Holly Alvarado, née Winston, still struggled with Spanish, but enough of her husband’s hushed phone conversation with his older brother came through to keep her hands balled tight. Under a white T-shirt emblazoned with “Hotness” in fancy gold script, a braless chest kept jiggling over clenched ribs, and Alberto’s sidelong smiles didn’t help at all. Confused spirals of heat meant that when he ended the call and spun to face her, she faltered.

The man was too damn handsome. The polar opposite of her pale, freckled skin, strawberry blonde curls that gained a soft golden hue in the sun, and blue eyes so light she often squinted. He had black hair, somehow always perfect, a dark olive complexion, and irises of the deepest brown, possessing the intelligence of somebody twice his age, yet ... Not so much with the street smarts.

Unbidden, other differences popped into focus. While she looked younger than her twenty-nine years, his corded, wiry frame appeared far older than his twenty-six. Tedious outdoor work did that to a person.

Neck pulsing, she clenched both fists tighter and scanned the tiny apartment. Having fled the insufferable, smothering Midwestern life of endless cornfields for the city’s cruel, uncaring steel towers fourteen months and twelve days earlier, they’d been lucky to find the place.

In truth, the luck was questionable. Expensive, but continuing to emit a dank stench despite gallons of bleach. Cozy or cramped, depending on your point of view. Single bedroom and a smaller space set-off with a folding door of ugly green plastic. The latter was her domain.

A combination living and dining area merged into a kitchen counter along one wall. A glance out the lone window above the sink offered a not-so-wonderful vista of faded, stained brickwork. Although within touching distance, the neighboring uptown building didn’t even have windows.

At least the walls had fresh paint—she’d insisted—but their home was on the third of a ten-floor walk-up. Not supposed to be a walk-up, but the elevator was notorious for its crotchetiness. The upper tenants might risk it, but three flights of steps weren’t so bad. Made for a decent bonus cardio on most days, once high heels were slipped off aching feet.

With one of those slow, hissing exhales that got his thick brows to furrow, she dropped into a wooden chair that didn’t match the one he occupied at a small table. Like the bedroom furnishings and a couch with the weirdest sag, the seat was second-hand. No, based on the wear and tear, it’d also survived more than a single previous owner. But it fit their meager budget.

None of that was the main issue; what kept her focused like a dog on a bone, staring at the love of her young but aging by the minute life.

“Diego makes me nervous,” she murmured. “Your brother ... He’s not right”—she tapped her skull—”up here.”

While Alberto might’ve been dark, his older, square-jawed, bald sibling was pure inkiness. Eyes of the deepest black and a broad face sporting perpetual stubble. A wall of muscles that her husband hadn’t inherited from their Papi, his skin was darkened even further due to a ceaseless scrawl of tattoos. Some were kinda pretty, but most were not, referencing numerous gang-related ... events.

The brooding giant’s inside matched the exterior. One of those guys who not just brought trouble but yanked it into the world, then reveled in the brutal chaos.

Real heebie-jeebie maker, and her skin crawled even as Alberto gave her “that” smile and lifted a can of beer to his lips. After a quick swallow, he slid rough, deep-bronze fingers across the scratched surface to caress her hand.

“Claro, mi amor. I understand,” he replied. “Mi hermano no be staying long. Just help him get on feet, eh? On parole again, so he no gonna do nuthin’ stupido.”

“Where will he even sleep?” Her eyes swept their microscopic world.

“The couch.” He shrugged. “And can use that—”

“—bathroom?”

A snort left her as she glanced at an open door so narrow that a guy his brother’s size would be forced to squeeze through sideways. Beyond it was a noisy commode that refused to lose its stains, and a battered porcelain sink. The metal mirror defied her attempts to clean, and she’d finally given up on it as well.

However, none of that was the real bugbear, and she fixed him with her gaze. His head tilted when she slid her hand from his tender grip.

“Not that,” she said.

“Que? What you mean?”

Mind awhirl, both unsure of hurting him and yet fearing the worst, it took a few seconds before she could part her lips to answer. “Alberto! He flat-out admitted he would cuck you. You understand? Comprende what that means?”

Her husband’s curt laughter, and the twinkling in his eyes only made her ribs tighten further. “Ai, that? He only making joke. You know, the way he always does around you.”

“Si, exactly. Around me...” A loud gulp was followed by a long exhale. “Doesn’t that...”

“Corazón, he jealous. It’s his way. Ever since we were kids, he’s been—”

“Damn it! He said it at the wedding. You were right there.”

As luck would have it, the day after making that either drunken or high or both declaration while gazing into the bustier of a far-too-expensive-but-gorgeous gown, Diego had ended up in the back of a police car.

Now, he was being released. To stay with them. In the tiny apartment. Can’t Alberto see the issue? Seriously?

When all he did was nod, she gritted her teeth. That damn, indecipherable silence ... again. With a huff, she shot to her feet. Although he smiled while she stripped, heading for the folding door, her mind had run out of words that wouldn’t be flooded with fury and exasperation.

Soon enough, the door was shut, and with bare toes sunk into a supple faux-tiger pelt, she danced to the sensuous beats of soft salsa. Once more ensconced in her special world, she smiled at the camera atop a monitor displaying ever-raunchier comments and, of far greater importance, ever-larger tips.

Safer than dancing in seedy clubs where she’d had to pay for a time slot, plus as each session continued, her motions could get much wilder, earning a whole lot more cash. Soft squeezes of a proud chest, a sneaky finger below a narrow strip of golden curls. Maybe even let the craziness free and end up shaking with limbs splayed, depending on her mood and the energy of the most-dedicated fans, the big spenders, the whales.

But she was no fool. Of various colors and decorated with beads or fake jewels, stylish masks hid her identity. The cash was alright, but the platform, payment processor, and tax man all took their cuts; thus, her playtime remained an evening side gig.

From Monday to Friday, nine-to-five, Mrs. Holly Alvarado, in conservative clothing with tresses restrained, existed as one of millions serving their corporate overlords. In her case, a mid-level data validation specialist. Fancy title for somebody who checked for errors in complex financial documents.

By the end of each day, tedious in a whole different manner than Alberto’s employment, her brain ached. Hence, another reason to float away on supple fur under bright lights to the music that had swept her into the embrace of the way-too-handsome younger man despite her parents’ loud, cruel, ignorant protests.

Given Alberto’s reaction, or lack thereof, the anger and frustration fueled one of her more frenetic performances, bringing in excellent tips. Although not as common anymore, she dropped onto the furry rug, letting fingers tease and squeeze, then delve and rub and crush. While most dicks had pumped early in the routine, the chat grew even quieter. At last, after licking clean her shaky digits, she typed kind words to those still around, then switched everything off.

With sweat pasting the hair to her shoulders and stinging her eyes, she snuck across the dark bedroom and tumbled quivering into the shower. After a long session of the chugga-chugga-whooshing pipes providing a lukewarm spray—thank God, the place at least offered decent water pressure—her skin was tingling when she slid into the sheets.

“Good show tonight, mi amor?”

The husky whisper, scented with the weed for which he continued to spend too much, drew her gaze to that wonderful smile. It also drew her hand to the waiting rod of hot steel between lean, muscled legs. As her fingers tightened, that adorable hiss left him.

“Si, they were very generous,” she murmured.

“Did you—”

“Yep, couple of times.” With a chuckle, she rolled closer, pressing herself into him. “Wanna make some hot love to your sexy wife?”

He might’ve been exhausted after a long day, but her husband moved like lightning. In a quick second, his sexy wife was flipped onto her sexy spine. As he crawled between her sexy legs, they rose to clasp his waist. One more second, and that sleek, heated rod glided deep.

With a frenzied, wild-eyed expression, he pumped like a madman, slamming her over cliffs of pleasure. The world sparkled; her screams serenaded his heavy breathing. Still an amazing lover, he mixed in those delicious, toe-curling strokes—the slower ones that got her nails digging into his sweat-slick back—with faster thrusts that made the bed rock so fast it threatened to collapse.

At last, with the sparkles in her vision fading, his motions slackened. As she chewed and sucked along his corded arm, he placed a kiss on her heated cheek. She was already giggling when those dark eyes flashed at her.

“Was, um, he there?” her hubby whispered.

“Yeah, babe. He talked so dirty tonight. Much filthier than usual.”

“H-he did?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

With a grin and every inch of a well-fucked core fluttering, she caressed his arms. The thunder of his heartbeat was hammering tight nipples, blasting more jolts of ecstasy across sizzling nerves. Alberto’s gulp and the way his dick twitched made her chuckle once more.

“He asked me again, bebé,” she murmured.

“W-what did he, uh, ask?”

After a quiet laugh, she both licked the sweat from his trembling jaw and thrust upward. With slippery insides clamping stiffness, the press of her pubic bone against a solid pelvis got him to moan into her grin.

“To leave with him.” She swirled her hips, netting another groan from the wide-eyed man. “Sail to Aruba.”

“A-Aruba? The island?”

“Si, mi amor. You know why?”

“N-no.”

“He wants to fuck my ass, my tits, and make me his little strawberry blonde bitch.”

No thrust, no hip swirl, just the words alone got his eyes to become flashing, white-rimmed black diamonds. Quivering lips unleashed the moan of a man whose fantasy had been caressed like her walls were massaging his pulsating rod.

The “He” was a rich stud. Really well-endowed, perhaps ten inches in length and far too thick for her fingers to encircle. At least that’s what she’d always said, adding that it was difficult to tell for sure despite the torrent of pictures she continued to receive from her number one follower.

Gorgeous, with the sculpted body of an Adonis, he owned a yacht, hence the sailing. Plus, a huge mansion and a sprawling ski chalet, where he’d also offered to drag and use her. Of course, the favorite fan was a humongous tipper and asked for the nastiest things, which, once Alberto had revealed his kinky side, let her become ever more creative.

The fun part? “He” was entirely fictional. Okay, in her mind, the horse dick belonged to a guy she’d once dated. Not that size mattered; her husband did just fine with what the good Lord had provided. “He” also kinda resembled one of the younger guys who ogled her when she sported something a little more daring to the office for the ever-rarer Friday after-work dinner dates with Alberto.

Alright, sometimes she wore skimpier clothing if the tips were decent the previous night or that craving for a bit more attention appeared. Show off a hint of lace and more thigh or cleavage. Ten years since her cheerleader days meant the grueling lunchtime workouts to maintain a svelte figure sucked harder every single damn day. So, the hard-won ogling made her smile.

Fictional or not, the imaginary man, her words, and the quick nip of his lower lip got Alberto to thrust deep. Each of his loud grunts as the dick pumped warmth ignited flames that pulled moans from her. Not long after, he crumpled sideways to land on his side. Despite her squeezing, the softening rod oozed from her with a quiet slurp. Its escape from the closing lips tickled, and she giggled.

He added a soft laugh.

The laughter died when his gaze lowered, and those talented fingers roamed her sweat-slick belly. For the longest time, he caressed her in silence, until one digit slipped inside. Though gentle, the swirl against sizzling walls made her moan, and she clamped his wrist. He stared at her as the finger reappeared despite her grip.

“A niño. A boy, I think, mi amor,” he muttered, inspecting the pearlescence on his digit.

“Maybe.” Although she tried to restrain a sigh, it escaped.

“Still angry, cariño?”

“No, babe,” she lied.

Of course, the anger remained, and the frustration, plus a giant heap of disappointment. Alberto had possessed the best job, working for the county. Landscape director for several locations. His boss had aggravated him. The commute, a bus then a train, was also too long. He’d been forced to wear a uniform.

“It’s not so bad,” he said before falling backward onto his spine.

No, he wasn’t talking about the county position. He was referring to his latest occupation. The one he worked after quitting and losing the amazing medical insurance that might’ve helped. Her womb was just fine, but his little swimmers ... weren’t so good. IVF was expensive, hence the extra employment teasing faceless followers, and them living in the cracker box, plus...

“It is ... bad. No, it’s shit,” she grumbled, pulling his hand from her stomach. “You’re in front of that store at the crack of dawn. Work all damn day ... if you get a gig. Oh, and La Migra, babe. ICE is hunting—”

“Ai, corazón. You worry too much. I have a green card—”

His fingers returned, but she swatted them away and rolled to her side, facing him. Although the hand shifted direction, heading for her boobs, she again blocked it while furrowing her brow.

“They don’t care!” she growled. “You’ll get swept up, and maybe they figure that out a day or two later. Perhaps it’s a week. And then—”

“Don’t be scared.”

“How can I not be scared?” She sought to stop the next words, but they flew from her lips, “You’re such a goddamn idiota sometimes, Alberto. I want a family!”

His eyes widened.

Though not meaning to cry, tears flowed down her cheeks, and it became difficult to breathe amid chest-wracking sobs. That night sucked; him, curled on his side of the small bed, and her in an even tighter ball, back to him, hugging her ribs to slow the wailing. No matter how tight she clutched, it didn’t work. Only exhaustion succeeded, dragging her into a dreamless slumber.