Page 166 of Offside Angle

I laugh, breathless, and let him pull me along.

We barely make it through the villa door. The second it shuts behind us Santi has me pinned against it, mouth on mine, hands already shoving at my swimsuit. I kiss him back just as hard, digging my fingers into his waist as I push him toward the living room. We knock into a side table. Something hits the floor. Neither of us cares.

I get my hands in his hair and pull just hard enough to make him groan, then bite at his lower lip. “Stop being gentle,” I tell him between kisses. “I’m not going to break.”

Santi pulls back just enough to look at me. There’s still that flicker of instinct in him — the one that wants to slow down, to make sure — but I don’t give him the chance to overthink it.

I shove him backward toward the couch and follow, climbing into his lap the second he sits down. My hands frame his face as I kiss him deeper, rolling my hips down against him with clear intent.

“I mean it,” I mutter against his mouth. “I want you. Not the careful version. The real one.”

Santi’s hands tighten hard on my waist. For a second he just looks at me, breathing unevenly. Then something in his expression shifts and the careful edge finally drops away.

“Alright,” he says. “You asked for it.”

His hands tighten hard on my hips and he stands, lifting me with him. My back hits the wall a second later, harder than before, and his mouth crashes back into mine. I groan into the kiss and wrap my legs around his waist, already hard and aching against him.

“This what you wanted?” he asks against my mouth as he grinds up into me.

“Yes— fuck— yes—”

He bites down on my lower lip hard enough to sting, then drags his mouth down my throat, sucking marks into the skin without any of the earlier gentleness. One hand stays under my thigh, holding me up; the other shoves between us to get my swimsuit the rest of the way down. I help as much as I can, kicking the fabric away the second it’s loose enough.

When his fingers wrap around me, the stroke is firm and purposeful. I drop my head back against the wall with a broken sound. “Santi—”

“I’ve got you,” he mutters, but there’s nothing soft about the way he says it. He adjusts his grip on me and carries me the short distance to the bedroom, dropping me onto the mattress hard enough that I bounce once. Before I can catch my breath he’s over me again, yanking his own swimsuit down and kicking it aside.

The look on his face is pure heat.

He grabs my thighs and hauls me closer to the edge of the bed, and the sound I make when he finally pushes into me is loud and shameless. There’s still enough prep from earlier rounds these past days that it doesn’t hurt — just that perfect, overwhelming stretch that makes my back arch off the sheets.

He sets a hard, deep rhythm right away, one hand braced beside my head, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. Every thrust punches a sound out of me. I reach up and dig my fingers into his shoulders, holding on as he finally, finally stops holding himself back.

“Fuck— just like that—” I gasp. “Don’t stop—”

Santi leans down and bites at my jaw, hips never slowing. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Harder,” I demand, digging my heels into the back of his thighs. “Come on— I know you can—”

Santi’s eyes flash. He snaps his hips forward harder, exactly like I asked, and the sound that leaves me is filthy. That only seems to spur him on. His grip on my hip tightens and he drives into me deeper, the rhythm turning rough and relentless. “You’re getting mouthy,” he mutters against my throat.

“Then shut me up,” I shoot back, grinning even as another moan punches out of me.

I shove at his shoulder and manage to roll us, ending up on top. For half a second I have the upper hand — hands braced on his chest, riding him hard — and the look on Santi’s face is pure heat mixed with challenge. I lean down close.

“See?” I pant. “I can be in charge too.”

Santi’s laugh is low and dangerous. “Is that right?”

Before I can answer he surges up, flips us again and pins my wrists above my head in one hand. The next thrust is so deep my vision whites out for a second.

“Still feel in charge?” he asks, amused right against my ear.

“Fuck— you—”

“Language,” he teases, even as he fucks me harder. Then he switches, the words coming low and filthy in Spanish against my skin — telling me how good I feel, how tight I am, how much he loves when I fight him for control just so he can take it back.

I curse in Spanish right back at him, half laughing, half moaning, and try to twist my wrists free just to feel him tighten his grip. The playful struggle only makes everything hotter. Every time I push, he pushes back harder. Every time I demand more, he gives it to me without hesitation.