He shifts us without effort, guiding me back until my spine meets the wall. The movement is smooth. He doesn’t pin me—doesn’t need to because I sure as hell am not going anywhere.
His hands move over me—confident, unhurried—sliding from my waist up my sides, thumbs dragging over bare skin beneath the mesh. The contact is deliberate as if he’s mapping me out by touch alone. My breath stutters when his fingers hook into the hem of my top.
“Off,” he murmurs.
I drop my jacket to the ground and lift my arms without thinking, letting him tug the mesh up and over my head. The air feels cooler instantly, my skin buzzing where he’s already been. He drops it somewhere behind us without looking, attention fixed entirely on me now.
His gaze sweeps over my chest, slow and assessing. The heat in his eyes makes my dick start to harden inside my pants, and I am regretting the choice of the skin tight material all over again. He runs his hands over my pecks, circling my nipples with his pointer finger and pad of his thumb until they are hard and ready for more attention.
“Jesus,” I mutter, more to myself than him as he drops his head to them and sucks one into his mouth, his teeth scraping over it.
One corner of his mouth tilts against me, but he doesn’t linger long before doing the same to the other. His hands slide back down my body, thumbs brushing my ribs before settling at my hips. He squeezes once, then dips lower, fingers skimming the waistband of my jeans.
He leans away, his eyes following the same trail. “These are…” he pauses, tugging lightly at the button, “...criminal.”
I grin, breathless. “They’re painted on for a reason.”
“Mmm.” His fingers ease the button free just enough to give me a little room to breathe. The pressure eases as the zipper lowers. “Constricting, I’m sure. Let me help you with that.”
The zipper lowering feels like relief and promise all at once, the slightest mercy that only makes me more aware of how wound tight I already am. His hands linger there for a beat, not moving lower.
It’s maddening.
He straightens slowly, eyes dark, assessing, as though he’s taking inventory of the effect he’s having on me and filing it away. His thumb hooks briefly at my waistband again, a quiet reminder that he’s in control of the pace, the direction, the next move.
I shift, restless, breath shallow, every nerve lit up and waiting.
Reaching out, I tug at the hem of his shirt. “Your turn.”
He lifts an eyebrow—pure skepticism, faint amusement—but he complies anyway. No rush. Just a deliberate reach for the fabric, pulling it up and over his head like this is exactly what he planned to do all along.
I don’t hide my appreciation. Why would I? My gaze tracks the lines of him openly—broad shoulders, solid chest, the kind of body that looks earned and worked for. Control made physical. With ink on almost every inch. I want to lick it.
He catches me looking and steps closer, crowding my space again, reclaiming it without a word. One hand settlesat my hip, anchoring me, while the other braces against the wall beside my head.
“Happy?” he asks quietly.
I grin, breathless and unapologetic. “Getting there. I’d be happy with less clothing between us.”
“Are you always in a hurry?” he murmurs the question against my throat.
He mouths a line down to my collarbone, and a shiver racks my whole body. His hand slides from my hip to my jaw, fingers curling just enough to tilt my face up, forcing my attention to his whiskey eyes as he straightens. The movement is slow, deliberate, and designed to make me aware of him completely. As if I’m not hyperaware of every inch of him already.
“I decide the pace,hermoso,” he continues. “That work for you?”
Heat coils low in my stomach. I nod once, because words feel unnecessary and maybe a little dangerous right now. I might start begging or something.
“Good,” he says.
He doesn’t kiss me again, he lets the moment stretch, his thumb brushing my lower lip, dipping into my mouth and allowing me to suck the tip. He inhales, watching my mouth curve around his finger. I moan and nip at the pad of his thumb before swiping my tongue over the taste of him.
The wordgoodstill hangs between us when he pulls his hand away, leaving my mouth empty and my pulse racing.
He watches me swallow, like he’s cataloguing the restraint it takes not to chase his touch again. His expression doesn’t soften, but there’s satisfaction there. Approval.
“Such a good boy,” he murmurs, voice low and even. “You listen so well. Maybe you aren’t aproblemaafter all.”
“Oh, I am trouble,” I tell him, chin lifting in challenge despite the way my body wants to fold right into him.
