My pulse kicks harder.
“But you’re the man I want,” I whisper.
Something in his expression cracks.
His control slips just enough that I see the storm underneath.
“You don’t get to say shit like that unless you mean it,” he warns.
“I mean it.”
The words come out steadier than I feel.
Diablo’s hand slides into my hair, grip firm but not painful, like he is anchoring himself. “Cariño,” he breathes, and that one word feels like a chain and a kiss at the same time.
He leans in and finally kisses me.
Hard.
This is hunger.
His mouth crashes into mine like he has been starving since I left, and he is done pretending he can live on air. I make asound into his mouth that embarrasses me, and he answers with a low growl that goes straight through my ribs.
His other hand grips my waist and pulls me across the seat until I am in his lap, thighs settling around him like my body remembers exactly where it fits. Leather creaks under my fingers as I grasp his cut and haul him closer.
Outside, a car passes. Bass thumps. Miami keeps being Miami.
Inside, the air turns electric.
Diablo’s mouth moves to my jaw, then my throat, kissing carefully around the bruised places, avoiding pain like he is mapping it, memorizing it. His teeth scrape lightly at the skin just below my ear and my whole body tightens.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against my neck.
I swallow, proud and shaking. “You. Inside me, papi.”
That name breaks something in him. His hands slide under my shirt, warm and rough, palms spanning my ribs. He pauses when his fingers brush a sore spot, eyes flicking up to check me.
“You okay?”
I nod, breath stuttering. “Don’t stop.”
That dark smile appears. “Careful what you ask for.”
He pulls my shirt up, just enough to get his mouth on my skin, and the first hot, slow kiss to my breasts makes me jerk. He holds me tighter, steadying me, like he is not going to let me fall apart alone.
My fingers dive into his hair. “Diablo.”
He kisses me again, deeper, rougher, tongue sliding against mine with a kind of control that is barely hanging on.His hand moves between us, and the way he touches me is not rushed, not sloppy. It is deliberate. Like he is taking back time.
I gasp into his mouth. My hips shift, seeking friction, and he makes a sound like it hurts to hold himself back.
“You sure you’re not too hurt?” he asks, voice tight.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes. Don’t you dare make me say it twice.”
His eyes go darker.
He turns his head just enough to glance forward. My gaze follows his. Vice is outside, posture rigid, respectful, his back turned like the city is the only thing that exists.
