THE PANAMA CLUB: Pas de trois // Chapter 12

They’d fucked again in the Porsche. London had sat in his lap facing him and rode out another one, parked on a dark side street in Casco Viejo. Then they’d got home and did it one more time. They were up until two in the morning.

Now it was sometime after ten, the sun streaming through the bedroom windows while he lay in bed with his hands behind his head and stared at the high ceiling, blank white, like every wall and ceiling in their whole Panama beach house.

All he could think about was what transpired last night. How could he not? It was the most bizarre, confounding—and overtly sexual—night of his life.

London still slept, curled up to his side with her back to him, her hot skin pressing his. She was the confounding part of the evening.

Wild parties, wanton sex, sex with two girls, three girls—these were highlights of his youth, and not uncommon events. In Vegas this one time he’d gone all night long with three girls from that rooftop bar on top of The Cromwell, doing blow and ecstasy and drinking two bottles of Cristal. One of the girls that night had given him his first rim job, doing it while one of the others had sucked his cock. There were a lot more nights like that one. But the point was that these were episodes from a show no longer on the air. He wasn’t that guy anymore, and hadn’t been for the longest time. Now he was an upstanding citizen, one with duties and obligations and sponsorships, not to mention he had a reputation to resist, and plenty of paparazzi bloodsuckers looking to catch Alvaro Ortega in his old ways and sink him.

Last night’s events, in the bright of the morning, brought shame, regret, and fear. And yet, the core lust that opened the gate for the events to unfold were not diminished. Even now, considering it, image flashes from last night tightened his stomach and stirred his sore cock. He’d never seen London behave like that and he’d never seen London tamed. Ballard held some sort of power over her, and it wasn’t granting the okay on the continuation of her ballet school’s construction. If she’d gone there last night looking to get in Ballard’s good graces so she could get what she wanted from the man who had power over her, that he would understand. That was the London Perry he knew: driven, goal-oriented, tenacious, crafty, and, yes, selfish. These were all facets he loved about her; the good and the bad.

He turned now, facing her, the troubled knot in his stomach loosening. He admired her naked back while she breathed; the steady in out of her rib cage, the ribs pressing out against her tight skin on the inhale. She was an exquisite, bird-like creature, light and flitting, lithe—but also vicious, and sometimes predatory, finding grudges and holding them for long periods while she surmised her revenge. Like this woman, the culture minister, Aguilar, even if the woman were to cease the stay against London’s construction, she would find a mortal enemy in the former ballerina. London would hate the woman to the woman’s grave.

He had no idea what it was like to grow up in South Africa. He always championed his own challenges, how life in poor America, living in “the system,” and life on the streets, was some sort of hidden rot ignored by the elites, who did little to make life better for those who had nothing but struggle. But then he visited South Africa with London, going to meet London’s mother after their engagement. The disparity in South Africa was profound and startling. It was like all he railed against in America times a thousand; a fast-forward glimpse into what life could be like in America if left unchecked.

London grew up in a suburb called Vereeniging, though her mother lived in Pretoria when they visited there. They had to travel with more than a dozen heavily armed security agents in three armored vehicles. Crime was rampant. London’s own father had shot and wounded a home intruder when London was seventeen. Her father was arrested and later died of a heart attack in police custody.

There was a darkness in London he couldn’t comprehend. One of the great things about their relationship was their uncommon pasts. He didn’t expect her to comprehend all the things the press said about him. She didn’t know much about Latin gang culture, about Miami’s reputation, about American athletes in general. The preconceived notions he was used to fulfilling for other women—what would they expect from the Bad Boy of Baseball, and how would he deliver that expectation?—evaporated when he met London. She had no preconceived notions. London didn’t watch baseball. She didn’t go to college in America. She was unlike any other girl he ever met. And just as she didn’t understand the multitude of semiotics that constituted how others perceived him, he could never fathom the complex structures that existed in South Africa that shaped her life. All of that was surface, manufactured bullshit, anyway, and with London, their attraction was real and meaningful in a way he had never found with another person. No flash, only substance.

And that’s what made last night so fucking erotic. It was like Ballard conjured up parts of London she hid from him. Alvaro wanted to see those parts—and now, after a glimpse, it was like he was hooked. The scariest part was allowing a man like Ballard to submerge himself inch by inch into their waters. The man was unknown and that was a problem.

“Hey,” he whispered to London’s naked back. She stirred as if she’d already been surfing along a wave curl of semi-consciousness. Her head flicked and one of the jagged strands of her shaggy hair jittered.

When she turned to face him, there was a relaxed and sensuous look in her eyes, like a tension had been released or loosened. It was striking, and at once got him thinking of Ballard and his effect on London. He couldn’t help a jealous feeling. He’d presented London with a ten-million dollar diamond engagement ring, he’d filled her closet with the finest wardrobe, they vacationed all over the world, he’d bought her a six-million dollar building to house her ballet school. All these tremendous gifts had never produced a look like the one he saw this morning.

London turned around and faced him, cuddling close and slipping two hands under her cheek to prop up her head. She regarded him with that warm happy look, and at least he could claim the look was for him. Another man provoked it, but he was the one with whom she would share it. He kissed her forehead and palmed the knob of her slender shoulder.

“Good morning,” she said, and now that look began to stiffen, the relaxation he’d seen tightening out of existence. A sheepish worry replaced it. All the things they had done last night returned to her in the bright of the morning and she must worry what it might do to their relationship.

***

The first thing she thought, looking into Alvaro’s eyes, was that a man like Alvaro would never share her, and what they’d done last night, despite the mutual passion, had splintered the relationship both of them valued and had worked so hard to build. But with each heartbeat she became more sure they’d come through unscathed. She could see in Alvaro’s eyes his efforts to show her his love—not love, no, compassion, maybe, or perhaps understanding. Relief began to flood her system. His hand cupped her cheek and the corner of his mouth rose into a warm curl. Nothing came to mind what she could say in a moment like this that didn’t sound shallow or contrived or mitigating, so she smiled in return and did her best to show Alvaro how she loved him through their connected gazes. Her hand curved his thick wrist as he still held her face. Alvaro showed no anger, perhaps only a small sliver of regret or shame.

They stayed like that for a long, wonderful time, and it was like they both knew nothing could be said in the light of morning after a night like the one they’d shared. After minutes enjoying one another’s gaze, the ridiculousness of what had happened eased into their systems, and their smiles grew wider, their lips began to stretch, and soon they both let loose breathy, disbelieving chuckles. Alvaro took her in his strong arms, and she hooked her arms around his neck. Their mouths came together in a long, sensual kiss.

That was how she discovered Alvaro’s cock was hard as a rock. While they kissed, she snickered through her nostrils, and Alvaro joined in, knowing what it was that provoked her amusement.

“You’re my lion,” she whispered, dipping a hand under the bedding and cupping the belly of his erection, curling middle finger and thumb around the porky middle. Alvaro had a beautiful yet strangely shaped cock. Thick at the base, curving upward sharply like it stuck its proud chest out, then tapering to a narrower point. She bit her own lips then, unable to resist thinking of Ballard and the revelation of his enormous penis last night. A small moan emitted from her throat as she began to stroke her palm up and down Alvaro’s hardness. Her future husband was insatiable; after last night, a man should be exhausted and spent.

Alvaro rolled his muscular torso over hers, getting her on her back. “And what are you?”

“You tell me,” she whispered.

“You’re everything,” he said—an answer she expected from him. Alvaro was possessive and dominant in his own right, and a man like that only thought one way; with totality.

“You know you’re everything to me, too,” she said, and then regretted it. After what had happened last night, acknowledging the mere possibility she could have feelings for another man was graceless and condescending.

But didn’t she?

Alvaro didn’t notice or care, humping his cock against her thigh, a sultry look blazing at her from his dark eyes. “What is it he’s stirred up in you?”

“I don’t know,” she said, writhing against his hard chest.

Alvaro smiled slyly, studying her but not finding what he was looking for. “He’s brought out something dark in you.”

“That sounds terrible,” she said.

Alvaro shook his head. “I love it,” he said. “I want more of it.” Now he slung a thigh over her legs and straddled her, completely on top of her on elbows and knees. His hot cock rested on her belly, his balls hanging down to rest on her tender pussy. He ran his teeth on her neck.

She gasped, “You do?”

“So much more,” he said. “I want it all.”

“You like what he does to me?”

He raised up over her face, his hair hanging down from his forehead in a glossy black comber. “I love what he does to you. I love to see you like that.”

Though they’d both reacted with miraculous lust after meeting Ballard last night, they’d never talked about what transpired. She hadn’t contemplated it at all, being too consumed by Alvaro and her own unleashed desire. This reaction from the mighty Alvaro Ortega was surprising. Shocking. But most of all: hot as fuck. And that was unexpected as well. She twisted underneath him, a sudden sinuous return of last night’s passion making her body squirm with need. But she still couldn’t believe Alvaro’s reaction.

It had to be said. “You’re not done? What happened last night—it’s not finished?”

He shook his head again, a low, animal grumble in his chest. He kneed her thighs part and got between her open legs. She raised her knees, feet soles sliding on their silk sheets.

She bit her own lips, flexed her thighs and squeezed her feminine core. She was horny again, and so fucking wet. She whispered, “What do you want him to do to me?”

“Punish you. Make you submit.”

His voice was low and thick with lust. Her nipples hardened and ached.

Alvaro said, “I want it all. I want him to fuck you. I want to see you submit to him—”

She gasped and writhed, her chin raising, her nails running on his muscle. She gasped, “You want that?”

“I want to see your face when you ride that horse cock,” he growled and pushed the head of his cock into her opening.

She cried and hugged his neck. But as Alvaro’s thick middle spread her sheath she winced and complained.

She said, “I can’t.” She’d fucked for hours last night and she was tender and hurting this morning. Alvaro’s face showed a wounding and she was surprised to see such disappointment after all they’d done in bed last night. In bed, in the car, in the hall in that strange sex club.

It hit her. Alvaro thought she meant she wouldn’t allow Ballard to fuck her.

She smiled, blinked, shook her head, cupping Alvaro’s cheeks before hissing his perfect mouth. She didn’t want to correct him, didn’t want to utter the words describing how she would allow another man to enter her body. So she said, “I’ll do whatever you want me to, baby. I’m yours. Yours to command.” And now she let his face go, ran her hands down to ease his cock out of her and soother her own swollen labia. “But I’m so sore, Alvaro. You beat me up down there last night, I need a rest.”

As Alvaro began to smile, relaxing, she bit her lower lip and cocked her head. “You must be sore. Let me be gentle with you,” she said and slinked downward underneath him. She kissed his chest as she traveled, kissed his stomach and his navel, got right under his hips. Alvaro stayed on knees and elbows and she ran the tip of her tongue on the cloven underside of his cock head, showing him what she meant by gentle. Soft kisses, teasing with her tongue. She took him in her mouth and sucked him slowly, circled his scrotum with thumb and forefinger and squeezed to tighten his cock skin. She took her time, making it loving and caring and pure pleasure. In ten minutes he was making fists, grunting, bucking, and, at last, coming down her throat.