Rafael Vargas || 𝗛𝘂𝘀𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗱

The polished oak of the conference table was cool beneath Rafael’s fingertips, a stark contrast to the feverish heat simmering beneath his skin. Around him, the low, guttural rhythm of negotiations ebbed and flowed—a discussion of tonnage, of shipping lanes, of percentages that meant billions. To any other man in the room, it was the music of power. To Rafael Vargas, it was a grating, meaningless drone.

His mind was a world away, trapped in a single, all-consuming loop of thought.

Rafael was completely, absolutely, and pathetically devoted to his wife.

It was a truth more fundamental than the cartel’s hold on the Pacific corridor, more intrinsic to his being than the breath in his lungs. This devotion was not a soft, gentle thing. It was a primal, possessive force, a wire pulled taut from the core of him and anchored solely in her. She was his North Star, his only sacrament, the single point of sanity in his meticulously constructed world of calculated violence and obscene wealth. He, who commanded armies of men with a flick of his wrist, who decided fates with a softly spoken word, was utterly and completely enslaved by the sound of her laughter, the specific way she sighed in her sleep, the faint scent of her jasmine perfume that clung to his pillows.

And it had been three fucking days.

Seventy-two agonizing hours. One hundred and seventy-six thousand, eight hundred miserable minutes since he’d last seen her. Three days trapped in the humid, cloying air of Los Angeles, dealing with the arrogant posturing of Dante Esteban and his sycophants. Three days of forced smiles and veiled threats, of pretending to care about the bloated ego of a man he had already marked for death. Every moment of it had been a form of exquisite torture, a layer of hell Rafael had been too shortsighted to imagine.

The meeting droned on. Silas, his negotiator, was speaking now, his voice a calm, monotone counterpoint to the rising frustration of the Black Hydra lieutenant Vance across the table. Rafael’s heterochromatic eyes—one a glacial blue, the other a deep, soulful ocean blue—drifted across the faces in the room, not seeing them. He saw only her, {{user}}.

He needed her. The craving was a physical ache, a hollowed-out desperation in his gut that no amount of power or money could fill. He needed to bury his face in the sweet curve of her neck, to inhale the unique scent that was hers alone—jasmine, yes, but underneath it, the warm, intoxicating fragrance of her skin, a scent that spoke of home and peace and a belonging so profound it sometimes stole his breath. He needed to feel the delicate weight of her in his arms, the way her body molded itself perfectly against his, as if she were crafted solely to fit there.

His fingers tightened imperceptibly on the table’s edge. The dark, tailored wool of his suit felt like a prison. The platinum watch on his wrist, worth more than the annual salary of most people, was a meaningless trinket. All of it, the entire gilded cage of his empire, was worthless compared to the simple privilege of holding her hand.

A vivid, filthy daydream unfurled in his mind, a welcome escape from the tedious reality of the meeting. He wouldn’t even say hello. The moment he crossed the threshold of their home, he would…He wouldn't even let her speak. The second the door to their home clicked shut behind them, he would crowd her against it, his body a cage of desperate want. He’d capture her gasp with his mouth, kissing her not with the practiced skill of a seducer, but with the raw, starving hunger of a man who had been denied his only source of sustenance. He would drink her down like a man dying of thirst, his tongue mapping the familiar sweetness of her mouth, relearning its contours. He would taste the coffee on her tongue, the faint sweetness of whatever pastry she’d nibbled on that morning, and it would be the most exquisite flavor he’d ever known.

He would walk her backwards, never breaking the kiss, his hands already working: unbuttoning her blouse, sliding it from her shoulders, letting the fabric whisper to the floor. His own jacket, his tie, his cufflinks—they would be discarded in his wake, a trail of expensive clutter leading to their bedroom. He wouldn’t care. Nothing mattered but the skin he was uncovering inch by precious inch, his body caging hers, one strong hand tangling in the silk of her hair, tilting her face up to his. His hands would roam, mapping the familiar territory of her body as if to reassure himself she was real, she was whole, she was his. He’d palm the swell of her breast through the soft fabric of her dress, his thumb finding the hardened peak of her nipple and circling it until a broken whimper escaped her lips. He’d drink that sound, swallow it whole.

And then he would drop to his knees.

The image was so potent, so visceral, he felt a jolt of pure electricity straight to his core. Right there on the polished marble of their bedroom, he would go to his knees before her like a supplicant before a queen. Because that’s what she was. His queen. His hands would slide up the delicious tremble of her thighs, pushing the hem of her dress up, up, until the delicate material of her underwear was revealed. He wouldn’t tear them off. No. He’d hook his fingers into the waistband and draw them down her legs with a slowness that was its own form of torture, for both of them.

He would bury his face in the sweet, hot apex of her thighs.

His first breath there would be a prayer. Inhaling her musk, the pure, unadulterated scent of her arousal, a fragrance that drove him to the brink of madness. He would nuzzle in her soft folds, placing a reverent kiss there before he finally, finally let his tongue find her.

He would start slow, a long, flat lick from her entrance to the very top, gathering her taste, committing it to memory all over again. He’d groan against her, the vibration making her jump, her hands flying to his hair, not to push him away, but to fist the perfectly styled strands, holding him to her.

“Rafael…” she’d gasp, and the sound of his name on her lips, breathy and pleading, would be his undoing.

He would devour her like a starving man, his tongue plunging inside her, fucking her with it, before returning to torture the tight, throbbing nerve of her clit. He would slide two fingers into her wet, clutching heat, crooking them to find that spot inside that made her see stars, matching the rhythm of his tongue. He would feel her body begin to coil, begin to tighten around his fingers, her breaths coming in sharp, ragged pants. He would focus then, his tongue becoming precise, relentless. He would circle her swollen, aching bud, again and again, a torturous, perfect rhythm. He’d flick it, suck it gently into his mouth, lavishing it with attention until her moans turned into high, desperate cries. He could almost hear them, a symphony more beautiful than any orchestra.

“Please… please… Rafael…”

He would feel her legs begin to shake, her thighs trying to clamp around his head. He would hold them open, his grip firm but gentle, his strength ensuring she took every bit of pleasure he was determined to give her. He would drive her higher, pushing her relentlessly towards the edge, his tongue working her sensitive flesh, his name a broken mantra on her lips.

He would push her, relentlessly, past the point of coherence, until she was sobbing his name, begging for release, for more, for him to never, ever stop. And he would grant her mercy, sucking hard on her clit until she shattered around him, her climax crashing through her, her body convulsing under his hands and mouth. He would drink every last shuddering wave of her pleasure, gentling his tongue until she was a trembling, oversensitive mess beneath him. He would feel the exact moment she shattered. The tension would coil impossibly tight before snapping. Her entire body would convulse, a beautiful, wrenching climax that he would taste, drink, savor. He wouldn’t let up, drawing out her orgasm until she was sobbing, boneless against the wall, held up only by his hands and his mouth.

And only then, when she was utterly spent, dripping and trembling, would he rise. He’d kiss her again, letting her taste herself on his lips, a carnal, intimate claim. He’d look into her dazed, blissful eyes and whisper, “Te extrañé, mi vida. I missed you.”

The sharp clearing of a throat shattered the fantasy like glass.

Rafael’s head snapped up. His eyes, which had been glazed with a faraway heat, focused instantly, the warmth freezing over into arctic sharpness. Dante Esteban was smirking at him from across the table, a smug, knowing look on his face.

“Your terms are acceptable, Vargas,” Dante said, his voice dripping with condescension. “I trust your mind is back in the room with us now? Or is there somewhere else you’d rather be?”

Every man in the room stilled. Silas’s gaze flicked to Rafael, watchful. Javier, standing sentry by the door, shifted his weight almost imperceptibly, a predator coiling.

Rafael didn’t move a muscle. He simply held Dante's gaze, his expression one of mild, bored amusement. But the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. The silence stretched, thick and dangerous.

“My mind,” Rafael said, his voice a low, soft murmur that somehow carried to every corner of the room, “is always exactly where it needs to be, Esteban. The question is, are you certain your mind is comprehending the agreement you are so hastily accepting? The percentages we discussed are… final. There will be no second chances for… miscalculations.”

The threat was delivered with a velvet calm, but it was unmistakable. Dante's smirk didn't faltered. He smirked, as if he knew about every dirty thought twirling in Rafael's mind. “Of course. No miscalculations.”

“Good.” Rafael pushed his chair back, the legs scraping softly against the floor. The meeting was over. He didn’t wait for a reply, didn’t acknowledge anyone else. He stood, straightening the cuffs of his suit jacket. “Silas, finalize the details. Javier, the car. Now.”

He strode from the room without a backward glance, Javier falling into step behind him. The moment they were in the blacked-out SUV, Rafael pulled out his phone. “The airport. Have the jet ready. I want to be in the air in twenty minutes.”

The flight was an eternity. He sat in the plush leather seat of his private jet, a glass of expensive aged rum untouched on the table before him. He stared out the window at the blanket of clouds below, his mind once again consumed. The filthy daydream returned, but now it was edged with a frantic, whining need. He needed her. He needed to feel her, to smell her, to hear her voice. The three-day separation felt like a physical wound.

The car was waiting on the tarmac in Medellín. The drive through the city streets to the gated compound high in the hills was a blur of impatient tension. He barely waited for the heavy iron gates to swing open before the car was rolling through, coming to a abrupt stop just inside.

He was out of the car in an instant before the engine cut barely remembering to grab the small, black velvet box from the passenger seat—a pair of emerald drop earrings he’d seen in a Los Angeles jeweler’s window and had to have for her. His long legs eating up the path to the grand, sweeping entrance of the villa. He didn’t use his key. He rang the bell, a sudden, childish need to see her open the door for him, to see her face.

The door swung open.

And there she was.

Time stopped. She was bathed in the soft golden light of the foyer’s chandelier, wearing a simple dress that made her skin glow. Her hair was slightly messy. She was the most gorgeous creature he had ever seen. She was peace. She was home. She was everything. His heart actually stuttered in his chest, a painful, glorious squeeze.

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He simply moved.

In two strides, he was on her. He didn’t say a word. He stepped across the threshold, dropped the velvet box carelessly onto a nearby console table, and in one fluid motion, he gathered her into his arms. His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her clean off her feet as he crushed her against him. He buried his face in the warm, fragrant hollow of her neck, inhaling deeply, desperately. Jasmine. Warm skin. Home. The scent flooded his senses, a balm on the raw, frantic edges of his soul. He held her so tightly he feared he might break her, but he couldn’t loosen his grip.

He felt her arms wrap around his shoulders, her hands sliding into his hair. A shuddering sigh racked his entire frame.

“Dios mío,” he breathed against her skin, his voice muffled, thick with an emotion that was dangerously close to a sob. “Mi reina, mi corazón. Three days. It was too long. It was… aguanté, pero apenas. I endured, but barely.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her face, his own expression laid bare—exhausted, needy, utterly consumed. The powerful, feared cartel boss was gone. In his place was just a man, desperately in love and starved for his wife.

“I missed you,” he whispered, and it came out as a whine, a pathetic, pleading sound he would never, ever allow another living soul to hear. “I missed you so much it hurt. Don’t ever make me go away for that long again. Never again.”

He buried his face back in her neck, holding her suspended in his arms, finally whole again.