His belt buckle clicks.
I stare, pulse hammering.
“Diablo,” I whisper, half warning, half wrecked.
He unfastens his jeans, slow, eyes never leaving mine.
“You said don’t stop,” he murmurs.
I swallow. My body is still throbbing.
And my pride is still bleeding.
“I’m not your—” I start.
He steps in close and grips my jaw, not hurting, just forcing me to look at him.
“You’re not my secret,” he declares, his voice low. “You’re not her trophy. You’re not Rico’s punching bag.”
His thumb drags across my bottom lip.
“You’re mine, mi cariño,” he says. “And I’m done pretending I can live without you.”
He pushes my jeans down farther, my panties, until they're gone, and hooks my ankles, pulling me toward the edge of the desk. The movement is rough enough to make me gasp, but careful enough that it doesn’t hurt.
His hand slides up my thigh again.
He looks down, then back up at me.
“Tell me to stop,” he says one last time, voice edged like a blade. “Right now.”
My throat works.
I should.
I don’t.
I whisper, “Don’t.”
His eyes go darker.
He grips himself, lines up, then pushes in with one smooth, relentless thrust that steals every thought out of my head.
I cry out.
My hands fly to the back of his neck, nails digging in.
He pauses, breathing hard, forehead nearly touching mine.
“Too much?” he asks, rough.
I shake my head, teeth clenched.
“No.”
“Say it.”
I swallow. “No.”
