hetsmut serial sug alvarez maritza

24/7

by Sug


"Yo."

He's greeted with silence on the line, but he knows she's still there, so he presses on. "You alone?"

He waits a beat and listens to her confused voice answer him.

"'K. I'm, uh... I'm gonna be there in an hour, don't call no one, don't tell no one," he says and looks around nervously, his whole body still wired with adrenaline. "Just, like, I'm gonna need money, and uh, some clothes, you know. That cool?"

He knows he's gotta be quick. It's early, he's got nothing planned, hadn't planned THIS. But he knows a few things not to do already. Can't call his mom. Can't call his family. They probably don't even know who all's gone...yet. But they will. Soon. When the smoke clears and chaos calms, like it's probably starting to, they'll be throwing around toe-tags and taking count.

And he won't answer. 97A413. Alvarez, Miguel. No 'yeah', no nod, no nothing.

Vapor.

"See you then," he says and hangs up the pay phone, quickly shuffling away into the warm misty night, being swallowed by the dark. Vapor.

They'll call his mom. They'll tap her phone probably. Ain't like he's just some young punk who broke parole. Huh-uh. Not anymore. He's an eye-cutting, half-crazed, escaped-from-Oz *killer*. Murderer. From Oz.

He tries to reconcile that image of himself as he moves along in the dark, hitching for a ride. He's the dangerous one. They ain't gonna take that shit too lightly. Not the cops, not the newspapers, not McManus. Prob'ly not even Mukada. Not the Warden. Fuck yeah Glynn's gonna have a hard-on to get his ass back there.

He knows he saw Adebisi bustin out too. A bunch of others. That'll help, he figures. Fuckin Adebisi, his ass SHOULD be tracked down and locked back up, that's one crazy fuck who *needs* to be locked in Oz. But they ain't gonna make those distinctions. To them, he's just like Adebisi.

They'll want his ass back in that place, just where it probably does belong. Why the fuck wouldn't it belong there? What makes him different from Adebisi? Nothin. He got everything he fuckin deserved. Most of the time. Thing is, he thinks, he did what he *had* to do, Adebisi did what he *wanted* to do. That's the difference. Fuckin blinding Rivera, killin Ricardo, that wasn't for shits and giggles. Had no choice. But no one understands that.

A thought hits him that makes his stomach quicken and his mouth salivate as a frisson of panic shudders him. They ain't called Maritza yet, if they even know he's gone. Probably take 'em a day or two to work around to getting to her. But, what if ...

She wouldn't. Would she? Call *them*. She wouldn't actually pick up the phone and bust his ass right back. Would she?

That's the shit he *wanted* to do, get high and fuck around and fuck off. All the time. All the time convincing her to just do what he said and go along with it. That's the one he didn't mean, but also the one he didn't HAVE to do. The one that started it all. Their boy. His son. HER baby.

Dead.

Cause of him.

If anyone gets to blame him, not forgive him, it's her. And no one else forgives him. Ricardo and his family, Rivera and his wife, McManus, Warden Glynn, they won't forgive him. Why the fuck should she?

Oh, fuck it all to hell man. She could be dialing the cops right now and tellin them he's on the way. They'll pick him up and ship him right on back to Oz.

But she won't do that. He *knows* she won't. She might spit in his face and slap him around a little. She'd have that coming. Fuck, maybe if she'd flog him a little he could take a break from doing it himself for a while at least.

A Blazer passes him and he turns to see its brake lights flash on as it slows and pulls off to the side. Kicking it in high gear, he chases it down. Opening the passenger door, he peers in to see a yuppie guy in a suit looking out at him. "Goin to the city?" He asks.

"Yeah, that'd be cool."

The guy nods for him to get in.

"Thanks," he says, pulling the door shut. Exhaling roughly, he's thankful that the guy either didn't see the yellow signs along the highway warning people "Correctional Facility Area Do Not Pick Up Hitchhikers," or that he's bold enough to ignore them.

The yuppie starts making some small talk, Miguel feeds him a line about his car throwing a rod and his girlfriend getting pissed off and kicking him out for the night. He flirted with the idea of just telling him the truth, knocking him out cold and stealing his wallet and car. Figures he still MIGHT do that if he keeps droning about whatever bullshit rap he's laying down. He'd still be lucky. The yuppie that is. Lucky that Alvarez got hold of him and just knocked him out and robbed him, he could just as easily have ended up picking up fucking Adebisi along this road instead of him, and Christ knows that'd be a hell of a lot uglier.

Miguel sorta grins at that thought, then pushes it away. Fuck Oz. Fuck thinking about Oz. He's OUT of Oz and he's not gonna spend any more time thinking about the fucking zoo, let alone reminiscing about it only twenty minutes after being gone. The yuppie fuck keeps talking though, Miguel doesn't even know what about, but he does know that yeah, he's for sure gonna knock him the fuck out and take this fucking car. He looks over at the dude driving, saying some shit now about "market fidelity" or what- the-fuck-ever and how it's causing him *consternation*. Mmmm hmmm.

Miguel rolls his eyes and tries to shut the voice out. He looks out the window, still dark all around, city lights not yet visible. He wonders what the fuck is going on. Why he's sittin here, wired as fuck, temples throbbing, and listening to this fancy fuck next to him. How in the fuck he got here.

Why the fuck he did it. They'll beat him senseless when they catch his ass and haul it back in. And that's literally all he's got his ass. He's got nothing and no one. What in the hell did he bother busting out of Oz for anyhow?

For what?

He don't know what to do. Can't call his moms. Can't go home and see her. Can't stay at Maritza's, even if she'd want him to, which she probably won't. Got no friends, got no family, no fucking life. He didn't plan the shit, never even thought about. Just sat back and sighed as they kept adding the years on to his sentence until he knew his life was never gonna see another day outside Oz.

Then, he saw an opening. Didn't even think. Not at all. Just WENT. Bam - instinct. And now he's out and still doesn't really have a fuck what that means.

He does know that yuppiefuck is still talkin. He knows his own leg's bouncing up and down, nervously working off the coursing adrenaline high. He knows the sound of the guy's voice is like sandpaper on him one big raw nerve being annoyed. He opens his ears and looks at him for a second. "...working my ass off, pardon my language, and just waiting for the bottom to drop right out. Greenspan keeps trying..."

CRACK!

That easy, one hard punch right to the nose. Miguel grabs the wheel and straightens the swerve out as the guy moans next to him, hands on his face, blood oozing out his nose, slumped against the driver's window. Mumbling, confused, "Uhh, you, what's going... is this, this is, it's a car-jacking..."

"Shut the FUCK up," Miguel snaps. He elbows him hard in the face a couple more times, sickeningly satisfying crunches of teeth and cartilage, dull thuds as the guy's head hits the window. He kicks his feet out of the way and hits the brakes, steering over to the side of the road.

Once stopped, he waits to make sure it's dark, no looming headlights. Then he drags the mumbling, bleeding guy out of the car and pushes him toward the tree-line. "Gimme your wallet," he says simply.

Down on all fours, "Uhh, uhh," the guy stutters.

Miguel motions with his hand, "C'mon man, don't make me kick the shit outta you, huh. Give it up."

The guy fumbles and digs it out, hands it over. Miguel opens it up and whistles, "Payday," he whispers. Pulling out the guy's driver's license, he squats down in front of him and shows him that he's reading it. "You see this? Huh? Yeah, you listen to me. Listen up, I ain't gonna kill you, understand? I don't wanna fuckin kill you, man, but now I know you, who you are, where you live. This is what you're gonna do. You're gonna go lie down in those trees and sleep a while..."

"But, I, I'm hurt..."

Miguel slaps the guy's head. "You're gonna be a lot more fuckin hurt if you don't listen to me, motherfucker, got that?" He waits for the guy to nod. "Ok. So. Like, you're gonna go back there and just lie down and sleep, you ain't gonna bleed to death or nothin, you know, you ain't hurt that bad. Don't be all - consternationed- about it or nothin. Then when you do talk to the cops, you ain't gonna describe me, got that? You listenin to me? You're gonna tell 'em some big black guy did this. Got that? Big. Black. Guy." He reaches down and slips the watch off the guy's wrist, grinning as he does it. "You make SURE and tell them he took your watch, got that?" He pats the guy on the head and gets back up, pointing toward the trees, watching him crawl away. Then he struts back over to the Blazer, throws it in gear, and like a vapor, he's gone.

* * * *

Maritza hangs up the receiver and stands there staring at the phone. Blank. Stunned. Not fear, not happiness, not anger. Just, what-the-fuck-is-going- on blank.

He's. Locked. Up. He's not coming back. Ever.

She waited. For a year. He was up for parole and gonna get out. Gonna be out, maybe come back to her. Maybe they could start over. Maybe not, but maybe at least for a while he'd hold her and stroke her and forgive her for losing their son.

Or maybe not. Maybe he'd have not even looked at her, talked to her, acknowledged her existence. Maybe he'd have screamed at her, spit at her, blamed her for letting him die.

Or maybe he wouldn't really care anymore. Maybe he'd put it behind him the way she remembered to every single day.

But he didn't -get- out. He blinded a guard and got sent to solitary, and she knew he wasn't coming back. Then he killed a guy and that drove it home even more. No Miguel. Ever. She wrapped her mind around that every day too. And then she locked it up and tucked it neatly away in the same place she keeps her baby, hardly ever allowing herself to sift through the memories. She just wakes up in the mornings and remembers to forget about it all. To forget about them.

What the FUCK is he talking about he's on his way over?

Jesus Fucking Christ. Her hand reaches for the phone again as bells go off, 'don't call no one, don't tell no one.' She wouldn't call her parents anyhow. They're closer now that he's out of her life, but still, they wouldn't know shit. His mom though, shouldn't she? No. He said don't. Her hand reaches for the phone anyhow, fuck what he says to do, he told her a LOT of things that weren't right.

She pulls it back, thinking. He goddamn fucking escaped from Oz. It's the only explanation. Does his mom know? Do the COPS know? She paces around a little, turning slow circles in the small room.

Thinking, he's coming over here. Miguel. Here. She's going to see him. Her heart flutters around as her pacing picks up speed. What the fuck did he say? What did he say?

Yo. He said 'Yo' and asked if she was alone. He said don't call anyone or tell anyone. He said he wanted money and clothes. He said 'Yo' and that he wanted money and clothes.

And that he'd be there in an hour. An *hour*. She paces into the bedroom and opens some drawers and the closet - looking. He's still got clothes here. Why? She suddenly thinks. He wasn't supposed to be coming back, she made up her mind about that, resigned herself to it, so why the hell DOES she still have clothes of his here?

She marches back into the other room, pulls the phone in front of her as she sits on the couch. She stares at it. She reaches for it to pick it up to call his mom, then pulls her hand back. She tries to replay what he said again. 'Yo.' She heard that one word and knew, KNEW it was him. 'Yo.' What the fuck was he calling and 'Yo'ing her for at nine-thirty on a Friday night? She gets up and paces again. Yo. She'll YO him. Yo-yo his ass right the fuck back to Oz, calling and asking, no TELLING her he wanted money and clothes. Yo his ASS!

She sits back down in front of the phone, staring at it intently, hoping that'll make her remember more. The tone of his voice, what was going on. Her shoulders are knotted and one foot taps quickly against the floor as she chews on her lower lip. Intently, blankly, pulse racing, she just stares at the phone.

*BRRRINGG!*

It rings. She *leaps* out of the chair and gapes at it. It rings again as she stands over it, terrified to pick it up. The thought hits her, it's a fucking phone ringing, don't stand there like a moron, just answer the damn thing. It rings again, almost insistently, taunting her. She knows it's wrong, it's illogical, but can't help it. She is FREAKED the fuck out by it.

It rings again. Swiftly, unable to stand there listening to it anymore, she snatches it up and just listens. No greeting, nothing. A female voice, "Maritza?"

She finally breathes again. "Maritza? You there girl?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I'm here," she answers.

"You about ready to go?"

"What?"

"Go. You ready to go?"

She remembers finally. She was supposed to go out tonight. Supposed to meet a bunch of her 'migas and head out for some fun. She clears her throat, "Uh, you know what? I'm not feeling so good."

"What the hell's wrong with you? You got cramps or something?"

"Uh, no, I mean, yeah. I don't know, something like that, I just feel sick. I don't wanna go, you guys go ahead."

"You ok? You sound really weird, girl."

"Yeah I'm fine. I'm just, uh, you guys go, I'll talk to you later, ok?"

"Alright, I'll give you a call..."

Maritza hangs up on her and starts to pace again. 'Yo.' That's what he said. And something about money. Money. She empties her purse and throws the bills down next to the phone, goes to coffee can in the kitchen where she keeps a stash and throws those down too. She rummages through her drawers and jackets where she has some loose bills and change, takes that and throws it in the pile next to the phone. Fiddling around with it with shaking hands, she tries to smooth them all out, put them in some sort of order. Then she starts to count. She loses track and starts again. Loses her place again.

Moron, she thinks to herself. Get a GRIP.

* * *

Miguel finds a spot three blocks away and parks the Blazer, gingerly getting out, half expecting a SWAT team to take him down soon as he sets foot on the pavement. But they don't.

He rationalizes. They're probably just now figuring out who's gone. Then what'll they do? Fuck if he knows. He figures they'll have some sort of cop- conference. They'll call families and start trying to track them and shit. They'll bug phones and wait for them at their homes. But they'll go to his mom's house first, it'll take 'em a while to think of Maritza. Right? Right? He shakes his head as he walks and looks around, wary for black-and-whites out patrolling. But there's nothing.

He stands at the corner looking at her building for a few minutes, thinking, 'They're gonna wait, they're watching her place, and when they see me go up the steps they're gonna take me out.' The front door swings open and he squints to make out the figure in the dark, just standing there at the top of the steps. Fuck, it's a detective. No it ain't. He walks a little closer, recognizing the hunched form.

Julio the janitor. Still fuckin there, some things never change. Good old Julio. Julio with a hard "j", not "Who-lio" but actually Julio. Dimwitted old motherfucker. He never did like Miguel. Not a bit. Cause he always had it sweet for Maritza. And she'd only encourage him, always talkin to him and bein nice to the dude. He'd just hang around the building, day and night, no one ever knew when he slept. He'd mop the hallways, shine the doorknobs (he'd take two hours sometimes shining up Maritza's, just rubbin that fuckin knob, polishing it like he wanted to fuck it or something). Then he'd just babble something stupid when he'd see Miguel coming and tell him how pretty Maritza was lookin that day. Kinda like his own personal Maritza weather report. Miguel would roll his eyes and tell him to get lost and he'd go back outside and stand on the front stoop again.

He walks a few more steps. And it dawns on him, if he's out there, it's probably safe. If she'd called the cops, they'd have shuffled him outta the way. He walks quicker and bounds up the steps as Janitor Julio nods at him. "Miss Maritza, she's, she's, she's wearing a white shirt today," he tells him.

Fucker remembers him. /Oooh, he musta had it in bad for me to remember me after all this time with that weak little mind of his,/ he thinks. He winks at him though, pats him on the back, "Never thought I'd be glad to see you, man," he tells him and anxiously takes the steps two at a time.

He stands there in front of her door. He raises his hand, then drops it back down. He hasn't talked to her, but he's got eyes on the street still. She don't have another man. But she hasn't talked to him neither. Running the back of his hand across his mouth, he thinks about splitting. Just, fuck it, turn away and keep on going. Don't know what the fuck he risked coming here for anyhow.

The whole ride he swung back and forth. Sweet Maritza. His girl. He deals with Rivera's hate, with the ghost of Ricardo. But not her.

What if she doesn't...?

But what if she *does*...?

He knocks on the door.

* * * *

She jumps up. It's like the phone all over again. It's just a knock at the door and she's ready to crawl out of her own skin at the sound of it. She paces for a minute and there's another knock. She stands there numbly for a second, hand on the lock, deciding.

What if he doesn't...?

What if he *does*...?

Swallowing the fear, she opens the door.

"Miss me?" He asks. He's leaning against the doorframe, slouched and casual, head lowered, gazing up at her with thick-lashed puppy eyes.

Something in her surges and she reaches back and slaps him hard across the face. She watches him; looking away, face flushed, tattooed hand on his cheek, not fully concealing the red scar across his face. Another wave sweeps over her and she reaches up, gently turns him to face her, and kisses him on the mouth.

Her eyes drift closed and she lays a really good one on him. She feels his arms circle her waist and he starts to kiss her back. She doesn't want to pull away. Ever. She sighs and licks and sucks and kisses. Unbelievable. It's totally fucking inconceivable that Miguel is standing right in front of her, kissing her. She starts to lose it, so she pulls back a little to look at him again. He just hovers there for a few seconds in front of her, mouth still open, eyes closed, and she wonders if it could possibly be the same feeling for him. Wonders if he still...wants her.

When he opens his eyes, she scans them to see if she can tell right away. They aren't glassy, so he's not fucked up, she knows that right off. They aren't burning so he's not pissed off about the smack. But they look different to her. Still that deep brown, but something - weary - about them. She wants to kiss them closed, tell him everything's ok, kiss him on the mouth again, have him kiss her back, exactly like he just did it - like he means it.

But she wants some answers first.

She backs away and grabs his hand, pulling him inside. Clearing her throat, she struggles for something to say. "Uh, you, wanted..."

"Bet I freaked you out, huh?" He grins and walks around the room slowly, looking at the furniture, the walls.

"Well, I mean, no, I'm just wondering..."

"Yeah, you're freaked out," he grins. "Really freaked out."

"What the fuck is going on?"

"I escaped," he says.

"From Oz."

"Yeah."

"Escaped."

"Just today, tonight, hour ago."

"You broke out of prison."

"I'm here ain't I?"

"And came here."

He points at the table, "You, uh, you got a new table."

"Yep."

"And a new phone."

"Yeah." She looks him up and down. His hair's a little shorter, frame's a bit bigger. Even his shoulders seem to be a little bit broader to her. Not huge, just older, sturdier. Stronger. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

"There's...blood," she points to his light blue shirt, his arm.

"Uh, um, it's not mine."

"Whose is it?"

"Don't know really. Don't know, it was sorta...crazy."

"But you're ok?"

He nods. "So. What's up?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," she answers. "Miguel, look, what do you want? Money, clothes?"

He breathes deeply, "Yeah, figured I'd pick up some of my old stuff, gonna need some...stuff, or something, you know."

"Well, there's the money," she says testily. She knows she's being bitchy suddenly, can't help it. All she wants is to know is that he wanted to see *her*. That kiss, it was so sweet, so nice. But he's been locked up with all men for three fucking years, he'd probably kiss a ten dollar whore like that if he had a chance.

She notices how uncomfortable he looks, like he'd rather not be doing this at all. He clears his throat and starts to count quietly. "Your clothes are still in the closets."

"Ok."

"Take what you want."

"Yeah," his jaw clenches tight. "What the fuck is this?" He asks and throws the pile of bills onto the table.

"It's money, it's all the money I've got."

He starts to pace around the room, not looking at her. "It's all you got," he repeats back.

"Yeah."

"It's four hundred bucks, Maritza."

"Yeah, well, four hundred eleven," she chews on her bottom lip, knows the eleven's there, she counted it three times.

"Four hundred motherfucking dollars!" He yells.

"Yeah!" She yells back.

"What the FUCK is that?"

"What do you want from me?"

"Yo, when I left here, I had nearly seven grand, Maritza. Seven fucking thousand dollars!"

"You, you've still got it," she stutters.

"Then where the fuck is it? Huh? I told you I need - money-. FAST. NOW!"

"You, you weren't around, I didn't spend it, it's in the bank though, most of it."

"BANK?" He paces around like a caged tiger. "What the fuck good does a bank do? Huh?"

"I, I can get it on Monday, Miguel."

"Monday? FUCK MONDAY. You think this is a game? I don't fucking have til Monday, you know. I got NOW. And now I'm FUCKED."

"I'm sorry," she says softly.

"WHAT?" He yells back at her. "Sorry? What the fuck is that? What does that do?"

Eyes stinging with locked back tears, she yells back at him, "How the FUCK was I supposed to know? Huh? What the fuck you WANT from me? Take what I got, I can MAIL you your money or something."

"And what's this MOST of it shit? What the fuck, HOW much?" He's getting even louder, nearly screaming at her as he continues to pace.

She lowers her eyes and speaks quietly, "Um, there's, I opened an account, and there's nearly five in it."

"FIVE? Five. FIVE!" He snatches the coffee can off the table and wings it against the wall. "FUCK," he shouts as it bounces off, cracking the plaster around it.

Maritza starts at the clanking sound, her whole body trembling, unable to hold the tears back any longer. Wet eyed, she whispers, "I had to pay some bills."

"Bills? What fuckin bills?" He demands. She bites her lip, not answering. "Huh? Tell me, Goddammit! What fuckin bills? I made my sister sell my fuckin car to pay your rent here, what fuckin bills huh?"

Eyes burning with accusation, she loses it. "YO!" She screams and picks up the phone. She wings it at him and simply yells, "FUCKER!" He takes the hit in the shoulder, and stands there, leaned forward, eyes locked with hers, both fiery. She thinks he might actually dive over and start to strangle her any second. Then she yells again, "My *parents*, Miguel, they paid for the fucking burial, I had to pay for some of the shit, doctors and hospital and shit."

Instantly she sees him go limp and she knows she's out of danger for the moment.

She considers taking the opening to walk over and kick him in the balls, wail on him for a second, then run for her life and call the cops. She watches him swallow hard, blood draining from his face, and clicks over the situation again. Scared, she tells herself. He's scared right now, hyper, he didn't mean it. Quickly, she wipes her hand across her face, smoothing away the tears as she walks over, kneels down, and fumbles with the phone. He doesn't move as she fiddles with it, hands still trembling. She slides it back onto the table and he finally reaches out, gently holding her arm and steadying her as she gets up. With her head lowered, still refusing to look at him, she speaks as calmly as she can manage, struggling to settle her wavering voice. "You weren't around, Miguel," she says. "I didn't know what else to do, and I didn't think you'd mind. You told me if I needed the money, anything, I could use it. And then, and then, I didn't think you were coming back, and I didn't wanna get robbed or something, so I thought it'd be safe in a bank."

She feels his hand smoothing her hair off her face, trying to look at her. His other arm circles around her waist and she's suddenly aware of how hard she's still breathing. "'s ok," is all he says as he bows his head and lightly kisses her temple.

"I can, I can get it on Monday, seriously, and I'll send it to you," she says as she turns into him. She places a hand against his side and leans into him, taking the good while she can, the warmth of his body relaxing her.

"Well, I was like, hoping you wouldn't be here on Monday."

Finally, she looks up at him and he answers by kissing her again. Softly, she knows it's his way of apologizing to her. It works on her, she can feel herself starting to drift away. "You mean you want me to..."

"Come with me," he says simply, then kisses her again. "You don't gotta, you know, I understand, it's cool. But like, Maritza, I can't stay here, I gotta GO. Now." He wraps his arms around tighter and nuzzles and kisses her neck.

"What about the money?" She asks and bends into him, placing a kiss on his neck, suddenly longing for more contact.

"'s'alright, we'll get more," he whispers in her ear, sending a quiet thrill with the message. He starts to rub up and down her back with his fingernails through her shirt.

Licking the vein in his neck, she softly kisses her way around to the front of his throat, up the rough shadow of stubble on his chin. Softly, she places a line of kisses starting at his cheekbone and following the long line of the scar that runs down his face before working back to his mouth.

Her man. The man she wasn't ever going to see again, the man she locked up and remembered to forget about every day. Right here. Right now.

Tongue and lips, a hint of teeth, kissing her deep and slow. Her hands snake up his chest, she trails her fingers along each side of his neck, then moves back down, tugging at the collar of the light blue bloodstained shirt. She pulls it over his shoulders, presses into him harder. He releases her and allows her to slide it down his arms. She softly drags her nails along his skin as she lets it drop to the floor. Still kissing him, thick and wet, she slides her hands under the ragged t-shirt, places her palms flat against his belly.

He sighs in her mouth, then breaks up for air, leaning his head back. She goes for his throat again, softly licking at the salty taste of him, the reality of him, her hands reveling in the once familiar feel of his muscled stomach. Pushing his shirt up, he helps her pull it off over his head. She kisses at his naked collarbone, hands roaming freely, trying to get it all covered; his chest, his shoulders, more kissing and lapping at that saltiness on his neck.

* * * *

She's trailing her tongue along his neck, warming it and leaving a wet trail of the areas she's tasted. Her nails raze down his spine, lightly warming him and sending subtle chills at the same time. He grabs a handful of her hair, soft and wavy, curls his fingers through it as the ends tickle his wrist. Pulse racing, he pulls her closer against him, presses her hips into his. Throb.

He kisses around her ear, down her neck, tasting like she had done to him. One hand wanders down the front of her shirt, gliding over the smooth skin of her chest, then over her shirt, the curve of her breast. As he lingers there, he grinds his hips against hers, first into her, then up and down. It's slight movement at first, growing deeper as he moves back to her mouth and kisses her again.

"Miguel," she pants. "Wait, wait hold on, we don't, I don't have a..."

"Hmmm," he mumbles into her neck, barely hearing the words. He feels her hands pressing on his shoulders, backing him up, but not with force. So he keeps kissing, nuzzling her neck, one arm firm around her waist, the other hand rubbing up and down her back, between her shoulder blades. Trying to soothe and excite her at the same time. Bring her up to the level of heat coursing through his body, specifically his cock.

"We should be...safe," she tries again. "I don't have a condom, baby."

Moving down her neck, he places a sticky kiss at the base of her collarbone. He feels her arch in his arms, lift her head up and stretch, opening up to him more. He moves the hand around her waist lower, down to her ass, lower still, reaches between her thighs and rubs tauntingly back and forth over her jeans. She shifts her legs anxiously and his other hand moves around front, strokes her neck and then starts to unbutton her shirt as his mouth follows. He trails his tongue along the curve of her jaw, down her throat, leaving a warm wet trail behind him. Shushing her, he reassures, "It's ok, Mammi, it's ok, like, I'll be careful. Promise."

"What?"

Throbbing for her, he's still aware enough to understand her fear. Perfectly. Painfully. And he's burning, almost hurting with raw physical need, he just CAN'T stop this right now. Cause she's so soft against him, so warm, and her legs are shifting anxiously and he knows she wants this real bad, right now, too. "I won't come in you baby, I'll be alright, I'll be careful," he says as he gets another button open.

A string of promises and pleads comes out as he undoes another button and then he's -there-. Slipping his hand under her bra he almost DOES lose it right then and there. Three years being alone and everyone within spitting distance hard and callused, and now, suddenly, this. He moves his hand over her breast, reveling in the fineness in the skin, the give of the flesh, warm and yielding to his touch. He feels her nipple harden immediately as his fingers slide across it. He gulps and then sighs into her chest, bites on his lower lip and HAS to stop thinking about it for a second. Control. Control, he can do it. Can't waste this, he can't just stand there rubbing all over her body and come in his own pants no matter how close he is to that or how safe it'd be.

He can't cause if this is so warm and soft and safe he knows it's gonna be ten times better to be wrapped up in that, feel it all around him. He remembers how good it was, clearly remembers, but that's just not the same as tasting, feeling, -having- it like that. Her hands are in his hair, stroking, but pushing him back. He whines against her, "Maritza, come ON man." Then he hears her.

"It's not that," she says. "It's not just that, what about, you know, other stuff?"

He runs his hand down her stomach and lingers for a second before using both hands to work on the top button of her jeans. "Martiza, fuck man. I been locked UP, you know. Only person I even see most days is a priest, you think I've been hitting THAT?"

Then it dawns on him and he feels a hot surge over the lust roll through him. "Wait. You. *You*." Swallowing thickly, his chest constricts. He's surprised at his own reaction, but unable to drive it down. He clutches her arms fiercely. "WHO?" He demands. "WHO? Who you been fuckin huh? HUH?"

"No, no, no, Miguel, no."

He pushes her back and stands up straight, looking at her face. "Yeah. Yeah, that's what you're tellin me, like I gotta be safe and shit." Another jealous wave tears through him and his temple pounds with it. "Who YOU been lettin hit it huh? Tell me!"

She leans back into him, places her hands on his chest and rubs lightl. Meets him eye to eye. "Nobody baby, nobody, I just, you even got blood all over you *right now*."

He blinks and waits a beat, hearing what she said. "I'm ok, really," he soothes her. He believes her when she says there's no one else. For the most part. Cause he wants to believe her. She never lied to him much. Maritza always blindly trusted him. Ahh, fuck. That thought sends another jolt through him, different from the hot rage of a few seconds ago, almost comforting in its familiarity. He watches as she leans back and slips the shirt over her shoulders, lets it fall down her arms and to the ground as her mouth pulls to a sly grin. "You been lettin Julio the janitor see this shit? That who it is?" He teases.

"Huh-uh," she answers shyly, self conscious he knows - watching him watch her as she reaches behind and fiddles with the clasp of her bra.

"I dunno man, maybe you're right, if it's Julio I think I better go get, like, a three pack, put 'em -all- on 'fore I get too close to you." He swallows thickly again, liking what he sees, but playing with her; standing back, refusing to move even as his pulse surges with desire again.

"Fuck Julio," she says as she drops the bra next to the shirt and stands still, still looking at his face.

He whistles low and looks her up and down. He's waiting, trying not to go for her, make her come back to him instead. "I'm tellin you, you better not be fuckin Julio, I don't want that crazy bastard comin after me." She looks good. He remembered her. He'd spent countless nights picturing her just like this, but the memories got fuzzed, or maybe she changed a little. But she's better. Better than a memory. She's real.

"You 'fraid a Julio, baby? That it?"

"Yeah, locked up in Oz, you know, I got outta practice, got soft, shouldn't be messin with another man's woman, can't defend myself anymore."

She unzips her jeans and shimmies them over her hips as gracefully and quickly as she can while he just keeps watching, drinking in her movements. Appreciating the sight of curves and angles, all so pleasing, all so familiar, but all so seemingly fresh. "Does Julio tell you you're beautiful?" He asks, still playing.

She kicks the jeans aside and comes to him. She presses her full length against him. Bare chest to bare chest, she wraps her arms tight around his shoulders. "No, he doesn't."

"He should. Someone should," he says, finally giving in and circling her waist, heating up, leaning down to kiss her shoulder. She slides a hand down his bare back and presses her hip firmly against his groin. His cock twitches and he groans at the touch. "Fuckin Julio's a mook, baby," he rasps, moving up her neck. "Cause you're beautiful."

She writhes against him with that, scratches a hand across his chest and kisses her way to his mouth. A spike of pleasure goes down his spine as she sucks his lip and fumbles at the front of his pants. Grabbing her hand he pulls back and leads her the rest of the way down the hall, into her room.

Her bedroom. Been there a hundred times but thought he'd never be back. Isn't supposed to be back, shouldn't be there now if he was smart. But he pushes that thought right back where it came from as he half throws her down on the bed and she sprawls out for him, all those curves so soft and inviting, all that warmth he was never supposed to have again. Unbuckling his belt, he thinks of that, never again. He was never gonna have a woman again, never gonna do this again, not with her, not with anyone.

And as he licks his lips and kicks off his pants, she reaches up for him and he knows it won't take long anyhow, not long at all. Cause he's wound TIGHT for this, tight breathing in his chest, tight inside his stomach, the base of his spine prickling with it. He leans over and crawls up between her legs, his dick just aching with the tightness, and his jaw clenches and throbs as he struggles to keep that little bit of control. Control for now, for a couple minutes - to keep his promise to her, to himself.

"I want you in me," she whispers, "I want you so bad, baby, right now." She puts her hand around him then and he knows, knows how bad she wants it too cause she is NOT fucking around, she just guides him right to her and that soft chest of hers expands with a deep breath. So he bites his lip again, sucks in his breath, and GOES.

And it is sa-weet. Pillow soft, ember warm, and rain- wet slick - she was ready for him, all the way. She pushes up hard against him as he works in and it sends a shock of tingles all the way through his limbs. He'd remembered. But that's not THIS. - Real-. His mind is hazed over with the sheer pleasure, breath coming shallow and fast, and then she writhes under him, contracts around him with heat and strength, and that sends another unexpected wave of electricity straight through him.

Almost reflexively, he starts to pump into her. Swift and hard, no restraints, just going for it and getting higher and higher, feeding and placating the insistence at the same time. Propped on his elbows, sweating already, he works it from his shoulders to his hips, moving in serpentine motion as she contracts, contracts, and pushes up into him.

He lifts himself up higher on his hands so he can look down the length of their bodies moving. Her breath catching, chest heaving, he knows she's working at getting herself off as much as he is, that she's close, so close. Her legs tangle around his waist and legs, twining tight and demanding, he knows, close to being turned all the way out. But that thought, that last shove against him, watching her get off on him sets him over the last edge and he knows there's no WAY to hold on anymore. One, two, three more thrusts, she looks that close, like that'll do it for her, but he can't do it, can't wait for her, it's just too good, rushing too hard and he won't, -can't-, risk it, not another second, he's going to spill.

Breaking free of her hold on him, he pulls out, one hand instantly going to his cock, and he starts to come on her stomach. He can't even bear to stroke to bring himself off, he just holds tight and hears her moan of frustration, her body still writhing under his as hot and sticky, breathless and shaking, he keeps coming with bone-jangling release.

* * *

Maritza's body strains a few times in protest beneath him and she struggles to catch her breath as she watches him. Jaw clenched shut, head down, shoulders trembling, neck and forehead vein bulging out ... she thinks he's beautiful.

-Her- man.

She wanted to scratch his eyes out for a second there, so close and then having it yanked right away from her.

She was close, so fucking close, right on the edge, left full of frustration, nerves shouting without final release. If he'd have stayed in, just that much, just stayed and shoved one more time as he came that would have done it for her.

She tried, wrapped herself around as tight as she could; pushed, twisted, pleaded with her body for him to not leave her. She knows he probably wanted to stay too. He was always convincing her of it before, panting in her ear, "Lemme come inside you," he'd beg, and she'd let him. She'd always end up letting him. His way, cause he'd take her with him, right over that edge and she'd have no control left.

Not this time.

Not now.

It's still his way and she knows, she KNOWS why. She was close, so very close to letting it slip out, mumbling it in his ear, "Stay in me, baby, stay in, come inside me, do this for me." But she didn't. Cause she knows. It's just not that easy. Not anymore. Not yet.

But she gulps back her frustration, three years' worth, and watches him for a few moments. -Her- man. That same intense look on his face, body wracked with pleasure spasms, almost timeless. Remorseless. Guiltless.

Sorrowless.

For a few minutes, she knows that he's just consumed with nothing but her, her body, his body, and overwhelming pleasure. And that's good enough for her.

For now.

Three years of alone. She lied about other guys. There'd been a few. When she first got out of Parker's, suddenly alone and confused and still grieving she searched for solace that way. But none of them took away the empty feeling or quieted her pain. She never really -wanted- anyone else, but was desperate to find something to take her mind off everything else - off of her loneliness, off of Miguel, off of their son.

They were passing distractions, failed experiments at finding something, anything, to fill the howling in her guts. But no one could consume her, no one else could make her lose control the way Miguel always could. She loved him, more than he loved her, she knew that. But she didn't want a re-run of him either. She didn't want to deal with any more loss.

She went through stages of hating him. Blaming him for everything. She trusted him and listened to him and ended up pregnant, in jail, watching her baby die, and then being utterly alone. But she couldn't hold on to the rage or bitterness too long, because as much as it scared her, she knew it wasn't just him to blame. She listened to him. She -wanted- to listen to him.

He could turn her inside out and make her lose all thought and reason, every bit of reason and power. And suddenly, here he is, doing it all again.

Miguel collapses finally, head on her shoulder, curling his body next to hers, catching his breath. She reaches over and strokes his face, his neck, hears his breathing start to deepen a little, knows he's spent, ready to drift right off. "Baby," she nudges him a little. "Miguel."

"Hmmm," he sighs, throwing one arm across her, settling into her more. Maritza strokes his arm, then slowly sits up a bit, pushing him off her. Running a hand through her hair, she nudges him again with her other hand.

"Where you goin, huh?" He asks. He urges her back by wrapping his hand around her thigh and stroking lightly.

"Where'm I goin? Pfft, goin to find Julio, that's where. Let the janitor clean up this mess you made," she taunts as she wipes a hand across her stomach, looks down to see his reaction, make sure he knows she's fucking with him.

Grinning a little, he opens one eye. "Ouch. Guess I deserved that."

"It's ok, we gotta go though. C'mon, get up."

"Nah, c'mere. We got some time." Miguel snakes his hand up her leg, right to the top of her thigh, buries it in her crotch, curls it inward and up.

His thumb slides effortlessly between her lips and strokes firmly a few times. "No. We don't," she answers, trying to will herself to keep getting up.

"Ahh, lemme make it up to you," he purrs, thumb settling in firmly on her clit as he slides a few fingers inside her.

Her heart clutches and stomach lurches with pleasure at the sensation. Shaking her head to clear it, she grabs his wrist, intending to push his hand away and get up. His thumb strokes again, and again, his fingers curl a bit inside her. She lets her eyes close and revels in the touches for a minute. Intending to sound annoyed, she says his name, "Miguel," but it comes out as a sigh instead. "We, you... We gotta go, you said that."

"In a minute, baby, just a few more minutes," he soothes with his voice, coaxes with his hand. He props himself up on his elbow with his free arm and she can feel him looking at her, studying her face. She tries to stay calm, but he digs deeper inside, applies more pressure with his thumb, and she feels her face twitch and blush in reaction, and her legs fall open wider for him as he falls into a slow, ancient, hungry rhythm.

He kisses her arm, persuading her to let go, lean back, and she complies. She eases back, relaxing into his touch even more. Her heart's racing, breath already shallow and uneven as he keeps rhythmically rubbing away at that nodule of tension, sliding over it, relentlessly, back and forth.

Then he's bent over her, his mouth engulfing her nipple. Wetly kissing it, his tongue rubs back and forth, mimicking the smooth, insistent gliding between her legs as his hand works her inside and out. Arching into him, she grinds against his hand, verbally ooohing with delight. He sucks on her nipple firmly and drives his fingers deep inside, making her gasp with pleasure. His teeth raze against it as his thumb deepens its pressure, quickens the pace, and she bucks in reaction.

She's burning with heat, most of it gathered between her legs, but fevering all through her body. He's warm against her, but she knows her skin is hotter, tighter than his. She feels a sheen of sweat break out on her upper lip just as his mouth travels up to hers to kiss it away. She squirms against him in appreciation as his tongue slides against hers, stealing the last of her breath.

He presses closer against her and she feels the length of his body against hers, shocked at the firmness of his cock close against her side. Hot, she thinks. She's panting and sweating as he drives even deeper, harder, kicking the speed up again, pushing her on. Fingers inside her stroking and thumb outside pressing and rubbing, both at once nearly too much to bear.

She grabs his wrist again, refusing to let him pull back as it gets crazy intense for her, begging for more. She knows he's still watching, getting off on seeing her struggle and failing to keep it together.

Hot and good, crazy and great, maddening intense, blood rushing, furious release, watching him watch her, she starts coming. Electric shocks run up her spine, her hand clenches around his wrist even harder and he doesn't stop; furiously stroking, sliding. She knows she's crying out, shuddering uncontrollably, body wracked with spasms of tension being released, calming pleasure seeping in its place as his hand mercifully, thankfully, finally starts to slow down as she can't do anything but repeat his name over and over between ragged breaths.

* * *

"Miguel, Miguel," she's saying over and over as she's trying to get back under control. That just makes him hotter and harder, itching to get back inside her. He watches her come back down, smug with pride with what he did to her, being able to make her lose it so completely.

He couldn't believe the way it affected him when he first saw her. He *knew* he was horny for a woman. He remembered how pretty she was. But she looked different too. Older. Happy to see him, and yet, something in her eyes. He knew what it was from, he saw the same hollow echoes in his own eyes whenever he'd dare look straight in the mirror. He knew he'd put that look there too. Same as he'd taken all vision away from Rivera, he'd changed hers.

It made him hungry to take it away. He knew he couldn't erase the past, but he wanted to make her restless with desire, put something else in the place of that deep longing. But then as he watched her giving herself up to him again, relaxing and wanting him enough to let go of everything else, it sent him over the edge too quick. It felt so good, so fucking good physically, but more than that too. All of a sudden he didn't feel so alone and hopeless anymore. It seemed that if Maritza could find a way to want him again nothing was quite so bleak. And that pushed him too hard too fast, wound too tight and losing it too quick.

Pride and responsibility forced him to make it up to her right away. He always loved getting her off anyhow, gloated over how he could send her over the edge so completely. But this is different, better. Her eyes are looking up at him, begging for more, no accusation, no trace of pain, just pure lust and wonder and trust as she shivers against him, years of disappointment and mourning melting right away. It sets him off. Completely.

"Ahh, yeah, baby," he whispers close in her ear. "You were so sexy for me, so beautiful like that," he growls as his cock throbs insistently.

Finally, she releases his wrist and he raises his hand to his mouth, wet and glistening, and takes a lick. Salty sweet, that's his Maritza. Rolling into her, he slides his knees between her legs and takes a deep breath, heady, heavy scents filling his nose. Sweat, sex. His, hers. Mingled together, musky and spicy warm.

He looks her up and down, her stomach still sticky with his semen, her nipples still hard on those soft, full tits. Her entire torso rising and falling with her exaggerated breath. He strokes the length of her body with his hand and leans down to kiss her mouth, re-claiming it as his alone. His tongue slides out to meet hers, moves around insistently. Her hands scratch lightly across his back, sending rippling tingles across his skin. He moves his tongue in and out, fucking her mouth demandingly.

Unable to wait any longer, he slides one hand under her hips and raises her up to meet him, his other positioning himself to enter her. Her legs twine around his waist as he pushes in again. Sucking in his breath, he drives deep and hard straight away, reveling in the sensations as she encompasses him fully. Bodies weak but wired, they start fucking right away.

Mumbling curses and endearments under his breath he drives into her as she thrusts against him, moaning shamelessly. His thighs are so tired they burn from exertion, but he barely notices, couldn't stop even if he wanted to, his body is just locked into place, unable to move anything except his hips, hypnotically pumping into her, taking her, making her all his.

And ooh his cock, fully electrified again, surging, quicker and quicker, nerves raw but aching and demanding more. One hand holds her raised waist, eyes watching her stretched neck and thrown back head as his other travels the length of her torso; first across her stomach, then over a hard nipple atop a soft breast. Finally he settles holding her throat, feeling her moans reverberate through the palm of his hand as he keeps plunging in and out of her, forcing those halted grunts to come out of her louder and harder with each shove. He gazes across her body, stomach already starting to contract, signaling an oncoming orgasm. Gritting his teeth, he looks away and blanks his mind to make sure he lasts at least until she does again, feeling the sizzling tremors up his spine trying to betray him.

Then she cries out again, saying his name, telling him in Spanish that she loves him, her whole body shuddering and contracting rapidly around him, so he lets go completely, pumping furiously and getting himself to the edge as she struggles - coming uncontrollably, writhing reflexively, entire body blushing hot - because he doesn't back off but just keeps fucking her hard, harder, fucking while she shivers like she's hooked to a live wire, her legs squeezing hot and tight around him, coming more and coming harder -- yelling out again, rapidly squeezing and releasing around his tender cock - until finally the bolt ZINGS through him and he's -ready- but he shoves into her again, waiting til the very last second, thrusts once more HARD, dangerously close, and then he pulls back quick, strokes himself rapidly, comes onto her stomach - body trembling, veins thumping -- liquid heat rushing from head to toe, mind swimming, dick still pulsing and spilling white and warm all over her soft stomach, and then, suddenly drained, he outright collapses in a heaving, panting, pulsing, exhausted pile of spent, sated, shivering, boneless flesh on top of her.

* * * *

She lets him doze off for a while as she slips in and out herself. Not really comfortable the way she's laying but too tired to move, swimming in and out of the fog of sleep lazily, not even bothering to lie to herself and think she's going to turn him away and send him off. Her arm tucked underneath him starts to go numb, prickling tingles of strangely reassuring mild pain travelling through it.

She watches the digital bedside clock with its glowing red numbers tell her that it's 1:15 in the morning. Closing her eyes, she feels the needles in her arm subside a bit.

When she opens them again due to the returned prickly feeling, the clock blinks 2:32. She can't help but think that he's fucking up again already. Pushing that thought aside, she nudges him a few times and says his name as she starts to get up.

He wakes with a start, obviously confused as he looks around and mutters a combination of letters and numbers. His prison ID, she thinks, having been through the drill herself. She waits for the yelling to start up again, for him to get nasty with her as he tries to figure out what to do. But it doesn't. He just sleepily rubs his eyes, slouched over the side of her bed, matter-of-factly says he's gotta get the hell away from here. That's it, that's his plan.

That clicks something in her mind, something she hadn't really dwelled on before. He came to her, first. He knew he -couldn't- go to his mom's, that'd be way too risky. But coming -here-, to her, was risky too. He could have just kept going without even calling her, stopping by, that'd a been the smart thing to do, the safest thing. He wants, -needs-, money. But he could have left then too. He's horny and lonely and scared, so he stayed to fuck. Even that she could write off.

But now he's sitting there; freshly fucked (and fucked damn good, she thinks with satisfaction), he's got some money, and he really -has- to get going. And he doesn't really know what to do.

Because he hadn't thought that far ahead. That's what Maritza figures out even as she knows he doesn't realize it. He thought about -her-. He thought about getting to her, and not really any further past that. And she knows that he's not even aware of that, that part of himself. She knows that he's hardly thinking at all, he's just acting on instinct.

She reaches down and strokes his hair and he looks up at her, wide-eyed but still groggy, and her heart seems to drop in her chest. Briefly, she wonders if he did get mad at her again, if he did start to scream and hit the walls, if she'd send him away. Alone. She'll never know for certain, though, because she leans down and kisses his forehead, brushing through his hair with her fingers. And he looks up at her clueless and grateful.

But she knows.

He's clueless about what to do, how to do it. Clueless about why he's so fucking clueless. Clueless about *why* he's looking at her thankfully, why she's stopping the panic that wants to be busting through his brain right now. Clueless that she knows what he doesn't know about himself. He's clueless and grateful that she still loves him.

And for the first time, she knows that even though he doesn't know it, he loves her.

So they gather some clothes, money, and a toothbrush, peek out the window to make sure there aren't any cops around, sneak out onto the street and walk a few blocks. They stop at a cash machine where she uses her bank card for the last time and takes out the daily max of five hundred dollars. Then Maritza steps aside as Miguel pulls a wallet out of his back pocket. She doesn't ask any questions as he fumbles through a couple gold credit cards, and one platinum one. He reads a slip of paper tucked with them, cause the yuppie fuck disregarded not only the "no hitchhikers" notice, but also the credit card warning to not keep your PIN with your credit cards, and he punches numbers and gets three more five hundred dollar cash withdrawls. She stands and watches as he unlocks the door to a silver Blazer and climbs inside. Then he reaches over and unlocks the passenger door. She takes a deep breath, taps her foot a couple times, bites on her lower lip, and gets in. Miguel looks over at her and smiles weakly, and she has no idea what the look on her face is like. She just watches as he throws the car into gear and starts to drive.

* * *

Continued in part 2


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