If anything, it makes him still.
That pause is deliberate. Calculated. Like he’s deciding exactly how much leash to give me.
I smile into the kiss, slow and smug, letting my teeth drag over his lower lip just enough to be irritating. Just enough to poke the bear. My hands release his shirt and slide up his chest, light, teasing—nothing like the way he’s holding me.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I murmur, breathless and very aware of how close his mouth still is to mine.
Bad idea? Fuck yes.
His jaw tightens. His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers firm, unforgiving, as they thread into the hair there, tipping my head back exactly where he wants it.
“Careful,hermoso,” he says quietly. “I might not be a serial killer, but I have control tonight.”
I swallow. Heat curls low in my stomach, sharp and immediate. God, I love that tone—the one that says he’s absolutely in control and doesn’t need to prove it. And I am definitely filing away that word he keeps calling me for later.
My hands tighten in his shirt anyway, because apparently I don’t learn. “Sounds like a challenge,” I say lightly, even as my pulse trips over itself.
His grip doesn’t change. Doesn’t loosen. If anything, his fingers flex once at the back of my neck, a quiet reminder of exactly where I am.
“Not a challenge,” he says calmly. “An observation.”
His mouth brushes mine again, not kissing—hovering. Close enough that I can feel his breath, smell the whiskey still lingering on him. It makes my knees weak in a way I absolutely refuse to unpack.
“You want to be a brat,” he continues, voice low and even. “That’s fine.”
Then his thumb presses under my jaw, lifting my chin just a fraction higher. Forcing my attention exactly where he wants it.
“But don’t confuse that with you being in charge.”
My breath comes out shaky. Traitorous.
I smile anyway, because of course I do. “And here I thought you liked that I’m trouble.”
His mouth tilts into something dark and satisfied.
“Oh, I do,” he says. “I just like it better whenproblemalistens.”
“Did you just call me a problem?”
He chuckles, and my dick hardens even more. “Problema means trouble.”
I want to ask whathermosomeans, but I bite my tongue.
Something in my chest flips—hard—and I immediately squash it. Damn, how many times do I have to do that? No feelings. No reading into tone or intent. This is still just heat and chemistry and the way his hands make it very clear what he expects.
He kisses me again, slower this time, deliberate, like he’s proving a point.
There’s no rush in it. No desperation. Only pure control—his mouth moving against mine with purpose, his grip steady at the back of my neck, keeping me exactly where he wants me. I melt into it without meaning to, my bravado slipping the second he takes his time.
He breaks the kiss just enough to speak, forehead resting against mine. “You like to test limits,” he says quietly, and I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement.
I breathe out a laugh that’s more of a shudder. “I like to know where they are.”
His thumb strokes once, slow, at the base of my neck. A reward or a warning—I’m not sure which. “And once you find them?”
I tilt my head, brushing my mouth against his jaw. “Depends who’s holding them.”
That earns me a low sound from his chest. Approval, maybe. Or something close to it.
