I'm stretched across the old leather couch, the sticky warmth of it clinging to the backs of my thighs. The AC unit in the window rattles and hums, drowning out most of the street noise, but I can still hear the distant thump of bass from a car passing by. Mateo's cigarette smoke curls in the dim light, mixing with the coconut of my shampoo, and I breathe it in without thinking. He's leaning against the doorframe to the bedroom, half-dressed, his jeans unbuttoned at the top, the silver cross catching the lamp's glow. His dark eyes are fixed on me, but there's something different in them tonight. Not the usual teasing heat. Something heavier.
He takes a long drag, then stubs the cigarette out against the ashtray on the windowsill. The smell of burnt tobacco sharpens the air. He pushes off the frame and walks toward me, his boots heavy on the hardwood, each step deliberate. My heart ticks up. I don't know why. He's never made me nervous before. But the way he's looking at me now—like he's measuring something, like he's about to flip the table—makes my skin prickle.
"I'm done," he says, his voice low and flat. He stops at the edge of the couch, looking down at me. "The games. The friends. Sharing you."
The words land in my chest, solid and warm. A slow smile spreads across my lips. I push myself up onto my elbows, letting my hair fall over one shoulder. My crop top has ridden up, exposing the underside of my tits, and I feel his gaze flicker to them before returning to my eyes. "Okay," I say, my voice easy, unhurried. "Whatever you want, papi."
His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps there. "I'm serious, Princesa. No more pretending. No more having anyone else touch what's mine."
"I said okay." I hold his eyes, steady, unblinking. "I meant it. I don't need anyone else. I only want you."
Something shifts in his face. The tension doesn't leave his shoulders, but his eyes soften by half a degree. He sits on the edge of the couch, the old springs groaning under his weight, and his hand finds my ankle. His thumb traces a slow circle over my bone, rough and warm. "You have no idea what you do to me," he mutters, almost to himself. "That first day you walked past me in the parking lot. I couldn't breathe. Those tits of yours. The way your ass moved in those jeans." He shakes his head. "I've wanted to tell you for weeks."
"Tell me what?" I shift, letting my legs fall open a little, inviting him closer. My thong is visible above the waistband of my shorts, a thin line of black lace. I see him notice.
His hand slides from my ankle up to my calf, then to my knee, then stops. He looks at my body like he's trying to memorize it, piece by piece. "Everything I want to do to you. Everything I think about when I'm alone. The way I imagine your nipples under my tongue. The way your pussy tastes when you're dripping for me." His voice drops lower, rougher. "How your ass looks when you're bent over, waiting."
A shiver runs through me, sharp and electric. My thighs press together without thinking, and I see the flash of satisfaction in his eyes. He knows. He always knows.
"You like that," I whisper.
"I love it." His hand moves higher, grazing the inside of my thigh. "I love your tits. The way they bounce when I fuck you. The way they fit in my hands. I want to watch you ride me while I bite your nipples. I want to suck on them until you're begging." His thumb presses into the soft skin of my inner thigh, right where my shorts stop. "And your pussy—fuck, Princesa. I can't get enough. I want to eat you until you can't speak, and then fill you so full you feel me for days."
I'm soaked. I can feel the moisture gathering, the thong growing damp against me. My breathing has gone shallow, my chest rising and falling faster. "Then do it," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Stop talking. Do it."
He moves fast. One second he's sitting, the next he's on top of me, his weight pressing me into the leather, his mouth hot on mine. The kiss is rough, demanding, his tongue sliding against mine, tasting of smoke and desire. His hands find the hem of my crop top and yank it up over my tits, and I hear him groan against my mouth. He pulls back just enough to look at them—my nipples hard, exposed, begging for his mouth. And he takes one, his lips closing around it, tongue flicking across the peak, and I arch into him, a low moan escaping me.
He sucks hard, and my fingers dig into his hair. He switches to the other, giving it the same attention, his teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp. His hand cups my other breast, squeezing, kneading, his thumb rubbing the damp nipple. "These," he breathes against my skin, "are the most perfect fucking tits I've ever seen. I could spend hours on them."
"Then spend hours," I manage, my voice ragged.
He laughs, low and dark, and then his mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, trailing downward. He sits back, grabs the waistband of my shorts and yanks them down, along with my thong, leaving me naked from the waist down, sprawled on the leather. His eyes roam over me, hungry, possessive. "And this pussy," he says, his hand sliding between my legs, fingers parting my folds. I'm slick, so slick I can feel it on his fingers immediately. "Dripping. Just for me."
He doesn't wait. He slides two fingers inside me, slow at first, then deeper, curling up. I cry out, my hips bucking against his hand. His thumb presses against my clit, circling, and my vision blurs. "That's it, Princesa. Let me feel you."
I'm close already—the tension coiled tight in my belly—but he pulls his fingers out, bringing them to his mouth. He sucks them clean, his eyes never leaving mine, and then he's on his knees on the floor, pulling me to the edge of the couch. His mouth finds my pussy, and I lose the ability to form coherent thought.
He eats me like he's starving—tongue flat, then pointed, pressing into me, licking up and down, sucking my clit into his mouth. My hands grip the leather, my back arching, moans spilling out of me without permission. He grabs my hips, holds me down, and doesn't stop until I shatter, my orgasm crashing through me, my thighs trembling around his head.
He doesn't give me time to recover. He stands, unbuckles his jeans, and pulls out his cock—hard, thick, the tip glistening. He climbs onto the couch, positions himself over me, and pushes inside me in one smooth motion. I gasp at the fullness, the stretch. He fills me completely, and then he's fucking me, hard, his hips slamming against mine, the couch creaking in protest beneath us. His hand wraps around my throat, not choking, just holding, grounding me. "Look at me," he says, his voice strained. "I want to see your eyes when I fuck you."
I hold his gaze, and he drives into me deeper, faster, each thrust hitting that spot inside me that makes my toes curl. His other hand finds my nipple, pinching, rolling, and I'm climbing again, the pleasure building, relentless. I don't know how long it lasts—minutes, hours—but it's too much and not enough. My second orgasm rips through me, and I feel him shudder above me, feel him push deeper, feel him come inside me, hot and pulsing.
He stays inside me, breathing hard, his forehead against mine. "Not done," he mutters. "Not even close."
He pulls out, and I whimper at the emptiness, but he's already turning me over, pushing me onto my stomach, yanking my hips up. I'm on my knees now, ass in the air, thighs sticky with wetness. He slaps my ass once, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "You're so fucking beautiful like this." Then he's behind me, his cock sliding into me again, this time from behind, deeper, hitting a different angle. His fingers dig into my hips, and he fucks me into the mattress, the couch forgotten now—we've migrated to the floor, the rug rough against my knees. His balls slap against my pussy with every thrust, and I'm drooling onto the carpet, incoherent sounds pouring out of me.
He reaches around, fingers finding my clit again, and I come again, a silent scream caught in my throat. He keeps going, through my orgasm, through the aftershocks, until I'm limp, and then he stops, pulling out. I hear his breath ragged above me.
"Turn over," he says, his voice rough.
I do, weak and shaking, my body a puddle on the rug. He grabs my ankles, lifts my legs, and drapes them over his shoulders on either side of his head. I'm bent almost in half, my knees near my ears, completely open to him. He positions himself, and pushes in again. I feel him everywhere—in my pussy, at the back of my throat with a moan, in every nerve.
He moves slower now, deeper, each thrust a deliberate push into me. His eyes are closed, his expression almost pained with pleasure. He leans forward, folding me further, and I feel him hit my cervix. A sharp, sweet ache. I cry out, but he doesn't stop. He fucks me that way, slow and deep, his weight pressing me into the floor, until I'm drowning in sensation. He doesn't come. He just keeps going, ebbing and flowing, building me up and backing off, until I'm begging, my voice broken.
"Please, Mateo—please—"
"Please what?" he whispers, his lips against my ear.
"Please come. Fill me."
He groans, and then he's coming, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing inside me. I feel the warmth spread, and it sends me over again, a small, desperate orgasm wringing me dry. He collapses on top of me, both of us slick with sweat, breathing in the same ragged rhythm.
Minutes pass. My eyes are half-closed, my mind fuzzy. I feel him shift, but he doesn't pull out. He just settles, his weight a warm blanket, his softening cock still inside me. I feel his breath even out against my neck. He's falling asleep. I smile, exhaustion pulling at me, and I let myself drift, still connected to him, still full of him.
I don't know how long I sleep. An hour, maybe two. I wake slowly, aware first of the heavy warmth inside me, still there, still nestled deep. He didn't pull out. I feel his heartbeat against my back—we've moved at some point, or maybe I rolled, because now I'm on my side, my back pressed against his chest, his arm draped over my waist. His cock is still inside me, half-hard, like he never let go.
I'm about to whisper something when I feel his hand move. His fingers spread across my stomach, then slide up to cup my breast. He squeezes gently, his thumb brushing my nipple, and I feel him stir inside me, thickening. "You awake?" he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.
"Mm-hmm."
His hand on my breast tightens, and then he pushes his hips forward, driving his cock deeper into me. I gasp. He's underneath me now—somehow, he's rolled us so that I'm on top, but facing away, my back against his chest, his cock still buried in my pussy. His legs are tangled with mine, and he's pressing up into me, short, sharp thrusts that hit my G-spot with unerring accuracy.
"Fuck," he hisses, his voice tight. "I woke up and you were still wrapped around me. I couldn't help it." He thrusts again, harder, and I feel him everywhere, deep and full. His hands grip both my breasts, holding them tight, pinching my nipples as he fucks me from below. The angle is devastating—every stroke hammers my cervix and my G-spot at the same time, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming.
I reach back, grabbing his hair, pulling his mouth to my neck. He bites down, not hard enough to break skin, and I moan. "Yes—yes—"
He fucks me like he's possessed, his hips slamming upward into me, the bed—we're in the bed now, I realize—shaking with the force of it. His hands never leave my breasts, kneading, pulling, rolling my nipples between his fingers until I'm a mess of sensation. I come, hard, my cunt clenching around his cock in hot waves, but he doesn't slow down. He keeps fucking me through it, growling against my skin, driving into me again and again, each thrust spiking against my G-spot until I'm coming again, my body wracked with convulsions.
"That's it, Princesa. Come on my cock. Keep coming." His voice is animal, raw. He's hitting my cervix with every thrust now, a dull, exquisite pressure that makes me see stars. I've lost count of my orgasms, lost track of time, lost myself entirely in the feeling of him inside me, his hands on my tits, his mouth on my neck, his hips slamming up into mine.
He comes with a deep, guttural groan, his cock pulsing inside me, filling me again, and I feel his release mix with mine, dripping out around him. He goes still, his breath hot on my shoulder, his grip on my breasts loosening to a gentle hold. We lie there, tangled, slick, empty and full at once.
After a long moment, he speaks, his voice barely a whisper. "I meant it, Princesa. No more games."
I smile against the pillow. "Good. I don't want to share you either."
He shifts, pulling me tighter against him, his lips brushing my ear. "You never have to."
The morning light slices through the blinds, cutting across my face. I blink awake, and the first thing I register is the emptiness—the hollow between my thighs where he should be. I'm alone in bed, the sheets tangled around my legs, the smell of him still on the pillow.
I stretch, and every muscle in my body protests. My thighs ache. My hips ache. There's a tenderness between my legs that makes me smile, a physical reminder of everything he did to me last night. I run my hand over my stomach, feeling the slight soreness, and I feel claimed. Completely.
The bathroom door opens, and Mateo steps out, a towel slung low on his hips, water still dripping from his hair. His chest is slick, the tattoos standing out against his wet skin, and that silver cross catches the light. He stops when he sees me awake, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Morning, Princesa."
"Morning." My voice is hoarse. I clear my throat. "You left me."
He crosses to the bed, leans down, and kisses me—soft, slow, his hand cupping my jaw. "Didn't want to wake you. You looked peaceful." He pulls back, his eyes traveling down my body, tracing the marks he left. "How do you feel?"
"Sore. In the best way."
He grins, and it's boyish and hungry at the same time. "Good. Shower. Then I'm taking you somewhere."
"Where?"
"The fair. It's in town, just for the weekend." He straightens, running a hand through his wet hair. "Get dressed. Something you feel good in."
I'm already sitting up, the sheet falling away. "Something I feel good in?"
"Something that makes you feel like my Princesa."
The shower is quick—I'm too excited to linger. I dry off, standing in front of the open closet, and I know exactly what I'm wearing. The bathing suit top he bought me, white, cut low, barely containing my breasts. The micro blue jean skirt that rides high on my thighs, that hugs my hips like it was painted on. And the thong he bought me, black lace, the one that sits just above my hip bones, the one he said made his mouth water when he saw it in the store.
I pull on the skirt, adjust the top. No bra, because I don't believe in them. I look in the mirror and I smile. My hair is still damp, hanging in waves down my back. My skin has a flush from the shower, from him. I look like a girl who got thoroughly fucked and wants more.
I walk out, and Mateo is by the door, pulling on his chain. He's wearing baggy jeans that hang low on his waist, the silver buckle catching the light, and a white wife beater that stretches across his chest, clinging to every muscle. His tattoos peek out from the sleeves, crawling up his neck. He looks like danger wrapped in denim.
He looks up when I enter, and his eyes go dark. They travel down my body, slow, deliberate, and he doesn't hide the hunger. "Fuck, Val."
I turn, letting him see the full effect. The skirt rides up just slightly. "You like?"
He crosses the room in three steps, his hand finding my waist, pulling me against him. "You know I do." His voice is rough. His hand slides down, gripping my ass over the skirt. "You trying to start something? Before we leave?"
"Maybe." I run my fingers along his collarbone, tracing the silver chain. "Or maybe I just like the way you look at me."
He kisses me, hard, his hand squeezing my ass, and I feel him harden against my hip. But he pulls back, breathing rough. "Later. I promised you the fair." He takes my hand, interlacing our fingers. "Come on, Princesa."
The fairgrounds are packed. The sun is high, the air thick with the smell of fried dough, popcorn, and cotton candy. Lights flash from every direction—the Ferris wheel turning slow against the blue sky, the roller coaster clattering overhead, the signs for ring toss and balloon darts and the big stuffed panda that's probably rigged anyway.
People turn to look at us. I feel their eyes—on me, on him. I'm used to the attention, but today it feels different. Today I'm walking next to the most beautiful man in the world, his hand wrapped around mine, and every woman who looks at him is a reminder that I'm the one he chose.
He pulls me toward the ticket booth, buys a strip of tickets without asking what I want to do first. "You hungry?" he asks.
"Starving."
We get a funnel cake, powdered sugar dusting our fingers, and he feeds me a bite, his eyes never leaving my mouth. We walk past the games, past the screaming kids and the couples holding hands, and I feel lighter than I have in weeks. There's no games here. No friends walking in. No pretending. Just him and me and the summer heat.
"You want to play something?" he asks, nodding toward the row of carnival games.
"What, you going to win me a bear?"
He smirks. "Watch me."
He walks to the ring toss, hands over a ticket, and the carny eyes him with that bored, seen-it-all look. Mateo doesn't notice. He focuses on the bottles, his jaw set, and he throws the first ring. It lands. Second ring. Lands. Third ring—spins around the neck of a bottle and stays. The carny's bored look shifts to something like annoyance as he hands over the biggest plush bear I've ever seen, a giant brown thing with a red bow.
Mateo tucks it under his arm, turns to me, and holds it out. "For my Princesa."
I take it, laughing, hugging the ridiculous thing to my chest. "You're insane."
"I told you. Watch me."
We keep walking, and I'm carrying the bear like a trophy, feeling his hand on the small of my back, steering me through the crowd. We pass a photo booth, and I tug his arm. "Let's take pictures."
He raises an eyebrow. "Pictures?"
"Yes. Before I forget what you look like when you're not fucking me into a mattress."
He laughs, low and surprised, and lets me pull him into the booth. The curtain closes behind us, the space tight. He sits, pulling me onto his lap, the bear crushed between us. The camera flash goes off, and I'm laughing, and he's kissing my cheek. Another flash. I turn, and he catches my mouth, his hand in my hair. The camera clicks. Strip of photos slides out.
I grab it, looking at the four frames. The first: me laughing, him smiling. The second: him kissing my cheek, my eyes closed. The third: us kissing, his hand tangled in my hair, my body pressed against his. The fourth: him looking at the camera, intense, his arm wrapped around me, claiming me.
"I'm keeping this," I say.
"You better."
We step out, and the sun is starting to dip, the lights getting brighter against the dusk. He buys us cotton candy, pink and fluffy, and we share it, his fingers brushing mine. We watch the Ferris wheel against the orange sky, and I lean into him, his arm wrapping around my waist.
"Thank you," I say, quiet.
"For what?"
"For this. For bringing me here. For making me feel like..." I trail off, not sure how to say it.
His hand finds my chin, tilting my face up to his. "Like what?"
"Like I'm the only one."
He holds my gaze, and the noise of the fair fades. The lights blur. "You are, Princesa. You're the only one." He kisses me, soft, his lips tasting of sugar. "I meant what I said. No more games. No more sharing. Just you and me."
My chest tightens. "Promise?"
He presses his forehead to mine. "Promise."
I pull him into another kiss, deeper, and I feel his hand on my hip, pulling me closer. Around us, the fair spins on, oblivious. But in this moment, it's just us. His hands. His mouth. His promise.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless. He's smiling, that slow, dangerous smile that makes my knees weak.
"Come on," he says, taking my hand. "I want to see you on the Ferris wheel."
We climb into the gondola, the metal bar locking us in, and we rise slowly, the world falling away beneath us. The fair lights spread out like jewels, the music fading to a hum. He wraps his arm around me, and I lean into him, the bear propped in my lap, the strip of photos in my pocket.
At the top, the wheel stops. We hang suspended, the sky a canvas of orange and pink, the stars just beginning to show. He turns to me, his dark eyes reflecting the lights.
"I've never done this," I admit.
"What? The fair?"
"Felt like someone wanted me. Not just my body. Me."
He cups my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. "I want all of you, Val. Every part. The loud parts, the messy parts, the parts you don't show anyone." He kisses me, gentle, a promise. "You're mine, Princesa. All of you."
I feel tears prick at my eyes, and I blink them back. "I'm yours."
The wheel starts moving again, and we descend slowly, the ride ending. But the feeling stays, warm and heavy in my chest. When we step off, he keeps his arm around me, pulling me close.
We walk through the fair one last time, past the games and the food stalls, past the screaming kids and the laughing couples. I win a small goldfish at the ring toss—he knocks over the bottles, and the carny palms him a bag with a tiny orange fish swimming inside. I name it Mateo Jr.
"That fish is going to die in a week," he says.
"Don't jinx it."
He laughs, and I feel it in my bones.
By the time we reach the apartment, I'm exhausted, my feet sore, my skin sticky from the heat. He unlocks the door, and I walk in, setting the bear on the couch, the goldfish on the counter. He comes up behind me, his hands on my hips, his lips on my neck.
"Best day," I murmur.
"Not done yet."
He turns me around, his eyes dark and hungry, and I know what he means. I'm already slick, already aching for him. He lifts me onto the counter, pushing the skirt up around my waist, and I feel his fingers find the thong, pulling it aside.
"I've been watching you all day," he says, his voice rough. "Watching the way that skirt moves. Watching your tits bounce when you walk. Watching every man in that fair want what's mine."
I shiver. "And?"
"And I'm gonna fuck you until you forget every pair of eyes that looked at you today. Until the only thing you remember is my name."
He pushes into me, and I gasp, the fullness immediate, perfect. He fucks me on the counter, the goldfish swimming in circles beside us, the bear watching from the couch. And when I come, his name on my lips, I know he's right. There's nothing else. Just him. Just us. Just this.