His weight leaves me empty. A sudden cold where he was, a clench that aches for him back. He turns me before I can reach for him, and his hand finds my chin—thumb tracing my lower lip like he's memorizing the shape.
"He texted me." Mateo's voice is low, almost lazy. "Apologizing. Said he couldn't help himself."
A slow smile spreads across his face, and something in my stomach drops. Tightens. I don't know if I'm about to be punished or rewarded.
"So tomorrow, I'm sending someone else." His thumb presses gently against my lip. "And this time, you'll know to pretend better."
My breath catches. Stays caught. The air between us feels thick, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. I stare up at him, heart pounding, and I nod.
"Good girl." He kisses me—soft, almost tender. Then he pulls back, and the predator is back in his eyes. "You ready for bed, Princesa?"
I don't sleep much. I lie awake, his arm heavy across my waist, and I think about tomorrow. About whose hands I'll pretend are his. About how far this game goes.
---
The next day stretches slow. Mateo's been gone since morning—work, he said, but I know he's setting it up. I spend the afternoon restless, skin humming, replaying the look on his face when he told me.
By evening, the apartment is dark. He texted me: Lights off. Bedroom. Wait.
I'm naked under the sheet, heart hammering, when I hear the front door open. Footsteps. Heavy. Familiar in their rhythm. I close my eyes, let my breath even out, and when the bedroom door creaks open, I move.
I'm off the bed before I think, arms wrapping around his neck, legs hooking around his waist. My mouth finds his—hungry, desperate, the way I kiss Mateo when I want him to know I missed him.
His hands grip my ass. Freeze.
I pull back just enough to breathe. "Why are you so still?" I whisper. "Touch me."
For a second, nothing. Then his hands tighten. He growls—low, rough—and his mouth crashes into mine. His fingers dig into my flesh, spreading me open, and he walks us backward until my spine hits the wall.
His teeth graze my throat. Hard. I gasp.
"Missed you too, Princesa."
The voice is wrong. Deeper. Rougher. Not Mateo's.
But I knew that. I knew before I jumped. I felt it in the way he held me, in the hesitation that wasn't Mateo's hesitation. Still, hearing it—hearing someone else call me that—sends a shiver down my spine.
His hands find the hem of my shirt. Rips it. The fabric tears, cool air hitting my skin, and then his mouth is on my nipple, tongue circling, teeth scraping, and I arch into him because this is what I'm supposed to do.
I'm supposed to pretend.
His fingers find my cunt. Wet. Ready. He groans against my skin. "Fuck, she's soaked."
I don't answer. I can't. My hands are in his hair, pulling, guiding his mouth where I need it, and when he pushes a finger inside me, I moan—loud, shameless—because it feels good and because that's what Mateo wants.
Two fingers. Curling. Finding that spot that makes my knees weak.
"That's it," he mutters against my throat. "Take it."
I'm close. Too close. My hips roll against his hand, chasing it, and I don't know if I'm pretending anymore. I don't know if it matters.
His fingers are still inside me when I come. I don't hold back—I let the moan tear out of my throat, let my body shake against his hand, let him feel every pulse of it. My thighs clamp around his wrist, and he keeps going, slower now, drawing it out until I'm gasping against his shoulder.
"Fuck, Princesa." His voice is rougher than Mateo's. Gutteral. "You always come that fast?"
I don't answer. I can't. I press my forehead into his neck and breathe, and I pretend it's Mateo's cologne I smell, Mateo's heart I feel hammering under my cheek. The lie sits heavy in my chest but I swallow it down.
His fingers slide out of me, slow and deliberate, and I feel the wetness smear across my thigh as his hand moves away. I hear him suck them clean. The sound is obscene. Wet. I shiver.
"Be right back," he says, and I catch the smirk in his voice. "Don't go anywhere."
The door clicks shut. I'm alone in the dark, still pressed against the wall, my skin hot and my heart racing. I slide down until I'm sitting on the floor, knees pulled up, and I press my thighs together because I'm still aching, still empty, still wanting.
I don't know how long I sit there. Minutes. Maybe longer. The dark is complete, the only sound my own breathing, and I let myself feel it—the shame that isn't quite shame, the heat that won't cool, the part of me that liked it. Liked being touched by someone who isn't Mateo. Liked the game.
The door opens again. Footsteps. Two sets this time.
I don't move. I stay on the floor, naked, legs pulled up, and I wait.
The light clicks on. I blink, squinting, and there's Mateo—leather jacket still on, dark hair damp at the temples, that slow smile spreading across his face as he takes me in. Behind him, his friend. The same one from before. The one whose fingers were just inside me.
He looks at me like nothing happened. Like he just walked in. Like he didn't just taste me on his tongue.
I push myself up, slow and deliberate, letting them both watch. Letting the sheet fall away completely. I'm naked, and I don't cover myself.
"Hey, baby." My voice is steady. Sweet. I walk to Mateo and wrap my arms around his neck, pressing my body against his leather jacket. "I missed you."
His hands find my waist. Squeeze. "Missed you too, Princesa." He kisses my forehead, and I feel his smile against my skin. "You behave yourself while I was gone?"
"Always."
I turn to his friend. He's tall, broader than Mateo, with a jaw that looks like it was cut from stone. His eyes are dark, and they're on me—not my face, but my body, tracing the curve of my hip, the swell of my breasts, the wetness still slick on my thighs.
I smile. Step forward. Hug him.
Full body. Naked. My breasts press against his chest, my hip against his belt, and I feel him tense, feel his hands hover for a second before they settle on my lower back.
"Hey," I say against his shoulder. "Good to see you again."
His voice is rough when he answers. "You too."
I pull back, smile over my shoulder at Mateo, and pad back to the bedroom. I can feel both their eyes on me—on the sway of my hips, the curve of my ass, the way my thighs still glisten. I don't look back.
I crawl onto the bed, stretch out on my stomach, and let my eyes drift closed. My heart is pounding. My skin is humming. And I'm wetter than I was before, because Mateo saw everything, and he's still smiling.
The game is changing. I don't know the rules yet.
But I know I'm winning.
I'm stretched out on the bed, the cool sheets against my skin, when I hear his footsteps. Not Mateo's—I know the weight of his stride by now. This is heavier. Slower.
The door stays open. I don't move from my stomach, my cheek pressed to the pillow, my hair spilling across the white fabric. I feel him stop in the doorway. Feel his eyes on the curve of my spine, the swell of my ass, the way the dim light catches the sheen still slick on my thighs.
"You just... live like this?" His voice is rough. Caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
I turn my head, just enough to look at him over my shoulder. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his jaw tight. His eyes don't know where to land.
"Like what?"
"Naked." He says it like it's a confession. "All the time. Doesn't it ever bother you?"
I push myself up slowly, letting the sheet fall away from my breasts, letting him watch. I prop myself on my elbows and tilt my head.
"It's my house." I let the words land soft, but I hold his gaze. "You're the guest, friendly."
Something flickers in his eyes. A war he's losing.
I stretch, deliberate, arching my back just enough to make my breasts lift, to make him look. He does. He can't help it.
"But if you're uncomfortable..." I let my voice go sweet. Innocent. "I can get dressed."
I start to move—just a shift, a feint toward the edge of the bed—and his hands come up, palms out, like I've pulled a gun.
"No no no no." The words tumble out of him, fast and breathless. "That's not—I didn't say—" He runs a hand over his jaw. "Fuck. No. Don't get dressed."
I smile. Slow. And I lie back down, settling into the sheets like I own them, because I do.
"Okay."
He stares at me for a long moment, and I watch the realization hit—that I was never going to get dressed. That I was already winning before he walked in. That he walked right into it.
A sound from behind him. Mateo's laugh. Low and warm and full of something possessive.
"Told you, bro." He appears in the doorway, hand on his friend's shoulder, his eyes on me—dark and hungry and proud. "She's something else."
I smile at him. The real one. The one that reaches my eyes.
"You love it."
"I do." He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bed, and runs his hand up my bare thigh. His fingers find the wetness still there, and he makes a sound low in his throat. "Fuck, Princesa. You're still soaked."
I don't answer. I just let my thighs fall open, let him see exactly how ready I am, let his friend watch from the doorway as Mateo's fingers slide into me slow and deep.
I don't close my eyes. I look at both of them—Mateo, who owns me, and his friend, who's starting to understand what that means.
And I smile.
——
The next day, the apartment smells like beer and cologne and the faint sweetness of someone's perfume—not mine, because I don't wear any. Mateo likes me natural. Says I smell like home.
The party is already loud by the time I walk out of the bedroom. Music thrumming through the floor, voices layered over each other, the clink of bottles. I pause at the hallway, let the noise wash over me, and then I step into the living room.
Thong. No bra. A tiny black top that barely covers my nipples, tied at the ribs. The rest is skin.
The room doesn't go quiet, but it changes. Conversations stutter. Eyes drift. I feel the weight of them—on my hips, my thighs, the sway of my breasts with every step—and I let them look. This is what Mateo wants. This is what I agreed to.
I spot them by the kitchen island. The two guys. The ones who pretended to be him.
One of them—the one from last night, the one whose fingers were inside me—sees me first. His hand freezes mid-reach for a beer. His eyes go dark and hungry, and he doesn't bother hiding it.
The other one is new. Taller. Broader. A fresh tattoo peeking from his collar. He turns when his friend goes still, and when he sees me, his breath catches. I hear it.
I act blue.
Head down. Cheeks pink. A little shy smile as I pad over to them, barefoot on the cool tile, my thong riding high on my hips. I stop in front of them and look up through my lashes.
"Hey." My voice is soft. Sweet. Nothing like the girl who spread her legs for one of them last night. "I don't think we've met."
The new one stares. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. "I'm... Javier."
"Javier." I let his name sit on my tongue. "I'm Val."
I hold out my hand. He takes it. His palm is warm and rough, and his eyes never leave mine.
Behind me, I feel Mateo approach before I hear him. His hand finds my lower back, possessive and warm, and he presses a kiss to my temple.
"You remember my friend from last night," he says, nodding at the one who already knows me. "And this is Javier. He's been wanting to meet you."
I look up at him—at Javier—and I let my smile turn just a little wicked. Just enough.
"Yeah?"
Javier clears his throat. "Yeah."
Mateo's hand slides lower, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of my thong, grazing the swell of my ass. "She's a good girl," he says, his voice casual, like he's talking about the weather. "Does what she's told."
I don't look at him. I keep my eyes on Javier, and I let my lips part just slightly, let my tongue wet my lower lip, slow and deliberate.
"Mostly."
Javier's jaw tightens. His friend—the one from last night—watches me like he's already remembering the taste of me.
Mateo chuckles, low and dark, and squeezes my ass. "Go get a drink, Princesa. I'll be there in a minute."
I nod. Turn. And as I walk away, I make sure my hips sway. I make sure they watch. I make sure they see the thong riding up, the curve of my ass moving with every step, the way my thighs still glisten from earlier.
The music is loud. The room is hot. And three men are watching me walk across it.
I grab a beer from the counter, pop the cap, and take a long sip. My eyes find Mateo's across the room. He's talking to them, but his eyes are on me, dark and slow and full of something that makes my stomach tighten.
I smile. Raise my bottle.
He smirks.
The game is changing. And I still don't know all the rules.
But I'm still winning.
The bottle is cold in my hand, condensation beading against my palm. I take another sip, letting my eyes drift across the room, finding Mateo's. He's still talking to them, but his gaze is on me, dark and knowing. I set the bottle down on the counter and grab two more from the cooler—one for Javier, one for the friend from last night.
I walk over, hips swaying with every step. The music thrums through my bones, the bass a pulse between my thighs. When I reach them, I hold out the bottles, my smile soft and sweet.
"Here. I figured you guys might need something to hold."
Javier takes his first, fingers brushing mine. His eyes drop to my mouth, then lower. The other one takes his slower, his gaze hungry, like he's already tasting me again.
I step back just enough to tuck my hands behind my back, rocking on my heels. "I'm sorry, by the way. I was rude earlier. I didn't even hug you properly."
Javier's brow lifts. "Hug?"
"Mm-hmm." I step forward, closing the distance. "It's how I greet people. I'm a hugger."
Before he can answer, I slide my arms around his neck and press my body flush against his. My chest—bare except for the thin strip of fabric over my nipples—squishes against his torso, warm and firm. His breath catches. His hand finds my lower back, tentative, then tighter when I don't pull away.
I hold it for an extra beat, letting him feel the heat of me, the curve of my hips against his, the way my thighs brush his. Then I release him and turn to the other one.
"Your turn."
His grin is crooked, wolfish. "Lucky me."
I wrap my arms around him, pressing just as close. His hand lands on the curve of my ass, low and possessive. I let it sit there for a second before I pull back, my eyes wide and innocent.
"There. Now we're properly introduced."
Behind me, I feel Mateo's approach. His hand finds my shoulder, warm and solid, and he steps between us, arm sliding around my waist.
"She's always like this," he says, his voice low, amused. "Touchy. Affectionate. Drives me crazy."
Javier whistles low, shaking his head. "Are you always this friendly?"
I tilt my head, letting my hair fall over one shoulder. "Of course. I love hugging. I love being physical with any and all friends I make." I pause, my lips curving. "If you'd like, I can stop."
Both of them speak at once.
"No, no, no—"
"Don't you dare—"
Javier clears his throat, recovering. "We love the way you are. How touchy you are. Please don't change."
Mateo's hand squeezes my hip, a silent approval. "She's amazing, isn't she?"
I feel a warmth spread through my chest. Genuine, not just the game. I smile wide, happy, and clap my hands together. The motion makes my whole body jiggle—my breasts bounce under the thin fabric, my hips shake, the tiny strip of my thong shifts against my skin. I feel their eyes on every ripple, every movement.
A napkin—someone's, dropped from the counter—lies on the floor near their feet.
I bend over to pick it up.
Slowly. Chest almost to the floor, ass pushed back, pressing against the friend from last night's thighs. I feel the heat of his body, the sudden tension as he gasps. My thong rides high, the fabric a thin line between my cheeks. I let out a little hum as I grab the napkin, straightening up with the same deliberate slowness.
I toss it in the trash can by the island, then turn back to them, my expression pure innocence.
"Anyway. So, Javier, what do you do when you're not being Mateo's friend?"
The friend from last night is still staring, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on my ass. Javier takes a long pull from his bottle before answering.
"Work on bikes. Same as him. We're in the same crew."
"Oh, yeah? Maybe I'll come by the shop sometime." I let my voice go a little sing-song. "Watch you work."
Mateo's thumb traces a circle on my hip. "Careful, Princesa. You might distract them."
"I'm very distracting," I say, looking right at Javier. "I've been told."
He laughs, low and rough. "I can see why."
The conversation flows from there—easy, natural. I keep my body angled toward them, let my hand brush Javier's arm when I laugh, let my hip bump the friend's when I shift. I'm the perfect hostess, the perfect girlfriend, the perfect ornament.
But underneath it, I feel the game shifting.
They're not just playing along anymore. They're hungry.
And Mateo is watching them like he's already planning the next move.
The night winds down slowly, the kind of easy drift that comes when you've won without even trying. I make my way around the room, touching shoulders, laughing at jokes, letting my hip brush against every one of them. The friend from last night—I still don't know his name, and I like it that way—follows me with his eyes everywhere I go. Javier's more subtle, but I catch him staring at my ass when I bend to grab a chip from the coffee table.
Mateo watches it all from the couch, one arm draped over the back, a beer dangling from his fingers. He doesn't say much. He doesn't have to. His eyes track me like I'm his favorite possession, and every time I catch his gaze, he gives me that slow, dangerous smile that makes my thighs clench.
By the time the last friend leaves, it's past midnight. The door clicks shut and the apartment goes quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of traffic. Mateo's hand finds my waist before the lock even turns, pulling me against him.
"You were perfect," he murmurs into my hair. "They couldn't stop staring."
I grin, tipping my head back to look at him. "I know."
He laughs, low and rough, and kisses me hard. His hand slides down to grip my ass, squeezing once before he pulls back. "Tomorrow. I want you to come to the shop."
My eyebrows rise. "The shop?"
"The garage. Where I work." His thumb traces my hip bone. "I want everyone to see what's mine."
A shiver runs through me. "Okay."
"Wear something... easy to take off."
I bite my lip. "I can do that."
The next afternoon, I stand in front of Mateo's closet, running my fingers over the things I've folded into his space. My space now, too. I pull out the shortest skirt I own—black, micro, barely covering the curve of my ass. No underwear. I slip it on, feel the fabric settle against my bare skin.
Top? I pick up a sheer cropped thing, then put it down again.
No. He said easy to take off.
I leave the top on the hanger. I grab his leather jacket instead, slide my arms into it, pull it closed over my bare chest. The cool lining presses against my nipples, and they harden immediately, visible through the gap where the zipper stops halfway.
I check the mirror. My breasts are mostly covered by the jacket, but the shadow between them is deep, the curve of each side visible. When I move, the fabric shifts, offering glimpses. My skirt barely covers anything—when I bend, everything will be on display.
Perfect.
I grab my keys and head out.
The garage is a converted warehouse on the edge of town, the kind of place that smells like oil and gasoline and sweat. Music blares from a radio somewhere inside—something with a heavy bass line that I feel in my chest. Bikes and car parts litter the concrete floor, and a few guys are gathered around a lifted truck, their hands black with grease.
I step through the open bay door, and the sound of my heels on concrete cuts through the noise.
Heads turn.
I keep my face casual, scanning the space like I'm looking for someone. The leather jacket hangs open, the zipper stopped at my sternum, my breasts bare underneath. Every step makes them shift, the fabric of the jacket brushing against my nipples. I see the exact moment each of them notices I'm not wearing anything under it.
"Holy shit."
It's Javier. He's hunched over a workbench, a wrench in his hand, and he's staring at me like I just walked out of a dream. The friend from last night is beside him—the one whose dick pressed into my ass through no fault of his own. He's got a rag draped over his shoulder and a look on his face that says he's remembering every second of that moment.
I wave. "Hey, boys."
Javier sets down his wrench, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Valentina. Damn. What are you doing here?"
"Came to see my man." I walk over to them, hips swinging, letting the jacket fall open just a little more. "Where is he?"
"Back corner, under the Mustang." Javier's eyes drop to my chest, then away, then back. He can't help it. "He's been under there for an hour."
"Thanks." I step in for a hug, pressing my body against his. My bare breasts flatten against his chest, and I feel him freeze, his hands hovering before they land on my waist. I hold it a beat longer than necessary, then pull back with a smile. "Good to see you."
I turn to the other friend. "You too." I wrap my arms around him, let my hips press into his, feel his hands land on my ass before he even thinks about it. His fingers grip instinctively, kneading the bare curve of my cheeks through the thin fabric of my skirt. I don't pull away. I let him feel it, the soft give of my flesh under his palms, the way my ass molds to his hands.
Then I step back, innocent smile still in place. "Where's the Mustang?"
He points, his voice rough. "Back left. Under the hood."
"Thanks." I walk away, feeling their eyes on my ass, knowing the skirt is riding up, knowing they can see the bottom curve of each cheek with every step.
I round a stack of tires and there he is.
The Mustang is up on jacks, hood open, and Mateo is on his back on a creeper, half-slid under the chassis. His boots stick out, his jeans smudged with grease, his shirt riding up just enough to show the bottom edge of his tattoos.
Music pulses from a speaker nearby. The guys in the garage are watching. Javier and the friend have drifted closer, pretending to work, their eyes trained on me.
I don't hesitate.
I walk over to the creeper, drop to my knees beside him. "Hey, baby."
He slides out from under the car, his face appearing from the shadows, those dark eyes finding me immediately. His gaze travels down my body, taking in the open jacket, the bare skin, the tiny skirt. A slow smile spreads across his face.
"Princesa." His voice is low, rough. "You came."
"I told you I would."
He reaches up, his grease-stained hand finding the edge of my jacket, tugging it open a little wider. His eyes fix on my bare breasts, the hard peaks of my nipples. "No top."
"You said easy to take off."
His grin sharpens. "I did say that."
I don't wait for permission. I swing my leg over him, planting my knees on either side of his hips, settling my weight onto his lap. The creeper shifts under us, but he catches himself, his hands finding my waist, steadying me.
I'm facing the garage now. Everyone can see.
Javier has stopped pretending to work. The friend is holding a rag, frozen, his mouth slightly open. Two other guys have appeared from the back, tools in hand, their eyes locked on me.
I arch my body, pressing my bare chest against Mateo's, my nipples grazing the rough fabric of his shirt. My hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, linking behind his neck. I feel his cock hardening beneath me, pressing against the thin barrier of my skirt, and I grind down, just a little, letting him feel the heat of me, the wetness already gathering.
"Hi," I breathe against his lips.
His hands tighten on my waist. "Hi."
"You're working."
"I was."
"Don't let me interrupt." I rock my hips again, feeling his length press against my bare cunt through the fabric. My skirt has ridden up completely, my ass pressed against the tops of my thighs, nothing between him and me but a few inches of damp fabric.
His eyes darken. "You're not."
I lean in, my mouth hovering over his. His lips are dry, chapped, and I want to feel them on every part of me. I kiss him, slow and deep, my tongue sliding against his, tasting the metal of the garage and the coffee he must have drunk this morning. He groans into my mouth, his fingers digging into my hips, pulling me harder against him.
I break the kiss, pressing my forehead to his. "Keep working."
He laughs, a low rumble in his chest. "You're sitting on my cock."
"I know." I grind down, feeling him twitch beneath me. "But you have a job to do. Don't let me distract you."
His grin is wolfish. "You're going to be the death of me, Princesa."
But he doesn't push me off. He slides back under the car, his hands reaching up, finding the part he was working on. I stay on top of him, my weight settled on his hips, my pussy pressed against the growing bulge in his jeans.
Everyone is watching.
Everyone is watching.
I feel the weight of their stares like a physical thing—hot, hungry, envious. My bare breasts press against Mateo's chest, my nipples grazing the rough cotton of his shirt, and my ass is completely exposed to the entire garage, the tiny skirt bunched uselessly around my waist. I'm not wearing underwear. I never am when I'm with him.
I feel his cock hard beneath me, straining against his jeans, and I shift my weight, grinding down, letting him feel exactly how wet I am. His grease-stained hands find my hips, gripping tight, and I see his jaw clench, see the muscle jump in his neck.
"Princesa." His voice is a warning, low and rough. "I'm working."
"I know." I lean down, pressing my lips to his ear. "Keep working."
His hands slide down to my ass, cupping the curves, spreading me open for everyone to see. His fingers find my wetness, sliding through the slick heat, and I gasp, my hips bucking into his touch.
"You're soaked," he breathes, his finger circling my clit, making me shudder.
"Because of you."
He laughs, a low, dark sound. "Because of the audience."
I don't deny it. I feel their eyes on me, feel the heat of their gazes, and it makes me wetter, makes my heart pound harder, makes my pussy clench around nothing. I want them to see me take him. I want them to see what he does to me, what I do to him.
His hands leave my hips, reaching down, and I hear the sound of his zipper. My breath catches, my body tensing in anticipation. I arch my back, pushing my ass out, letting everyone get a clear view of my bare cunt, wet and waiting.
"You want this?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.
"Yes."
"Tell me."
"I want your cock inside me, Mateo. I want everyone to see."
He groans. His hand grips the base of his shaft, guides it to my entrance, and I feel the head of his cock pressing against my wet folds. I'm shaking, my whole body trembling, my hands gripping his shoulders for support.
He doesn't push in. He just holds it there, teasing me, making me wait. I feel the heat of him, the pressure, the promise, and I'm so desperate I could cry.
"Please," I whimper, the word escaping before I can stop it.
He pushes inside me in one smooth, deep stroke.
I moan—loud, shameless, my head falling back, my eyes closing, my mouth open. He fills me completely, stretches me, and I feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, the thickness pressing against my walls. I'm so wet that there's no resistance, just the slick slide of him burying himself to the hilt inside me.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at them."
I open my eyes. Javier is frozen, his mouth open, his hand gripping a wrench so hard his knuckles are white. The friend is leaning against a workbench, his eyes fixed on the spot where Mateo's cock disappears inside me, his own hand pressing against his jeans, adjusting himself. Two more guys have appeared, standing in the bay door, not even pretending to work.
I'm spread open for all of them. Mateo's cock buried in my pussy. My back arched. My asshole exposed. My breasts bouncing with every breath.
And Mateo starts to work again.
His hands reach up under the car, finding the part he was working on, and he tightens a bolt, his body moving beneath me, his cock shifting inside me with every motion. I gasp, my hips grinding against him, my pussy clenching around him, refusing to let him go.
"Stay still," he says, his voice casual, as if he's not buried deep inside me. "Almost done."
I can't. I can't stay still. I feel him twitch inside me, feel his cock throb, and I rock my hips, a slow, deliberate grind, fucking myself on him while he pretends to work.
His hand finds my hip, squeezing tight, a warning. "Princesa."
I stop moving, but I clench around him, squeezing him tight, watching his eyes flutter, watching him lose focus for just a second. A low sound escapes his throat, a growl, and he tightens his grip on my hip.
"You're going to make me come," he says.
"Good."
He laughs, shaking his head. "Not yet."
But he doesn't push me off. He settles back into his work, one hand reaching up, tightening another bolt, and I feel his cock shift inside me, deeper, harder, making me gasp. I lean forward, resting my weight on his chest, my lips brushing his jaw.
"You feel so good," I whisper. "So deep."
His hand finds my ass, squeezing, spreading me open. "You like them watching?"
"Yes."
"You like them seeing me inside you?"
"Yes."
"You like knowing they're all hard, all wishing it was them?"
I whimper, my hips starting to move again, grinding against him, my clit pressing against the base of his cock with every motion. I'm so close, so fucking close, my thighs trembling, my breath coming in short gasps.
"Mateo—"
"Not yet." His voice is sharp, commanding. "I didn't tell you to come."
I freeze, my body screaming for release, my pussy clenching around his cock, desperate for the friction. I'm right on the edge, balanced on the knife's edge of pleasure, and he won't let me fall.
"Please," I whisper, my voice breaking.
"Not yet." He reaches up, tightening another bolt, his body moving beneath me, his cock shifting inside me, sending sparks of pleasure through my entire body. "I'm almost done."
I feel tears prick my eyes. Tears of frustration, of want, of need. I bury my face in his neck, breathing him in, the smell of sweat and grease and him, trying to hold on, trying not to come.
He works for what feels like hours, his hands moving, adjusting, tightening, his cock buried deep inside me, twitching, throbbing, waiting. Every motion sends a wave of pleasure through me, every shift of his body makes me gasp, makes me clench around him, makes me want to scream.
Finally, he pushes himself out from under the car, sliding out, and the motion drives his cock deeper, harder, making me cry out. He's sitting up now, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me flush against him, his forehead pressed to mine.
"Look at them," he says, his voice low, rough.
I turn my head. The garage is silent. Everyone is watching. Javier's hand is in his pocket, adjusting himself. The friend is breathing hard, his eyes locked on the spot where our bodies join.
"They want you," Mateo says. "All of them. But you're mine."
He starts to move. His hands grip my hips, lifting me, dropping me, fucking me slow and deep, his cock sliding in and out of my wet cunt, the sound obscene in the silent garage. I moan, my head falling back, my body giving in to the rhythm, my pussy clenching around him with every stroke.
"You want to come?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Do it."
I shatter. My orgasm tears through me, violent and sudden, my whole body convulsing, my pussy clamping down on his cock, milking it, holding it deep inside me. I scream, I think, or maybe I just moan, the sound lost in the roar of blood in my ears, the rush of pleasure that leaves me trembling and breathless.
He follows me over the edge, his hips slamming into me, his cock twitching, his hot cum flooding me, filling me, spilling out around him, soaking his jeans, dripping down my thighs. He groans, low and loud, his teeth sinking into my shoulder, marking me, claiming me.
We stay like that, tangled together, breathing hard, his cum leaking out of me, sliding down my inner thighs, pooling on the leather of the creeper beneath us.
He reaches up, cupping my chin, tilting my face to his. His eyes are dark, hooded, satisfied.