Her back hits the mattress seconds later when I press her down and follow her onto the bed. The room fills with the sound of her laughter turning breathless as my hands slide beneath the thin cotton of my shirt hanging off her body.
“You’re supposed to be the scary biker president now,” she murmurs against my mouth. “Not a maniac.”
“I’m not president yet.”
“You will be.”
Her fingers tangle in my hair as she tugs me back down to her, her voice dropping lower.
“Then you definitely need this.”
The heat between us ignites instantly as she undoes my jeans. Her breath breaks against my neck when I drag my mouth down the curve of her breast.
“Diablo…”
The way she says my name is half warning, half surrender.
My hand slides along her thigh, pushing her panties aside. With no warmup, I shove my cock inside her until she inhales sharply.
“Careful,” she whispers.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
I laugh against her skin.
“Too late.”
She arches beneath my hands, tugging me closer, her voice dropping into a soft breathless murmur.
“Then stop talking.”
I do.
The room fills with the familiar sounds of us in tangled sheets while Miami hums outside the window like the city itself is holding its breath.
She laughs softly against my mouth.
“You’re going to break the bed.”
“Worth it.”
“Idiot.”
She jerks me down into another kiss and murmurs something filthy in Spanish that makes me grin against her lips.
The night blurs into sex, the way our bodies fit together like we’ve been learning each other for years.
Because we have.
Eventually the storm settles.
Spreading dark curls across my chest afterward, her head rests just beneath my collarbone while her fingers trace slow lazy circles against my ribs.
“You’re going to be okay,” she murmurs sleepily.
The quiet faith in her voice twists something sharp inside me.
