I think about his thigh between my legs. The way I moved against him without meaning to, chasing friction, chasing relief. Did he feel how wet I was? Did he feel me dripping through my thong onto his jeans?
God, I hope he didn't.
God, I hope hedid.
I fuck myself with my fingers, imagining they're his—thicker, rougher, calloused from whatever violence made him who he is. I imagine him not stopping after the spanking. Imagine him flipping me over on his lap, spreading my legs, pushing my thong aside andseeingwhat he did to me.
Look how wet you are,he'd say in that low, rough voice.You liked that, didn't you? Dirty girl. Getting off on being punished.
I'd deny it. I'd squirm and protest and tell him to stop.
And he wouldn't.
He'd push his fingers inside me just like this. Two, then three, stretching me open and he'd make me admit it. Make me say it out loud.Yes, I liked it. Yes, I'm wet for you. Yes, I want more.
I rub my clit in frantic circles, back arching off the bed, ass still burning where he spanked me. The pain mixes with the pleasure until I can't tell them apart, until my whole body is on fire, until I'm right there on the edge.
"Come for me, mija."
I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me so hard I have to bite down on my pillow to muffle the scream. My pussy clenches around my fingers, pulsing, greedy, wanting something thicker, wantinghim. I keep rubbing, keep fucking myself through it, riding the wave until I'm shaking and gasping and tears are leaking from the corners of my eyes.
When it's over, I lie there in the wreckage of myself, hand still between my legs, ass still throbbing, heart pounding so loud he can probably hear it through the wall.
Cesar.
I just came harder than I ever have in my life, thinking about the man who spanked me like a disobedient child.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
4
Cesar
Ispanked a client's daughter last night.
I've been repeating this to myself for twelve hours, trying to make it sound as bad as it should. Trying to summon up the guilt, the regret, the professional horror that should be consuming me.
Instead, I keep thinking about the sounds she made.
The gasp when my hand first connected. The way it shifted into something else as I kept going—not just pain, something deeper. The whimper when I pulled her shorts back up, fabric dragging over sensitized skin. And underneath all of it, the thing I'm trying hardest not to think about: how wet she was. How I could feel the heat of her through my jeans, pressed right against my thigh. How she squirmed like she couldn't help herself, grinding against me while I reddened her perfect ass.
Mija.
I called hermija. Like she was mine. Like I had any right.
I need to get my head straight. I need to remember why I'm here—Sterling's connections, legitimate contracts, a future that doesn't involve pretending I don't see things. One job. Keep the girl alive. Don't fuck her. Don't spank her. Don't think about the sounds she makes when she's trying not to moan.
Too late for one of those.
I'm in the kitchen making breakfast when my phone buzzes. Rosa. I almost don't answer because she'll know something's wrong the second she hears my voice, but ignoring my sister is worse than lying to her.
"Hola, hermana."
"Don'thermaname. You missed our call on Sunday."
Shit. I forgot. I was too busy watching Diamond Sterling parade around in silk robes, pretending I wasn't affected.
