It’s not an accusation. It’s not envy. Just fact.
“Still am,” I answer, softer than I mean to.
She turns, catches a different frame, and her mouth curves. “Oh my god.”
I groan before she even points. “Don’t.”
She holds it closer. “Please tell me you didn’t cut your own hair.”
“I was very handsome,” I say, dead serious.
She laughs, full and bright. “You look like a mushroom.”
“It was very stylish.”
She steps into me, still smiling, still holding the picture between us. “Liar.”
I take the frame from her, set it aside, and back her up until her shoulders hit my bedroom door. Her smile fadesinto something darker when I kiss her. Slow at first. Teasing. I want her to feel how badly I want this without rushing it.
The door shuts behind her.
Something about it feels dangerous in the best way. Like being young. Like doing something you’re not supposed to.
My hand slides into her hair, tilting her head back as my mouth claims hers again. She kisses me like she’s been waiting, like the teasing already lit her up.
“You like being in my room?” I murmur against her mouth.
Her breath hitches. “Feels… illicit.”
“Good.”
I walk her backward until the backs of her knees hit the bed and she falls onto it with a soft gasp. I follow her down, kiss a path along her throat, her collarbone, lower. My hands slide under her skirt, thumbs hooking into lace.
“Already wet,” I say quietly. “You thinking about me doing this all night?”
She bites her lip, nods.
I peel her panties down slow, deliberately, letting my knuckles brush her skin just to make her squirm. When I finally sink between her thighs, she arches up, already needy.
My mouth takes her apart. Tongue slow, then ruthless. I want her breathing broken, hands tangled in my hair, hips lifting helplessly as I keep her right on the edge and then shove her over it.
“Fuck,” she whispers. “Alejandro?—”
I don’t stop until she comes hard, trembling, breathless, wrecked.
She’s barely caught her breath before she’s pushing me back, crawling up my body with that look—starving, cocky,a little dangerous. She straddles my hips, palms flat on my chest.
I’m still wearing too much. She yanks my shirt up, nails dragging over my abs, smirking when I tense for her. “Still dressed?” she teases. “That’s not very accommodating.”
I grab her wrist, roll my hips up against her ass. “Take what you want, mi vida. We both know you love my cock.”
She peels my shirt off, impatient, biting her lip when she sees the mess of old scars, the cut lines of muscle. She pushes me back, eyes raking over me like she’s memorizing the view for later.
She goes for my belt next—fingers clumsy, desperate—finally frees me, and her hand closes around my dick. She hesitates, mouth parted, pupils blown wide. “Jesus. So fucking big?”
She sinks down, and I have to grit my teeth, grip her hips to keep from slamming up into her like an animal. She gasps, a strangled sound that’s all satisfaction and disbelief. I slide my hand up her side. Thumb gently caressing over the pink scar of her katana injury, still tender sometimes.
“Fuck,” she whimpers, eyes fluttering shut, head thrown back.
