My head pounds before I even open my eyes. A dull, insistent throb that syncs with my heartbeat, reminding me of every shot I took last night. The sheets smell like him—like cigarettes and something clean underneath, like the soap he uses. I press my face into the pillow, willing the world to stay dark a little longer.
It doesn't.
I peel my eyes open. The room is unfamiliar in the pale morning light filtering through blinds I don't recognize. Mateo's room. His clothes draped over a chair. His boots by the door. His cross on the nightstand, catching light.
I'm wearing his shirt. The one he gave me last night when I was too drunk to drive home. It hangs off my shoulder, soft cotton worn thin from washing. Underneath, just my black thong. My thighs bare against his sheets.
The smell of food hits me. Bacon. Something frying. My stomach turns, then growls.
I sit up slow, steadying myself against the headboard until the room stops spinning. My hair is a mess—I can feel it, tangled and wild. I don't care. I slide out of bed, bare feet on cold hardwood, and follow the smell.
His apartment is small. A few steps and I'm at the edge of the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe.
Mateo stands at the stove, shirtless, jeans riding low on his hips. The tattoos on his back shift as he moves—wolves, crosses, script I can't read from here. He's humming something low, a melody I don't know. A spatula in his hand. Eggs in the pan.
He looks like he belongs here. Like this kitchen was built around him.
I don't say anything. I just watch.
He turns, like he felt me there. His eyes find me, and they go dark. Slow. He takes me in—the shirt falling off my shoulder, my bare legs, the thong just visible at my hip where the hem rides up.
"Buenos días, Princesa." His voice is rough, still thick with sleep.
"Morning." My voice cracks. I need water.
He sets down the spatula and pours me a glass from the tap. Brings it over. His fingers brush mine when I take it, and I feel it everywhere.
"You look like shit," he says, but his mouth twitches.
"Feel like it too." I drink half the glass in one go. The water helps.
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me. The morning light catches the ink on his chest, the curve of his shoulders. I shouldn't stare. I do anyway.
"You hungry?" he asks.
"Not really."
"You need to eat. Soak up the alcohol." He turns back to the stove, plates the eggs and bacon. Two plates. He already made enough for both of us.
I sit at the small table, pulling the shirt down over my thighs even though it barely covers me. He sets a plate in front of me, then sits across. Close enough that his knee could touch mine under the table.
He doesn't eat. He just looks at me.
"What?" I poke at the eggs.
"The shirt." He nods at me. "You wore a dress yesterday. A modest one. You said you don't believe in bras."
I feel heat creep up my neck. "I told you. I needed a change."
"No." His voice is quiet. Certain. "Something happened."
I keep my eyes on the plate. Push the eggs around. My stomach is tight now, and it's not the hangover.
"Val." He says my name like he's been holding it. "Look at me."
I don't.
"Princesa." Softer now. "Look at me."
I lift my eyes. His dark ones are steady. Patient. Waiting.
"Talk to me," he says.
The words get stuck in my throat. I shake my head, press my lips together, try to force them down. But they're already rising—everything I've been holding since I started at that school, since I decided to hide, since I saw him with those girls and felt something crack open in my chest.
"I can't—" My voice breaks. I stop. Breathe.
He doesn't push. He just waits.
"I saw you," I whisper. "With her. The blonde. In the hallway."
His brow furrows. "Who?"
"I don't know her name. She was all over you. And you let her." The words come faster now, spilling out. "And the other one. At the party. The one who sat on your lap. I saw that too."
I set down the fork. My hand is shaking.
"I started dressing different because I thought maybe—" I stop. Swallow. "Maybe if I didn't look like me. If I didn't stand out. Maybe then I wouldn't have to watch it happen again."
The tears come before I can stop them. Hot and stupid and I hate them. I press the heel of my hand to my eye, trying to push them back.
"I'm not stupid. I know what I look like. I know guys just want—" I gesture at myself. "This. I've always known. But with you, I thought—"
My voice breaks completely. I can't finish.
I hear him stand. Feel him move around the table. Then his hands are on my wrists, gentle, pulling my hand away from my face.
"Val." His voice is low. Rough. "Look at me."
I do. Through tears. Through the blur.
"Those girls," he says, "came onto me. Every single one." He holds my gaze. "And I stopped them. Every single time."
I blink. "What?"
"The blonde in the hallway. She grabbed my arm. I pulled away." His thumb traces my wrist. "The one at the party. She sat on my lap before I could stand up. I told her to get off. She did."
"I don't—"
"You asked me to be your friend, Princesa. I meant it. I'm not going to fuck that up because some girl throws herself at me."
I stare at him. My chest is heaving. I can't tell if I'm still crying or if I've stopped.
"But you—"
"I saw you watching," he says quietly. "The first time. In the hallway. I saw your face before you turned away. And I wanted to go after you. But I figured if I did, you'd run harder."
He's right. I would have.
"Why didn't you tell me?" My voice is barely there.
"Because I thought you knew." He cups my face, his palm warm against my cheek, his thumb wiping a tear I didn't feel fall. "I thought you knew I wasn't like that."
I shake my head. "I didn't know anything."
"You know now."
I lean into his hand before I can stop myself. My eyes close. His skin is rough, callused, and it's the most solid thing I've felt in days.
"Val." His voice is softer now. "The dress. The way you've been hiding. Was that because of me?"
I nod. A small, broken movement.
"Fuck." He says it like a breath. His forehead touches mine. "Princesa."
I open my eyes. He's close. So close I can see the flecks in his irises, the faint scar through his eyebrow, the way his jaw is tight.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For not trusting you."
"You don't have to apologize for that." His thumb moves across my cheekbone. "You're not the one who made you feel like you had to hide."
I don't know what to say to that. So I just sit there, letting him hold my face, letting his other hand find my knee under the table. His thumb traces a circle on my bare thigh, and I shiver.
"I like you in that shirt," he says. "But I missed the crop tops."
A laugh escapes me. Wet and surprised. "That's what you're thinking about right now?"
"I'm thinking about a lot of things." His eyes drop to my lips. Stay there. "But yeah. That's one of them."
The air changes. Thickens. I feel it in my chest, in my stomach, lower.
"Mateo—"
"I know." His voice is rough. "You're still hungover. We should eat."
He pulls back. Slowly. Reluctantly. His hand leaves my face, but his other one stays on my thigh for a second longer before he stands.
He goes back to the stove. Fills his own plate. Sits across from me again.
We eat in silence. But it's not uncomfortable. It's full. Like everything that needed to be said is finally in the air between us, and we're both breathing it in.
I finish my eggs. Drink more water. My head is still pounding, but it's quieter now.
"I should shower," I say.
"Towels are in the closet. In the hall." He looks at me. "You want a shirt for after? I got clean ones."
"This one's fine." I tug at the hem of his shirt. "I'll give it back."
"Keep it." He says it like it's already decided. "Looks better on you anyway."
I feel the heat in my cheeks. I stand, and my legs feel steadier now. I pause at the edge of the kitchen.
"Mateo."
He looks up.
"Thank you. For telling me."
The corner of his mouth lifts. "Thank you for trusting me enough to cry about it."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling. "Don't get used to it."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Princesa."
I walk to the bathroom. The water runs hot, and I stand under it longer than I need to, letting it wash away the hangover, the tears, the days of hiding. When I step out, I wrap myself in his towel, and I look at myself in the mirror.
I look like me again. Finally.
I pull his shirt back on. It smells like him. I don't hate it.
When I come out, he's cleaning the kitchen. His back to me. The tattoos moving under his skin.
"Feel better?" he asks without turning.
"Yeah."
"Good." He sets the pan in the sink, turns, and leans against the counter. His eyes find me again—the shirt clinging to my damp skin, my wet hair leaving dark stains on the cotton. "You wanna stay? Watch a movie? Or I can drive you home."
I think about my empty apartment. The silence. The bed I've been hiding in.
"I'll stay."
He nods, like he expected that. Like he wanted it.
"But I get to pick the movie."
He laughs. Low and surprised. It changes his whole face. "We'll see about that."
I follow him to the living room. He drops onto the couch, and I sit next to him, close enough that our shoulders touch. He grabs the remote, scrolls through options.
"Nothing scary," I say.
"So no horror."
"And nothing boring."
"That rules out documentaries."
"Mateo."
"I'm kidding." He settles on something—I don't catch the title—and tosses the remote aside. The opening credits roll.
I shift closer. Let my head rest against his shoulder. His arm comes up, slow, giving me time to pull away. I don't. His hand settles on my arm, warm and heavy.
We watch the movie. I don't really follow it. I'm too aware of him. His breathing. The way his thumb moves in lazy circles on my skin. The heat of his body against mine.
Somewhere in the middle of the second act, I feel his lips brush the top of my head. Soft. Like he didn't mean to. Like it just happened.
I look up. He's already looking down at me.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing." But his eyes don't move from mine. "Just looking."
I should look away. I don't.
His hand slides up from my arm to my jaw. Tilts my face gently. His thumb traces my lower lip, and I feel my breath catch, feel the heat pool low in my belly.
"Mateo—"
"Shh." His voice is barely a whisper. "I've been wanting to do this since you walked across that parking lot."
He leans in. Slow. Giving me every chance to stop him.
I don't.
His lips touch mine. Soft at first. Testing. I make a sound—something between a sigh and a whimper—and he deepens it. His hand slides into my wet hair, tilting my head back, and his mouth opens against mine.
He tastes like coffee and something darker. His tongue traces my lower lip, and I part for him, let him in. He groans, low in his chest, and pulls me closer.
I'm on his lap before I realize I moved. Straddling him. His hands on my hips. My fingers in his hair. His mouth never leaves mine.
I'm still in his shirt. Nothing underneath. He's still shirtless. My thighs are bare against his jeans.
When I roll my hips against him, I feel him—hard, straining against his zipper—and I want him so badly my vision blurs.
He breaks the kiss. Panting. His forehead against mine.
"Princesa." His voice is wrecked. "We need to slow down."
"Why?"
He lets out a shaky breath. "Because I don't want this to be a hangover decision."
I pull back. Look at him. His eyes are dark, hungry, but there's control there. Restraint. He's holding himself back for me.
"It's not," I say. "I've wanted this since I saw you."
His jaw tightens. His hands flex on my hips.
"You sure?"
I answer by kissing him again. Slower this time. Deeper. Letting him feel every intention I have.
When I break away, I whisper it against his lips. "I'm sure."
I'm straddling him, his hands on my hips, my fingers tangled in his hair. I can feel him hard beneath me through his jeans, can feel the heat of his skin against my bare thighs. I want him so badly I can barely think straight.
But he's pulling back. His chest heaving. His forehead pressed to mine.
"Princesa." His voice is wrecked, rough like he's been screaming. "We need to stop."
"What?" I shake my head, try to lean back in. "I told you, I'm sure—"
"I know you are." His hands tighten on my hips, but he holds me still, keeps that inch of space between us. "But that's not—" He exhales, slow, controlled. "That's not what I want."
I freeze. Something cold settles in my chest. "What?"
He sees my face change and his hand comes up, cupping my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek. "No, not like that. I want you, Val. I've wanted you since the moment I saw you. But I don't want it to be just—" He pauses, searching for words. "I don't want it to be some hookup in my apartment after you drank too much at a party. You deserve better than that."
I stare at him. "You're turning me down because you want to be... romantic?"
"I'm turning you down because I want to do it right." His eyes hold mine, dark and serious. "I want to take you out. Properly. I want to court you, Princesa. Like you're supposed to be courted."
Court me. The words sound old-fashioned coming from him, from a guy with sleeves of ink and a silver cross at his throat. But the way he says it—like it matters to him, like I matter—makes something warm uncurl in my chest.
I slide off his lap, settling beside him on the couch. My thighs are cold where his body heat was. "You want to court me," I repeat, testing the words.
"Yeah." He doesn't look away. "I do."
"And that means... what? We don't have sex?"
He lets out a breath that's almost a laugh. "It means we don't rush. We get to know each other. We—" He reaches out, takes my hand, his thumb tracing over my knuckles. "I take you on real dates. I open doors for you. I treat you the way you deserve to be treated."
I look down at our hands. His is so much bigger than mine, rough from working on bikes, the ink on his forearm curling around the edge of my wrist. No one has ever talked to me like this. No one has ever looked at me like I'm something worth slowing down for.
"Okay," I say quietly.
"Okay?"
I look up at him. "Okay. We can go slow."
The smile that spreads across his face is slow and warm and makes my stomach flip. "Good." He leans in, presses a kiss to my forehead, soft and lingering. "Now. We need to talk about something else."
"What?"
He pulls back, his eyes scanning my face. "This." He gestures at me, at the shirt I'm wearing—his shirt, hanging off my shoulder, barely covering me. "This is not you."
My chest tightens. "What do you mean?"
"I mean this whole modest thing you've been doing. The baggy clothes. The boring tops. That's not the girl I saw in the parking lot on Monday." His voice is steady, sure. "That's not my Princesa."
I open my mouth. Close it. Look away.
"Hey." His fingers find my chin, gently turning my face back to his. "Talk to me."
And something in me just... breaks. The tears come before I can stop them, hot and sudden, spilling down my cheeks. I'm crying. Actually crying. In front of him. In his shirt. On his couch.
"Whoa—" He's moving, pulling me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me. "Hey, hey, it's okay. I've got you."
I bury my face in his shoulder and let it all out. The humiliation of that day in the hallway. The feeling of every eye on me, judging me, measuring me. The way I started checking my own clothes before I left the house, tugging at hems, pulling down shirts that used to feel like armor.
He doesn't say anything. He just holds me. His hand strokes my back in slow, steady circles. His cheek rests against the top of my head.
When the sobs finally quiet to sniffles, I pull back just enough to look at him. His shirt is wet where I was crying. I wince. "I'm sorry."
"Don't. Ever. Apologize." His voice is low, rough with feeling. "Tell me what happened."
So I do. I tell him about the whispers. The stares. The way the girls watched me, the way the boys talked about me like I was a piece of meat. I tell him about deciding I needed to blend in, to cover up, to stop giving them something to talk about.
His jaw tightens as I talk. His hands flex on my hips. When I finish, he's quiet for a long moment.
"Those girls," he says finally, "and those guys—they don't get to decide who you are." His eyes lock onto mine. "You walked into that parking lot like you owned it. Like you knew exactly who you were and you didn't give a damn who had a problem with it. That's the girl I want."
My breath catches.
"I want you to go back to wearing what you want." His voice is firm, not asking. Demanding in that way that makes my stomach tighten. "I want you to stop hiding. I want to see you walk into school with your head high and your body in whatever tight-ass top you feel like wearing, and I want every single person who ever made you feel small to choke on their own jealousy."
I blink at him. "You want me to—"
"I want you to be yourself, Princesa." He leans in, his lips brushing my ear, his voice dropping to a growl. "I want you to stop wearing that modest shit and go back to showing off exactly what you've got. Because what you've got is fucking stunning, and you know it."
A shiver runs through me. Heat floods my cheeks, my chest, lower. His words hit me somewhere deep, somewhere I didn't know I needed to hear them.
"You really think I should?" My voice comes out small.
"I don't think." He pulls back, his eyes dark and intent. "I know. You're not doing anyone any favors by hiding, least of all yourself."
I take a shaky breath. And then I nod. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." I feel a smile starting to spread across my face, tentative at first, then wider. "I mean, you're right. I hated covering up. I felt like I was pretending to be someone else."
"You were." He grins, that slow, dangerous grin that makes my knees weak. "And I missed the real you."
Something loosens in my chest. Something that's been wound tight since that first day of school, since I decided I needed to be smaller, quieter, less visible. He's right. I was hiding. And I don't want to hide anymore.
"Tomorrow," I say, the words coming out stronger now. "Tomorrow I'm going back to my clothes."
His grin widens. "Good."
I chew my lip, an idea forming. "Actually..." I stand up, feeling his shirt brush my thighs. "I think I want to start now."
He raises an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"
I turn and walk toward the bedroom, putting an extra sway in my hips. I feel his eyes on me the whole way. When I reach the door, I glance back over my shoulder. "You said you wanted to see the real me, right?"
He's leaning forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, watching me like he's starving. "Yeah."
"Then wait here."
I step into his room and close the door behind me. My heart is pounding. But it's not fear. It's anticipation.
I find my bag in the corner. The one with my clothes from last night. I pull out my jeans—the tight ones that hug every curve. And then I reach deeper, to the bottom of the bag, and pull out the top I'd shoved there this morning. The one I'd worn on Monday. The one I'd felt so confident in before everything went wrong.
White crop top. Low-cut. Strapless. It barely covers my chest and shows off every inch of my curves.
I strip off his shirt. I'm standing in just my thong, and for a second I hesitate. But then I think of his voice. I want you to be yourself. I want you to stop hiding.
I pull on the top. Adjust it. Look at myself in the mirror on his closet door.
There I am. The girl from the parking lot. The one who didn't give a damn.
I step out of the bedroom.
Mateo's eyes go dark. He sits up straighter, his gaze raking over me, slow and thorough. He takes in the crop top, the way it barely contains me, the strip of skin between it and my jeans. He takes in the thong line visible above my waistband. He takes in everything.
"Fuck," he breathes.
I feel heat rush through me. His reaction—raw, unfiltered, hungry—makes me feel powerful. Makes me feel like myself again.
"Well?" I ask, turning slowly, letting him see all of it. "Is this what you wanted?"
He stands up. Crosses the room in three long strides. Stops right in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his body.
"That's my Princesa." His voice is low, rough, reverent. He reaches out, his fingers brushing the exposed skin of my waist. "There she is."
I shiver under his touch. "I missed her too," I admit.
His hand slides around to the small of my back, pulling me closer. "Don't you ever hide her again."
"I won't."
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he leans in and kisses me—soft, slow, nothing like the desperate kiss on the couch. This one feels like a promise. Like a seal on something.
When he pulls back, he's smiling. "Now. You hungry?"
I laugh, surprised. "What?"
"I was making breakfast before you came out looking like that and short-circuited my brain." He gestures toward the kitchen. "I make a mean chilaquiles."
I feel warmth spread through my chest. He's not pushing. He's not trying to get me back in bed. He's making me breakfast. He's courting me, just like he said.
"I'd love that," I say.
He takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen. I follow, feeling lighter than I have in weeks.
Later, sitting at his small kitchen table, eating the best chilaquiles I've ever had, I watch him across from me. He's talking about his bike, about a ride he wants to take me on when the weather gets warmer. His hands move when he talks, animated, passionate. The ink on his arms catches the morning light.
I realize I'm smiling and I can't stop.
"What?" he asks, catching my look.
"Nothing." I take another bite. "Just... thank you."
"For what?"
I set down my fork. "For seeing me. For not letting me hide."
His expression softens. He reaches across the table and takes my hand. "I'll always see you, Princesa. That's not something you need to thank me for."
I squeeze his hand. And for the first time in weeks, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Sunday morning light spills through my curtains, and I wake up with a smile already on my face. No hangover, no weight in my chest—just the hum of anticipation buzzing under my skin. Today is the day. Mateo is picking me up in an hour, and I'm not hiding a single inch of myself.
I throw off the covers and pad to my closet, my fingers trailing over the fabrics I've been avoiding for weeks. The tight white crop top that barely covers my ribs. The low-rise jeans that sit so low on my hips they're practically a suggestion. And the heels—strappy black ones that show off my French tip pedicure, each toe perfect.
I pull out my favorite thong, black lace that sits high on my hips, and my pasties—just enough to cover my nipples, nothing more. No bra. No modesty. Just me.
I slide into the thong first, the lace cool against my skin. Then the jeans, buttoning them low, the zipper catching just below my navel. The denim hugs every curve, molding to my thighs, my ass, the dip of my waist. I turn in front of the full-length mirror, watching the way the fabric moves with me. The thin strap of my thong peeks above the waistband, exactly as intended.
I pull on the crop top. It's white, stretchy, cut so low that the tops of my breasts are on full display. The pasties are just visible beneath the thin fabric—small circles that hint at what they're covering. My nipples are already hard, pressing against the material, and I don't try to hide it.
I add a touch of gloss to my lips, run a brush through my long black hair until it falls in waves down my back. A quick spray of perfume—vanilla and something floral. I look at myself in the mirror again.
The girl staring back is the one from the parking lot. The one who walked into that school like she owned it. The one who saw Mateo and knew she had to have him.
"There you are," I whisper.
I hear the rumble of a motorcycle outside. My heart jumps. I grab my small purse—just enough for my phone and lip gloss—and head for the door.
He's parked at the curb, one boot on the ground, the other resting on a peg. His leather jacket is open, revealing the silver cross against his chest, the ink climbing his neck. His dark hair is slicked back, sunglasses hiding his eyes, but I know he's watching me the second I step outside.
He pushes the sunglasses up, and his eyes rake over me. Slow. Thorough. He takes in the tight jeans, the thong line, the way my breasts strain against the flimsy top. His jaw tightens.
"Dios mío," he breathes, and the way he says it makes my thighs clench.
I smile, savoring his reaction. "You said to dress like myself."
He swings his leg off the bike and walks toward me, each step deliberate. He stops right in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne, the faint trace of leather and smoke.
"I did." His voice is low, rough. His hand comes up, fingers brushing the bare skin of my waist where the crop top ends. "But I didn't expect you to look like this."
"Good surprised or bad surprised?"
"Princesa." He says it like a prayer, his thumb tracing a slow circle on my hip. "There's nothing bad about this. Not one damn thing."
I lean into his touch, my body already humming. "Good."
He takes a step back, his eyes still on me. "Ready for that ride?"
"I've been ready."
He turns and walks back to his bike, and I let myself watch the way his back moves under the leather jacket. The way his jeans fit his thighs. The way he swings onto the seat like it's an extension of his body.
He pats the seat behind him. "Climb on, Princesa."
I walk over, my heels clicking on the pavement. I swing my leg over the back, settling in close behind him. My thighs press against his hips, my chest against his back. I wrap my arms around his waist, my hands finding the hard planes of his stomach through his shirt.
"Hold on tight," he says, his voice carrying over his shoulder.
"I always do."
The engine roars to life, and we take off.
The wind whips through my hair, tears at my eyes, but I don't care. I press my body against his, my cheek resting between his shoulder blades. I feel every shift of his muscles as he steers, every vibration of the bike beneath us. The world blurs past—trees, houses, streets I don't recognize—but I'm not paying attention to any of it. I'm focused on the heat of his body, the way his heart beats steady and strong under my hands.
He takes a turn onto a winding road that climbs uphill. The air cools, the sound of the engine echoing off the trees. Minutes pass, or maybe hours—I lose track. I don't want to be anywhere else.
Finally, he slows, pulling into a small overlook. The city stretches out below us, a patchwork of buildings and lights just beginning to flicker on in the late afternoon haze. He kills the engine, and the sudden silence feels heavy.
He gets off first, then offers me his hand. I take it, swinging my leg over, and his hand stays in mine as we walk to the edge of the overlook. There's a low stone wall, and he leans against it, pulling me to stand between his legs.
"You brought me here to look at the city?" I tease, even though my voice is softer than I intended.
"I brought you here because it's quiet. No one else. Just you and me." He looks at me, his dark eyes intense. "I wanted to talk."
I feel a flicker of nerves, but his thumb strokes the back of my hand. "About what?"
"About yesterday. About what you told me." He holds my gaze. "I meant what I said. I stopped every one of those girls. They came onto me, and I shut it down. Because I couldn't stop thinking about you."
My chest tightens. "Why?"
"Because you're different, Valentina." He says my full name, and it sounds like a secret. "You didn't just walk up and hand yourself to me. You challenged me. You made me want to earn it."
I don't know what to say. I just stand there, his hands wrapped around mine, the wind blowing my hair across my face.
He reaches up and tucks a strand behind my ear. "And I'm still trying to earn it. Every day."
I lean into his touch, my eyes closing for a second. His hand cups my cheek, warm and rough, and when I open my eyes again, he's closer.
"Mateo," I whisper.
He kisses me.
It starts soft, almost tentative—like he's asking permission. But I answer by parting my lips, and the kiss deepens. His tongue slides against mine, slow and deliberate, tasting. His hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and I feel the heat pooling low in my belly, spreading through my thighs.
I press into him, my body molding against his. I feel the hard line of his cock through his jeans, and I grind against him instinctively. He groans into my mouth, his hands dropping to my hips, gripping the denim.
"Fuck, Princesa." His voice is ragged against my lips. "You're gonna kill me."
"Good," I breathe, and I kiss him again, harder this time.
His hands slide down, cupping my ass through the tight jeans. He squeezes, pulling me closer, and I feel the evidence of his want pressing against my thigh. I want to feel it, want to touch it, want to know what he feels like in my hand.
I reach down, my fingers brushing the zipper of his jeans. He catches my wrist, his eyes dark and hooded.
"Slow down, Princesa." His voice is strained. "I told you. I want to take my time with you."
"I don't need time."
"Maybe you don't." He presses his forehead against mine. "But I do. I want this to mean something."
I want to argue, but the way he's looking at me—like I'm precious, like I'm worth slowing down for—makes the words die in my throat.
"Okay," I say softly.
He kisses my forehead, then pulls back, his hand still tangled in mine. "Let's go get dinner. I know a place."
I nod, letting him lead me back to the bike. As I climb on behind him, I press myself close, my arms around his waist. The city lights are starting to glitter below, and I feel like I'm exactly where I belong.
When we get back to his apartment after dinner—comfortable, laughing, stealing kisses at stoplights—the air between us is thick with everything unsaid. He unlocks the door, and I step inside first. The familiar smell of cigarette smoke and leather wraps around me.
He closes the door behind us, and suddenly the room feels smaller. The only light comes from a single lamp, casting shadows across the worn couch cushions.
"I had a really good time tonight," I say, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.
"Me too, Princesa." He steps closer, his hands finding my waist. "And I'm not done yet."
His mouth finds mine, and this time there's no hesitation. His hands slide under my crop top, fingers splaying across my bare stomach, moving upward. He stops just below my breasts, his thumb stroking the underside.
"Can I?" he asks, his voice rough against my lips.
"Yes."
He pushes the top up, slowly, revealing the pasties covering my nipples. He looks at me, his gaze hungry, and then he leans down and presses his lips to the bare skin between my breasts. I shudder, my hands tangling in his hair.
His mouth moves lower, trailing kisses across my skin. He nips at the edge of the pasty, and I gasp, my hips pressing into his. He teases me through the thin adhesive, his tongue flicking over the covered peak, and I feel wetness pooling between my thighs, dampening my thong.
"Mateo," I moan, pulling his hair.
He pulls back, his eyes wild. "I want to taste you."
I don't answer with words. I reach down and undo my jeans, pushing them down my hips. He helps me step out of them, leaving me in just my thong and the pasties, with heels still strapped to my feet.
He looks at me, his eyes tracing every curve. Then he drops to his knees in front of me.
I reach up and rip the pasties off, one in each hand. The adhesive pulls at my skin, a sharp sting that makes me gasp. My nipples are hard, aching, exposed. I drop the pasties to the floor and look down at him, my chest rising and falling fast.
His breath catches. His eyes lock onto my breasts—full, heavy, the nipples dark and swollen. He doesn't move. Just stares, like he's memorizing every curve, every shadow. Then he exhales, slow and ragged.
"Dios mío, Princesa." His voice is barely a whisper. "You're beautiful."
He leans in, pressing his open mouth to the soft skin just below my collarbone. His lips trail down, hot and wet, leaving a trail of fire across my chest. I arch into him, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He takes his time, kissing each breast, circling the nipple with his tongue without touching it.
"Please, Mateo," I breathe.
He looks up at me, his eyes dark and hungry. "Please what?"
"Please—" I can't finish. I need his mouth on me, need it so bad I can barely think.
He smiles, slow and dangerous, and then he takes my nipple into his mouth. The heat of his tongue, the gentle suction—I cry out, my hips bucking forward. He sucks, laves, teases with the tip of his tongue, and when he grazes his teeth across the sensitive peak, I moan loud enough to fill the room.
His hands cup my breasts, holding me steady as he moves from one to the other, never rushing, never giving me a second to breathe. He swirls his tongue around the areola, then pulls the whole nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and I feel the pull all the way down to my core. My thong is soaked, the fabric clinging to my slick skin. I'm trembling, my legs weak.
He pulls back, a string of saliva connecting his lips to my nipple. He looks at me, panting. "I could do this all night."
"Then do it." My voice is hoarse.
He lowers his head again, this time taking the other nipple, sucking deeper, harder. His hand slides down my stomach, over the waistband of my thong, pressing against the damp fabric. I buck into his hand, desperate for more pressure, but he doesn't give it. He keeps his touch light, teasing, while his mouth works my breast into a frenzy.
The heat builds low in my belly, coiling tight. Every flick of his tongue sends a jolt straight to my clit. I'm grinding against nothing, my thighs pressing together, trying to find friction. But he won't let me. He pulls my legs apart with his free hand, holding me open, exposed, vulnerable.
"Don't move," he murmurs against my skin.
I can't. I'm frozen, every nerve ending focused on his mouth. He sucks harder, deeper, and I feel the pleasure cresting, rising, threatening to spill over. I grip his hair, pulling, gasping. "Mateo, I'm—"
He hums against my nipple, the vibration pushing me over the edge. I cry out, my body arching, my cunt clenching around nothing as the orgasm rips through me. It's sharp, sudden, overwhelming—my breasts so sensitive that every brush of his tongue sends aftershocks through my thighs. I'm shaking, panting, his name falling from my lips like a prayer.
He holds me through it, his mouth gentle now, soothing. When I finally still, he pulls back, his lips glistening, his breathing ragged. His jeans are tight with the evidence of his want, but he doesn't move to relieve it. He just looks at me, his forehead pressed to my stomach, his hands resting on my hips.
"I told you," he says, his voice rough. "I want to take my time with you."
I'm still trembling, still aching for more. "I don't need time."
He looks up at me, and there's something soft in his eyes. "I know you don't. But I do." He stands, pulling me into his arms. His lips find my forehead, my temple, my cheek. "You're not just a hookup, Princesa. You're mine."
My heart hammers. "Yours?"
"Yeah." He cups my face, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. "And I want to do this right."
I want to argue, but the way he's looking at me—like I'm something precious he's afraid to break—makes the words die in my throat. I nod, still shaky, still wet, still aching for his touch.
He helps me pull my jeans back up, his hands lingering on my hips as he zips them. He kisses me once more, soft and slow, then grabs my hand. "Come on. I'll take you home."
The ride back to my place is torture. Every bump of the pavement sends a vibration through his bike, straight into my core. I'm pressed against his back, my arms wrapped around him, my cheek resting on his shoulder blade. I can smell him—leather, sweat, smoke. I want to bite him.
He pulls up outside my building, killing the engine. The night air is cool, but my skin is still hot from his touch. I climb off, my legs unsteady. He stays on the bike, one foot on the ground, watching me.
"Text me when you're inside," he says.
I nod, not trusting my voice. I walk up the steps, unlock the door, and look back. He's still there, his silhouette dark against the streetlight. He raises a hand, a small wave, and I wave back before closing the door behind me.
Inside, I strip off my clothes and fall onto my bed, my body still humming. My nipples are sore, sensitive, and every brush of the sheets sends a shiver through me. I touch myself, right there, thinking of his mouth on me, and I come again, quick and dirty, biting my pillow to keep quiet.
Hours later, my phone buzzes. I grab it, my heart skipping when I see his name: Mateo.
I answer, my voice sleepy. "Hey."
"Hey, Princesa." His voice is low through the speaker, rough like gravel soaked in honey. "Couldn't sleep."
"Me neither." I roll over, pulling the blanket up to my chin. "What's up?"
"Just wanted to hear your voice." A pause. "I keep thinking about tonight."
"Me too." My cheeks flush, even though he can't see me.
"I meant what I said," he continues. "You're mine now. And I love the way you dress—the way you walk into a room and own it. I love knowing that every guy in that school looks at you, but you're going home with me."
My breath catches. "You do?"
"Yeah." His voice is certain. "They stare. They want. But they don't have you. I do. And that drives them crazy."
I smile, feeling warmth spread through my chest. "You're the only one I want looking at me."
"Good." I can hear the grin in his voice. "Now go to sleep, Princesa. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," I echo.
We hang up, and I hold the phone to my chest, staring at the ceiling. The ache is still there—the wanting, the need—but it's softer now, wrapped in something warmer.
I close my eyes, and when I dream, it's of him.