I woke to the feeling of being full. Deep stretch, slow and familiar, the kind of fullness that settled into my bones before my brain even caught up. Mateo's arm was hooked under my ribs, hand spread flat across my stomach, holding me flush against him. His cock was still hard inside me from whenever he'd slipped it back in during the night. I clenched around him, a lazy, possessive squeeze. His hips answered before he was fully awake—a slow grind that made my toes curl against the sheets.
"Morning, Princesa." His voice was gravel and sleep, lips pressed against the back of my neck.
"Morning, baby."
He thrust deeper, a soft, searching push that had me arching back into him. The sheets were tangled around our legs, cheap cotton and morning sweat and the smell of him—gasoline and soap and something darker underneath. I pushed back against him, taking him deeper, and his hand slid up from my stomach to cup my breast. His thumb found my nipple, rolled it slow, and I let out a breath that was half sigh, half moan.
"You feel that?" he murmured. "How your body knows mine now?"
"Yeah."
"I like waking up inside you."
"I like you waking up inside me."
We didn't rush. There was nowhere to go. The light came through the blinds in golden stripes, cutting across the rumpled sheets and his forearm where the ink started. I watched the dust motes float in the light while he moved inside me—slow, deep, a lazy Sunday rhythm that said he owned every inch of this moment. I let my eyes close and just felt it. The stretch. The heat. The way my body opened for him like it had been waiting all night.
He came with a low groan against my shoulder, his hand tightening on my breast, his hips pressing flush against my ass. I felt him pulse inside me, hot and full, and I squeezed around him until he was empty. We lay there for a long minute, breathing together, his cock softening inside me, neither of us willing to move first.
Finally, I rolled onto my back and looked up at him. His jaw was rough with stubble, his black hair tousled, his eyes still heavy-lidded and dark. "I'm hungry," I said.
He laughed, that slow, rare sound that made my stomach flip. "Give me ten minutes."
"Ten minutes to do what?"
"Recover." He slid out of me, and I felt the loss immediately—the emptiness, the slick trail down my thigh. "Then breakfast."
An hour later, I was elbow-deep in my suitcase, pulling out everything I'd brought from my old life. Thongs in every color. Lace bralettes that barely counted as fabric. Jean shorts so short they showed the curve of my ass. Cropped tops that ended just under my ribs. His dresser was half-empty, the top three drawers cleared out for me. My dresser now. I sorted my clothes into neat piles, savoring the way my colorful things looked against the dark wood.
Mateo came up behind me while I was folding a pair of black lace panties. His chest pressed against my back, his arms boxing me in on either side, palms flat on the dresser. "You've got a lot of little things," he said.
"I like little things."
"I noticed."
I grinned, leaned back against him. "You complaining?"
"Never." His lips found the curve of my shoulder. "I like being able to take them off fast."
I turned in his arms, my hands finding his chest, fingers playing with the edge of his silver cross. "You took them off pretty slow last night."
"Some things deserve to be savored."
His hands slid down my hips, over my ass, gripping hard enough to make me gasp. "Speaking of last night," he said, and something in his voice shifted. Got quieter. Got heavier. "My friend. The one who walked in."
I didn't look away. "I know which one."
"It got me hard, seeing you like that for him."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He pulled me tighter against his body. "Knowing he saw what's mine. Knowing he wanted it. Couldn't have it."
A shiver ran down my spine. I pressed closer, felt him already half-hard against my thigh. "What else did it make you feel?"
His eyes searched mine. "I want to see it again. On purpose."
My breath caught. "What do you mean?"
"I want to set it up. Tell someone to come over. Have you ready. Naked. Bent over. Spreading yourself open like you did. So all they can think about is you. All they can see is your pussy and your ass, and they know it's mine."
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. Between my thighs. The air in the room had gotten thick, charged, electric. "You want me to—"
"I want you to be my display, Princesa. My living art. Every time someone comes through that door, they see exactly what they can't have."
The word display should have made me feel small. Cheap. Instead it lit something in my chest, a hot, bright flare of power. They'd see me. Want me. And at the end of the night, I'd be in his bed. His arms. His. "Okay."
His jaw tightened. "Okay?"
"Yeah." I tilted my chin up, met his dark eyes. "But I want you to watch. Every time. I want to know you're seeing it too."
His mouth found mine, hard and claiming, his tongue sliding against mine until I couldn't breathe. His hand fisted in my hair, pulling my head back, and he kissed down my throat. "You're going to be the death of me," he said against my pulse.
"Good death?"
"The best kind."
The afternoon stretched long and lazy. We ate sandwiches on the couch, his feet in my lap, the TV playing something neither of us watched. I felt the anticipation building in my chest like a second heartbeat. Every time he looked at me, I saw the plan in his eyes. The calculation. The hunger.
Around four, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then at me. "I need to go grab food for tonight. You good here?"
"Always."
He stood, pulled me up with him, kissed me slow and deep. His hand slid down my back, over my ass, squeezed once. "Be ready when I get back. I'll text you before he comes."
"I will."
The door clicked shut behind him. I listened to his footsteps fade down the hall, heard his motorcycle cough to life in the street below, heard it growl away.
And then I was alone.
I didn't wait. I stripped where I stood—shorts, panties, the little top I'd thrown on. My skin felt electric, hypersensitive, every nerve awake. I walked to the bedroom and found his black bandana in the top drawer. Tied it around my eyes, tight enough to block out everything, loose enough that it didn't hurt.
Darkness. Just my breathing, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant traffic.
I walked to the front door, felt the cool wood against my knees as I lowered myself. My palms hit the floor. I pressed my forehead down too, arching my back, pushing my ass up high. Then I reached back, grabbed my cheeks, and pulled them apart. The air hit my skin, cool and intimate. I was completely open. Completely exposed. Completely his.
I found my rhythm. Slow breaths. The ache in my arms from holding the position. The slick heat building between my thighs. I let my mind drift, let my body settle into the pose like it was made for it.
Time stretched. Lost track of it.
Then—the key in the lock.
The sound was sharp in the silent apartment. My heart lurched. I smiled, put the lilt in my voice, made it light and teasing and happy. "Hey, Mateo. I'm ready for you."
The door swung open.
I waited for his laugh. His low voice. The sound of the door closing, his boots crossing the floor, his hands on my hips.
Instead: silence.
It wasn't his silence. Mateo's silence is heavy, possessive, full of intention. This one was tight. Breathless. A man who'd walked into a room and found something he hadn't expected.
I stayed in position. Held my cheeks apart. Let my breath come soft and even.
Behind me, the door clicked shut. The lock turned.
And the footsteps that crossed the floor were not the ones I knew.
I stayed frozen, my body still offered up, my fingers still gripping my ass cheeks. The darkness behind the bandana was absolute. The footsteps stopped somewhere behind me. I could feel him standing there, could hear his breathing—shallow, uneven, like he'd been running.
But he didn't touch me.
The silence stretched. My arms were starting to shake from holding the position. My pussy was slick and empty, aching to be filled. And he was just… standing there.
"Mateo?" My voice came out soft, uncertain. I let it tremble a little. "What's wrong? You okay?"
I heard him swallow. Then his voice—lowered, roughened, trying to match that familiar rumble. "Yeah, Princesa. Just—just looking at you."
The imitation was close. Not perfect. Someone who didn't know Mateo's voice the way I did might not notice the difference. The slight hesitation. The forced rasp.
But I knew. God, I knew.
And I kept playing my part. "You like what you see?" I let my hips sway, a slow taunting rock. "I've been waiting for you. So long. I was starting to think you forgot about me."
I felt him move. His boots scuffed the tile. His shadow fell over me. And then his hand—not Mateo's hand, too hesitant, the fingers too light—brushed the curve of my ass.
I held my breath. Let him take what he needed.
His fingertips traced the line where my ass cheek met my thigh. Featherlight. Almost reverent. Like he couldn't believe he was allowed to touch this. And then his palm flattened, pressing harder, sliding up the swell of my ass, squeezing.
I moaned. Soft. Encouraging. "That's it. Touch me. I need you so bad."
His hands found both cheeks. He kneaded them, spread them, his thumbs dragging through the wetness that had gathered between my thighs. I heard his breath catch when he felt how ready I was. How wet. How open.
"Fuck, Princesa," he said, the rough voice cracking. "You're so wet for me."
"Only for you, Mateo. Always only for you."
He didn't wait anymore. His hands moved up my sides, over my ribs, until they found my breasts. He cupped them from underneath, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and then he was pinching my nipples. Hard. Rolling them between his thumbs and forefingers like he was testing how much pressure I could take.
I gasped. Arched my back. Let him push my tits together, let him grope and squeeze like I was something to be devoured.
I felt his mouth on my spine. Hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses trailing down my vertebrae. His hands never stopped working my nipples, twisting, pulling, until they were stiff and aching and I was whimpering.
I pushed back against him, grinding my ass against the hard bulge in his jeans. He groaned—a low, desperate sound—and his hips jerked forward, pressing his cock against me through the denim.
"I need more," I whispered. "Fuck, Mateo, I need more."
His hands left my breasts, grabbing my hips, steering me forward. "Up. On the couch."
I crawled. My knees found the cushions. I lowered myself onto my back, the leather cool against my skin, and spread my legs wide. I could sense him above me, feel the heat of his body, his ragged breathing. The blindfold made everything sharper. His hands on my thighs. His fingers sliding through my wetness, spreading it, teasing my clit in slow circles.
I moaned, my hips bucking against his hand. "Please. Please."
He lowered himself over me. His mouth found my neck, my collarbone, the curve of my breast. He sucked my nipple into his mouth, hard, the pressure making me gasp. His tongue flicked against it while his fingers kept circling my clit, building pressure, building heat, until I was writhing beneath him.
I wrapped my legs around his waist. Grinded against his hand. Reached down and found his jean-clad cock, squeezed. He bucked against my palm, a strangled moan escaping his throat.
"I want you inside me," I breathed. "Fuck me."
His fingers slid down, found my entrance, and pushed inside. One finger. Two. He was stretching me, curling his fingers, finding the spot that made stars burst behind my eyelids. I cried out, my back arching, my hands gripping the couch cushions.
He fucked me with his fingers. Hard. Fast. His thumb pressed against my clit, rubbing in tight circles while his fingers drove into me. The wet sounds filled the room. My moans. His ragged breathing. The slap of his hand against my soaked pussy.
The orgasm hit me without warning. I screamed—a broken, ragged sound—my body convulsing, my cunt clenching around his fingers. I bucked against his hand, desperate, hungry, riding the wave until my thighs were shaking and I was gasping for air.
Before I could catch my breath, he was there again. His mouth found my clit. His tongue pressed flat against it, lapping at the sensitive flesh, sliding through my wetness. I cried out, oversensitive, every nerve on fire. His hands gripped my thighs, spread me wider, and he ate me like he was starving, like he couldn't get enough.
I was lost. Floating. Every sensation blurred into the next. His tongue. His fingers. The pressure building again, aching, relentless.
The door slammed open.
The sound cracked through the air like a gunshot. The mouth between my thighs vanished. Hands grabbed me, yanked me up, ripped the bandana from my eyes.
Light flooded in. I blinked, disoriented, gasping.
Mateo stood over me, his chest heaving, his eyes black and wild. He was holding the bandana. His jaw was tight. His knuckles were white.
On the floor, scrambling backward, was his friend. His face was pale. His lips were wet with my slick. His eyes were wide with terror.
"What the fuck," Mateo growled. "WHAT THE FUCK."
I sat up, clutching the couch cushion to my chest. My heart was pounding. My thighs were trembling. I made my eyes go wide, made my voice shake.
"I—Mateo? I don't—" I looked at the friend. At his wet mouth. At the horror on his face. "Wait. You're not—"
I let the realization hit me. Let my face crumple. "Oh god. Oh my god."
"Princesa," Mateo said, his voice dangerous. "What happened."
I looked at him, tears welling in my eyes. "I thought it was you. The door opened, I heard footsteps, I thought—I was blindfolded. I called your name. He didn't say anything at first, and then he spoke, and it sounded like you, he sounded like—"
I turned to the friend, my voice cracking. "I am so sorry. I didn't know. I thought you were him. I would never—I didn't mean to—"
The man on the floor shook his head. His voice was hoarse. "You said—you said my name. You called me Mateo. I just—I couldn't—"
"You touched her?" Mateo's voice was ice. "You put your hands on my girl?"
"She said it was you! She was all over me. I thought—I don't know what I thought."
I grabbed Mateo's arm. "It wasn't his fault. He probably thought I was okay with it because I was acting like I knew him. And he did try to sound like you. I just—I was so ready for you. I wasn't thinking."
Mateo looked at me. His eyes searched mine. I let him see the guilt, the confusion, the shame. I let him see exactly what he wanted to see.
Inside, my heart was pounding with something else entirely. Exhilaration. Power. The secret between us, glowing like coal.
He exhaled slowly. The tension bled out of his shoulders. "Fuck."
I wiped at my eyes. "I'm so sorry."
He pulled me against his chest, his hand cradling the back of my head. "It's okay, Princesa. It was a mistake." He looked at his friend. "Get the fuck out. We'll talk tomorrow."
The friend scrambled to his feet. He didn't look at me. He was already gone, the door slamming shut behind him.
And then it was just us. Me and Mateo, standing in the quiet apartment.
His hand slid down my back. Squeezed my ass. His lips found my ear.
"You were perfect," he whispered. "Fucking perfect."