He starts moving, slow at first, deep and controlled, like he’s forcing himself to stay steady even though the way my body keeps grabbing for him is breaking his restraint.
The desk creaks.
The stained-glass saint in the window trembles faintly every time the bass hits outside.
Diablo’s mouth finds mine again, kisses turning messy, hungry, the sound of him swallowing my breaths.
I wrap my legs around his waist and drag him closer like I’m done pretending I don’t want him.
He makes a low sound, then grips my ass and drives deeper.
“Fuck,” he mutters against my mouth. “That’s it. That’s mi cariño.”
The words hit something in me that is both fury and comfort.
I pull back just enough to glare at him, breathless.
“I’m not—”
He thrusts again, harder, and the sentence breaks apart.
I hate him.
I hate that my body loves him.
He watches my face like he’s feeding on it.
“Look at me,” he orders.
I do.
His eyes are wild. His jaw tight. His control cracking.
“You want to punish me?” he asks, voice thick. “Do it.”
I slap his chest, weak. I scratch his shoulders, not weak. I bite his lip when he leans in.
He groans like it’s what he wanted.
“Yes,” he breathes. “Like that.”
The friction builds fast. My body is already sensitive from his fingers, and every thrust hits deeper, harder, pushing me toward the edge again.
I grab his cut and yank him closer, desperate and furious.
His mouth drops to my ear.
“Carmen wanted you to run,” he growls. “She wanted you to doubt me.”
He drives in harder.
“She wants to own me.”
Another thrust.
“The way I own you.”
My whole body tightens.
