gleaming honey gold in the low light of the room, raking down his body, leaving no question as to his intent. "You know what I'm here for."
Miguel felt himself flare with indignation. "I'm not going to bend over for you to get what I want," he said sharply.
Pacho chuckled. "And I'm not going to give you what you want," he said, "whether you bend over for me or not. Not everything has to be about business."
Miguel let out a rough laugh. "That's where you're wrong."
Pacho eyed him speculatively. "Am I?" he pressed. "Is there nothing you do simply because you want to? Because you enjoy it? That sounds like a miserable existence to me."
It was an echo of his words in the chapel, a condemnation of Miguel surrounding himself with powerful, attractive people for nothing but professional reasons, and it set Miguel on edge. "Not all of us are shameless hedonists," he said sharply.
"Shameless," Pacho repeated, a complicated smile tugging at his lips. "Is that what you think of me?" He leaned forward. "Do you think there's something I need to be ashamed of, Miguel Ángel?" His eyes raked down Miguel's body again. "Or do I perhaps remind you of something that you think you should be ashamed of?"
Miguel straightened, leaning away from Pacho, lifting his chin defiantly. The man's words made Miguel want to find him repellent, to order him from the room for showing him this kind of disrespect. Everything else about him, though - his intense gaze, the teasing curve of his lips, his hands, that voice - the complete reality of him drew Miguel helplessly in, compelled him to meet Pacho's eyes and allow himself to step directly into the trap Pacho was laying out before him.
"I don't do things that would bring me shame," he said coldly.
Pacho's smile went sharp, calculating. He leaned to place his glass on the table beside him, not looking at Miguel as he replied casually, "Good."
Miguel lifted his own glass to swallow down the last of his drink, also setting it aside. The room felt like it was filling with static, vibration, a tension between himself and Pacho that threatened to snap. He would not be the one to bridge the space between their two couches, and he could see in Pacho's expression that he knew it.
Pacho pressed his hands to his thighs and stood, circling behind his own couch rather than crossing to Miguel, pacing a circuit of the room with the deceptively casual sleekness of a shark slowly tightening in on his prey. Miguel leaned back into the cushions of his couch to watch him prowl, more deadly than the tiger caged among the revelers below.
As he neared the couch, Miguel let himself sprawl a little more comfortably, legs dropping apart in a casual invitation, the way he would wait for a whore to fit herself into place between his knees. He fixed Pacho with an imperious stare, allowing his body to voice his demands for him.
Pacho paused in the space Miguel offered him, looming long and elegant between his legs, and Miguel had only a moment to recognize the distinct disadvantage of his position before Pacho was stepping forward, dropping a knee against the couch, pressing it to the bulge that was already beginning to thicken within Miguel's pants.
Miguel let out a curse under his breath. Pacho chuckled low in his throat, leaning over him to brace himself against the back of the couch, his voice resonating beside Miguel's ear as he murmured, "You didn't expect me to go to my knees for you, did you?"
Miguel lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug, trying not to let on how the tone of Pacho's voice went straight to his dick. "There's only one cocksucker in this room," he said harshly.
Instead of taking offense, Pacho pulled back so Miguel could see the predatory smile curling at his lips. "Yet," he said. He pressed his leg closer, knee rocking against Miguel's cock, pants tight enough that Miguel could see the thick outline of him hovering perilously close to his own face. "Maybe I'll change that. You would wrap those pretty lips of yours around my dick if I wanted you to."
He said the words so confidently that Miguel felt a defensive denial rise up in him, but it dissolved as Pacho reached to press the tips of two of his fingers to Miguel's lower lip, working them into his mouth, sliding possessively over his tongue. Miguel couldn't help the strangled gasp that escaped around them, or the way his mouth closed, almost reflexively accepting the intrusion. There was something undeniably compelling about watching the way Pacho's eyes went dark and unfocused as Miguel's mouth sucked convulsively around his fingers, tongue spasming beneath his touch.
It was too much, the stretch of his fingers toward Miguel's throat, the weight of his body pressing through his knee to the helpless erection Miguel couldn't keep from grinding against him.
It wasn't nearly enough.
The understanding that crushed down on Miguel in that moment was inescapable. He would suck Pacho's dick if he asked it of him. He might even like it.
"That’s not what I want from you tonight, though," Pacho said, drawing his fingers back only to fuck them in further. Miguel felt a sick twist of relief at the words, until he continued. "I'm going to open you up with these until you’re begging for my dick."
Miguel twisted his head, trying to spit Pacho's fingers from his mouth. Pacho lifted his other hand from the back of the couch to catch at his hair, holding him still with a grip fierce enough to send a jolt of confusingly tangled pleasure and pain down Miguel's spine. He kept fucking Miguel's face as if he hadn't moved at all.
"And then," Pacho said, tilting Miguel's head back so his throat was stretched and exposed for Pacho's lips, his teeth, the torturous resonance of his voice that Miguel could feel as he spoke against his skin, "I'm going to give you what you're begging for."
Miguel tried to object, to say that he'd never beg Pacho for anything, but the sound escaped around Pacho's fingers as nothing but a wordless moan. Pacho let out a laugh tinged with something that sounded almost like fondness, but must have been derision, because he drew his hand from Miguel's mouth, looking down at him with a cruel twitch of his lips as he said, "Did you have something to say to me?"
"I don't beg," Miguel spat out. His voice sounded as rough as it felt.
Pacho raised an eyebrow. "No?" he asked. He let his fingers slip from Miguel's hair. "What was the conversation we had in the chapel, then?"
Miguel felt a hot rush of indignation at the words, but before he could formulate a reply, Pacho's hands were dropping to his belt, startling the breath from him. His fingers were deft and practiced as he stripped Miguel bare before him. One hand was still slick from Miguel's mouth as he trailed his fingers up over his belly, his chest, thumbs catching against his nipples and sending a spark of pleasure through him.
"Sensitive," Pacho murmured, dropping his head to press a brief kiss there, drawing the skin tight. His lips curled, eyes traveling over Miguel laid out for him, his cock clearly interested, a thick bulge clear within his pants. Miguel felt himself grow impossibly harder at the sight, at the memory of his own cock plunging into the close heat of another body. He had felt the reaction of many a woman rippling in sensuous waves as she came on his cock. He was intimately familiar with the tight clutch of an ass around him, with the way that Amado's body would grasp hungrily for him when teased, would roll and tremble beneath Miguel as he took him apart.
Miguel had never felt the slightest interest in the idea of being the one who was taken apart. And yet…
The memory of Pacho's hand pressed against him in that club sent a shiver through him. Miguel had taken control from him in those last seconds before they had both spent messily in their pants, but the moments before that had been unexpectedly intoxicating, pinned to Pacho's chest, his hand working him over, Miguel's body responding to his touch and his voice with inescapable desire. He couldn't deny the way his cock had leapt in Pacho's hand as Pacho had murmured in his ear about bending him over the table. He couldn't even deny that the image had continued to haunt him, sometimes appearing unbidden in his mind as he would take himself in hand in bed, or sprawled out in his office chair.
"Here," Pacho urged him, taking him by the wrist and dragging his hand toward the arm of the couch, hand settling against his other shoulder as if to guide him to kneel. Miguel wrenched from his grip, glaring defiantly. Pacho looked down at him impassively. "Fine," he said. "I'll do it like this." He shoved a hand roughly down between Miguel's legs, avoiding his already shamefully straining cock to press to the space behind it, making Miguel's hips leap and his breath catch in his chest. "You want to watch me fuck you? It makes no difference to me."
Miguel let out an inarticulate noise of frustration. That was the last thing he wanted. The only reason things had gone as far between them in the club as they had was because he hadn't been able to see Pacho, hadn't needed to acknowledge who the hand stroking him through his pants had belonged to.
He slapped Pacho's hand away and shoved him back from the couch, giving Miguel room to rise to his knees, bracing himself. He tilted his head to watch Pacho just out of the corner of his eye, as if waiting for him to service him, refusing to allow himself to consider the vulnerability of the position.
Pacho settled into the space behind him, one hand wide and warm against Miguel's hip. He lifted his other hand and began to fellate his own fingers, putting on a show that made Miguel's cock twitch beneath him at the thought of that mouth closing around him. He sucked sloppily, messily, until his fingers were slick and dripping, eyes on Miguel the whole time, teasing him with peeks of his tongue flickering out and the suction of his undoubtedly talented mouth. Miguel found himself so captivated by the sight that he was still holding Pacho's gaze as Pacho's hand dropped between his legs, not leaving him any time to feel panic swell inside him before Pacho's fingers nudged at his opening, tracing the edges of it. Miguel's body reacted helplessly to the touch with a spasm of tension.
"Relax," Pacho soothed absently, hand sliding from Miguel's hip to the small of his back, and it was only too easy to imagine him having done this for countless of the pretty young boys he was said to favor, easing their bodies into accepting his fingers, his cock. Miguel felt a hot surge of defensiveness at the thought, at the idea that Pacho may think of him as interchangeable with some endless parade of nameless, faceless nobodies, so he shoved backward onto his hand, impatient, demanding.
He heard Pacho let out a startled huff of surprise as his fingers slipped into Miguel, breaching the tight clench of his body. He adjusted easily, drawing away and sinking back in, the same way he had with Miguel's mouth, beginning to fuck him slowly, roughly. He didn't demand more, keeping a steady pace, allowing him time to adjust to the unfamiliar sensation.
Miguel began to suspect that beneath the bravado Pacho Herrera might actually be a considerate lover. He didn't know what to do with that information.
He let his head drop between his arms, closing his eyes. Pacho seemed to take that as some kind of permission, because his strokes began to plunge deeper, fingers curling, beginning to bump against something deep inside of Miguel that made him suddenly understand the way that Amado would shake and come apart beneath him when they fucked.
"Oh." The word escaped his lips on a hitched and strangled breath, not quite a cry, but loud enough in the silent room to make Pacho startle against him. After a moment, Miguel heard him let out a low laugh.
"Happy birthday, Miguel Ángel," he murmured, and did something with his fingers that threatened to make Miguel come all over himself right then and there, without a hand on him.
He swore profusely, collapsing down onto his elbows against the arm of the couch to press his forehead to his arms, burying the hot flush of his face away from Pacho's piercing gaze. He could feel Pacho laugh behind him, quiet and dangerous, as he added another finger, beginning to work Miguel open in earnest.
"I knew you would be good at this," Pacho said in that low tone that had haunted Miguel's half-waking moments since that night in the club. The filthy words spilled from him evenly, casually. "I knew you'd take a cock like you were made for it. This tight ass of yours has just been waiting for someone to take it, to take you." He shifted, the sound of him undoing his belt unmistakable, the fabric of his pants sliding against Miguel's thighs as he freed himself. He leaned closer, his cock sliding between Miguel's legs beneath his hand, brushing over the sensitive skin there, bumping against his balls, jostling his own dick where it hung thick and needy beneath him. Pacho leaned down to press a biting kiss to Miguel's back, to speak the next words against his skin. "Are you ready to beg me yet?"
"Never," Miguel snarled reflexively.
Pacho chuckled. "You don't understand how long I could keep you like this, do you?" he asked, sitting back up. "What about all those people down there in that garden of yours? They're all here to celebrate you, and where are you? Up here getting fucked open on my fingers, not even able to get off on it." Miguel's hand twitched toward his cock, but Pacho was faster, the hand on Miguel's back dropping to pin his wrist to the couch. "You do that," Pacho warned, "and I stop. You come on my dick, or you come into your hand by yourself in this lonely room. Those are your choices."
Miguel came so close to wrenching his hand away and jerking himself off right there, certain he could make himself come into his touch before Pacho could even gather himself to leave the room. Something stopped him, though. Something about the hot weight of Pacho against his back, the tantalizing press of his fingers inside of him. He had come this far. He wouldn't give Pacho the satisfaction of backing down. He forced himself to let his hand go slack in Pacho's grasp. Pacho squeezed lightly before letting him go, smoothing his palm across Miguel's back as if in praise as he trailed it back to settle at his hip. Miguel tried not to acknowledge the shiver the unexpectedly gentle motion sent down his spine.
"What would they all think if they saw you like this?" Pacho asked, fingers fucking into him in an implacable rhythm. "Those important people you've gathered here. Maybe I should take you out there on the balcony instead, so you can look down over all of them while I fuck you. Only one of them would need to look up to see you bent over there for me, taking my fingers, my cock…"
"Pacho," Miguel growled warningly.
He could hear the grin in Pacho's voice as he replied. "What’s that?" he asked. "Are you asking me for something?"
Miguel buried his face in his arms and groaned. He shifted his hips back onto Pacho's hand, wordlessly demanding, but Pacho just kept fucking him, hard and fast and somehow still not quite enough.
"I know you know how to ask for what you want."
Miguel reached beneath himself again, and this time Pacho didn't grab onto him, but he slowed his motions as if preparing to draw his hand out and walk away. Instead of reaching for his own dick, though, Miguel closed his fingers around Pacho's, shifting his hips so the head of it was pressing against him, just beneath Pacho's fingers.
"I don't ask for what I want," Miguel told him. "I take it."
He could feel Pacho's cock leap in his grasp, an echo of the way he had come against Miguel's back in the club when Miguel had taken charge of that encounter. He felt arousal coursing through him at the undeniable proof of Pacho's attraction to his power.
"I should be making you beg me," Miguel continued. "To let you fuck me."
Pacho laughed derisively, but he was unable to hide his cock's interest in Miguel's tone. His fingers withdrew, and for a swift sickening moment, Miguel thought he was going to stand, gather his clothes, and stride from the room. Instead, there was a soft wet sound, the feeling of an impossibly wide blunt heat pressing against his opening, and then Pacho was inside him, filling him, breaking him open.
"Fuck." Miguel felt like all of his breath escaped him with the word, pressed out of him by the inexorable pressure of Pacho within him. His fingers brushed lightly over the spot where his body stretched around Pacho's length, and he felt a shiver roll through him unbidden at the feeling of his touch against the sensitized skin. He let his hand fall away, raising it once again to the arm of the couch, gripping there as Pacho's hands went tight against his hips, holding him steady as he fucked him deeper.
"That's it," Pacho murmured above him in a tone so condescending that it should have set Miguel on edge, but he was too busy being overwhelmed by the conflicting sensations warring throughout his body. The stretch of Pacho's cock within him wasn't quite painful - apparently Pacho had taken care to thoroughly open him up with his fingers - but it was uncomfortable in its unfamiliarity, intimidating in its vulnerability. And yet…the pleasure. It was like nothing Miguel had ever felt before, not better than someone's slick heat engulfing his cock, but somehow more intense, a pressure that felt like it was building inside of him, a ruinous heat that roiled through his body, threatening to destroy him.
Wordlessly, he pressed back against Pacho, demanding more, and he heard Pacho let out a rough laugh.
"I knew you would be greedy for it," he said, using his grip on Miguel's hips to drag him further onto his cock, burying himself fully inside him. "Just like you are for everything else. You can never get enough, can you?" He held there for a long moment, apparently reveling in the hot clutch of Miguel's body around him before drawing out and shoving roughly back in. The sound that escaped Miguel's lips at the force of it was unrecognizable. "Even this will not satisfy you." His hips rolled, beginning to fuck steadily into Miguel, pounding him into the couch. "I'll fill you up and take you apart, and when I leave, you'll still be craving it." One of his hands trailed a slow path up Miguel's spine to close against the base of his neck, holding him down where his head had pressed into his arms against the couch. His fingers squeezed there in a way that Miguel's mind may have taken as a threat if his body wasn't so busy being helplessly aroused by the sensation. "You'll still be empty."
The words were nothing. They were background, distraction. All that mattered was his body and Pacho's, his hips rolling back to fuck against the thick length of Pacho's cock, the heat and weight of the man against his back, the growing ache of release building within him, his cock arching up full and desperate beneath him.
He barely even heard the words. He would certainly not hear them resonating within his mind for years to come each time he took himself in hand to the memory of this moment.
He could feel Pacho's thrusts going ragged, his rhythm faltering, and he was nearly certain that Pacho was too far gone to offer up any kind of objection to him dropping a hand to close around himself. Perversely, though, it felt like some kind of challenge to try to come without it, to find the enjoyment from this moment that Pacho seemed to think him so incapable of. If Pacho had nearly made him come with just a twist of his fingers, surely this explosive pressure building inside him could be ignited into an overwhelmingly uninhibited burst of pleasure.
Miguel shifted, twisted his hips, and…there. He could feel his body shaking with each of Pacho's rough strokes in a way that had nothing to do with exertion. His cock was throbbing beneath him, untouched but reacting helplessly to the hot drag of Pacho within him.
Pacho's hand drifted down from his hip, the other still clenching tight just below his neck. Somehow, even so close to his own release, his fingers were still steady, still capable of teasing as they traced the line where Miguel's thigh met his body, stretching toward his cock.
"Beg me," he said, voice low and dangerous, "and I'll touch you."
Miguel thrust his hips back, driving Pacho's cock into him relentlessly. "Never," he snarled, and came all over himself.
Pacho swore, his fingers loosening against Miguel's neck, palm pressing flat to his back as his hips stuttered in a few more deep thrusts before catching there, buried deep, thighs trembling as he spent himself inside him.
He stayed there for a long moment, hands curling once again at Miguel's waist, holding him still as if taking a last moment to enjoy the hot grip of his body around him. Miguel was just about to shove him roughly off when he let go, drew smoothly out of him, and stood. It only struck Miguel as he sprawled back into the couch and watched Pacho buckle his belt that he had barely undressed at all. He still looked impeccable, silk hardly ruffled, hair in a fashionable disarray. Miguel didn't reach for his own clothes. He had no interest in performing an undignified scramble in front of Pacho to get back into them. Instead, he lounged, comfortable in his nudity, watching Pacho as if he were putting on a show for him.
Pacho smirked down at him, unfazed. "I hope you enjoy the rest of your party, Miguel Ángel," he said. He strode for the door, and paused with his hand on the knob, still facing away. "You really should have let me fuck you on your balcony," he said. "Maybe then, someone down there would have actually seen you."
He left, the door closing with a definitive click behind him.
Miguel dressed in the silence Pacho left behind him and poured himself another drink. He carried it out onto the balcony with him, lighting up a cigarette, leaning against the railing to look down over the revelers beneath him.
They danced, they drank, they made deals. The Sinaloans were smug, the Arellanos dissatisfied, the governors disengaged. His wife danced like the exhaustingly young thing she was, and Amado had long since faded into the shadows. Each of them was ostensibly there to celebrate him, and he was certain that not one of them had noticed that he had disappeared.
He waited there for too long, long enough that his drink was empty beside him and his cigarette long since stubbed out, smoked down to nothing.
In that time, not a single person raised their eyes to where he stood.