No Mexican sun was ever hotter than the two lovers had been in the throes of their adulterous passion.
"Mi Dios!" Yolanda would cry, wrapping her legs over his back. "Madre del Dios!" she'd holler into his ear, her arms straining, her hands firmly clamped on his rear as Carlos pumped and doing her best to suck him in up to the depth of her heart.
Joe felt the knife with every slap of his feet on the road. Remembered standing there and pain urging its way into the numbness that had followed the strikes of the blade.
He'd stumbled back a step, another; looked at Cheri with disbelief even as pain from twenty holes in his body hit his nerves all at once.
He dropped to his knees, his belt fell from his right hand to the dust. He reached out as if seeking an answer. Cheri laughed and let the knife slip from her fingers, turned and walked into the sun.
"Mierda santa!" Carlos would gasp when finally he'd come and she would release her grip on his body, her legs sliding down to the rumpled sweat-wetted sheets of the bed.