“What would you use this for?” he asks, holding something up.
“That’s a spatula.”
He tosses it to me, and I catch it easily.
“And what would the great Saint James do with a spatula?” he asks.
I twirl it between my fingers like a baton. “I don’t know,” I say thoughtfully. “Take over the mafia? What the fuck do you want me to say?”
I swat at him with it. He tries to dodge, but I still get him.
“Teach loud men a lesson,” I add.
He laughs, digging back into the bag. “This?” he asks, lifting a rosary strung with black and red beads. There’s a gleam in his eye now, trouble sharpening into something darker.
“Easy,” I say. “Strangle you with it.”
He laughs again and twirls it in a circle around his finger. “I was thinking some very naughty things in a confessional booth myself.”
He shifts lower in his seat, legs spread, one dark eyebrow lifting. His posture is an invitation dressed up as arrogance.
“You’re doing it again,” I tell him.
He grins, all heat. “Doing what?”
I finish my wine, set the glass aside, and stand. I don’t rush it. I step into his space, swing one leg over him, settlingastride his lap like it’s exactly where I belong. One hand braces on my thigh and slides up my hip. He drains the last swallow of his own wine before setting the glass on the floor.
Now both his hands are on my thighs, warm, possessive.
He looks up at me like he thinks he’s won. But he was already half hard when I sat down.
“You think,” I say softly, leaning in just enough to make it dangerous, “that you can keep me distracted with how well you fuck.”
His hands tighten, my hips roll once, slow and deliberate pulling a groan from him.
“But you underestimate my ability to resist you.”
He smiles like that’s a challenge.
His hands move, teasing, coaxing, trying to pull a reaction out of me as my body betrays its interest. I let him think it’s working for exactly three seconds.
Then I tilt my head, smile sweetly, and turn it back on him.
“How long do you think you can last,” I ask quietly, “before you’re the one who gives in?”
I settle onto his lap, thighs caging him, weight pressed deliberately where I know it’ll drive him out of his mind. Alejandro’s mouth quirks, but his hands stay right where I want them—palms open on my thighs, like he’s learned not to test me when I’m in this mood.
“Planning to keep me here all night, Saint?” His voice is gravel, but there’s a thread of challenge beneath it—one I’m happy to answer.
I press in close, lips grazing his jaw, letting my breath feather over the stubble on his throat. “If you’re lucky.” My hands slip beneath his shirt, feeling the play of muscle and old scars. “But you don’t get to decide how this goes.”
His pupils blow wide. He’s used to being the one with the upper hand. Tonight, he’ll learn just how good it can feel to let it go.
My fingers drag down, nails raking lightly over his chest. He shudders, hips bucking once beneath me. I pin him with my thighs, stilling his movement. “Don’t rush. You’re going to be good for me tonight, aren’t you?”
He nods, almost involuntarily, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “Yes, Saint.” His voice is low—thick with the promise of obedience.
“Good.” I trail my hands down his torso, tracing the line of his abs, stopping just above his belt. I unfasten it, slow and methodical, enjoying the tension stringing tight between us. He’s watching me, every muscle straining for restraint, but his hands stay put.
