The first thing I feel is full.
Not sore, not heavy—full, in a way that starts deep inside and radiates outward through my whole body. I'm warm, so warm, tangled in sheets that smell like him and sex and the faint salt of dried sweat. There's an arm locked around my waist, heavy and possessive, his chest pressed against my back. And between my thighs, still, even after hours of sleep, I feel the weight of him.
He's still inside me.
My eyes open slowly, the morning light filtering through cheap blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets. I can feel every inch of him, soft now but still thick, still filling me in a way that makes my thighs clench instinctively. A sound escapes my throat—low, surprised, pleased. I shift, just a little, just to feel it. The movement makes his cock twitch inside me, even in sleep, and a fresh pulse of wetness slicks his skin.
Holy shit.
I don't want to move. I want to stay here forever, pinned by his body, filled by him, the evidence of last night still connecting us. His breath is warm and steady against the back of my neck, his arm curving around my waist like it belongs there. I can feel soft kisses that must have been pressed into my shoulder at some point, the ghost of his mouth on my skin.
But I'm awake now. And I'm wet. And he's still sleeping like I'm his pillow.
I roll my hips back, slow, deliberate. The angle shifts, and a gasp punches out of me—he's deep, so deep, and my body remembers exactly how good that felt last night. His arm tightens around me, a sleep instinct, and I feel his jaw shift against my shoulder.
"Princesa." His voice is gravel, rough from sleep, still half-gone. "Qué haces."
Not a question. A statement. He knows exactly what I'm doing.
"Nothing," I whisper, even as I rock back again, slower this time, feeling him harden inside me. His breath catches against my skin. "Just waking up."
His hand slides from my waist down to my hip, fingers digging in as I feel him grow fuller, thicker, pressing against my walls. He's not fully awake yet, but his body knows what to do—his hips shift, grinding against my ass, and the sound he makes is pure want.
"You're gonna kill me." His voice cracks on the last word, and I smile against the pillow.
"Would that be such a bad way to go?"
He groans, a real groan, and his hand slides lower, palm flat against my stomach, pulling me back against him. "Fuck, princesa. You feel that?"
I do. I feel every inch of him, spreading me open, still slick from last night and from this morning's slow stirring. I feel him pulse inside me, a heartbeat that matches mine, and I turn my head just enough to see his face.
Eyes still closed. Jaw tight. His brows drawn together like he's trying to hold onto a dream.
"Mateo."
His eyes open at the way I say his name—soft, hungry, a little desperate. Dark eyes find mine, and for a moment, neither of us breathes.
"Good morning," I say, and my voice cracks too.
His mouth curves into that slow, dangerous smile. "Buenos días, princesa." He shifts beneath me, just a little, just enough to make me gasp. "You sleep okay?"
I can't help the laugh that escapes me. "With you inside me? Best sleep of my life."
His smile widens, and his hand presses me harder against him. "Mine too."
We lie there for a long moment, not moving, just feeling. The warmth of his chest against my back. The weight of his arm around my waist. The fullness where we're still connected, a promise that neither of us wants to break.
I shift again, and his breath hitches. "If you keep doing that—" He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.
"Keep doing what?" Innocent. Bulshit innocent.
He growls, actually growls, and rolls me onto my back in one smooth motion. He's still inside me, the angle changing as he settles above me, and the sound I make is not dignified. His forearms cage my head, and he looks down at me, hair messy, eyes dark, the cross at his throat swinging above my face.
"You know exactly what you're doing."
I bite my lip, looking up at him through my lashes. "Maybe."
He lowers his head, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath warm on my lips. "I was gonna make you breakfast."
"Breakfast can wait."
He huffs a laugh, and I feel the rumble in his chest, feel it through where we're joined, and my hips buck involuntarily. His eyes darken. "You sure?"
"Mateo." I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "I'm not going anywhere."
He kisses me then, slow and deep, his tongue sliding against mine as his hips begin to move—not fast, not urgent, just a slow, grinding rhythm that makes my toes curl. He's still not fully awake, but his body knows exactly what to do, knows exactly how to make me gasp against his mouth.
We move together like it's the only thing we've ever done. Like our bodies were made for this, made for each other. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing, and he pins it beside my head as he rocks into me, slow and deep, like he's savoring every second.
When we finally come apart—him buried deep, his breath hot in my ear, my name falling from his lips like a prayer—I feel the tremor run through both of us. My cunt clenches around him, and I feel him spill, warm and thick, and I hold him there, tight, not letting go.
He collapses beside me, chest heaving, arm thrown over his eyes. "Breakfast," he says, voice wrecked. "Definitely breakfast."
I laugh, breathless, curled against his side. "You need to recover first?"
"Don't be smug." But he's smiling, the bastard. "You're the one who woke me up by grinding on my dick."
"Best alarm clock ever."
He snorts, pulling me closer, and we lie there in the quiet. The morning light fills the room, dust motes floating in the beams. I trace the tattoos on his arm, the ink that climbs from his wrist to his shoulder, each line a story I don't know yet.
"Princesa." His voice is soft now, thoughtful.
"Hmm?"
He pulls his arm away from his eyes, turning his head to look at me. "I bought you some clothes."
I blink. "What?"
A slow, almost sheepish smile crosses his face. "I saw them. At the mall. I thought they'd look good on you." He shrugs one shoulder. "I want you to try them on."
Something warm blooms in my chest, spreading through my ribs like heat from a fire. "Mateo..."
"Don't make it weird." He pulls away, sitting up, and I watch the muscles in his back shift as he stretches. "They're in the closet. I want to see you in them."
I sit up too, the sheets pooling around my waist. "Right now?"
"Yeah." He looks over his shoulder at me, that dangerous grin back. "Right now."
I don't need to be told twice. I slide out of bed, feeling his gaze on my body—the slow, deliberate trail of his eyes from my breasts to my thighs to the arch of my foot. The floor is cool beneath me, and I walk naked to his closet, pulling open the door.
Three bags hang from the rod. Shopping bags from stores I recognize, stores I've only ever window-shopped at. I pull out the first one and peek inside.
A skirt. Denim. So short it's basically a belt with fringe.
I pull it out, holding it up, and I hear him shift behind me. "There's more."
I reach into the next bag. A crop top, white, the fabric so thin it's practically see-through. A pair of high-waisted shorts that would barely cover my hips. A dress, red, with a neckline that plunges to the navel. A bodysuit, black lace, the kind that shows everything and hides nothing.
I turn to face him, the clothes clutched to my chest. "Mateo."
He's sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, watching me. "Try them on, princesa." His voice is low, rough, the command sending a shiver down my spine. "All of them."
I don't hesitate. I pull on the crop top first, the fabric barely covering my ribs, my breasts full beneath it. Then the denim skirt, the zipper barely holding, the hem riding up to the top of my thighs. I turn to face him, hands on my hips.
"Well?"
His jaw tightens. His eyes darken. "Turn around."
I turn, slow, letting him see every curve. The skirt barely covers my ass. I can feel his gaze like a touch.
"Next."
I change in front of him, slow, deliberate. The red dress. The black bodysuit. The shorts that leave nothing to the imagination. Each time I turn, each time I pose, his breathing gets a little heavier. His hands tighten on the sheets.
"You like them?" I ask, standing in the last outfit—the white crop top and the high-waisted shorts that make my legs look a mile long.
He stands, crosses the room in three strides, and wraps his hand around the back of my neck. "I like you." His lips brush mine, a promise. "Keep them. All of them."
I smile against his mouth. "That's a lot of clothes."
"You're worth it."
And when he kisses me again, I forget about the clothes, the bags, the morning light. All I feel is his hand in my hair, his mouth on mine, the word princesa still warm between us.
We stay like that for a long moment, his mouth on mine, his hand tangled in my hair. The world narrows to the heat of his body, the taste of him, the way my heart hammers against my ribs. When we finally break apart, I'm breathless, my lips tingling.
"Come on, princesa." He pulls back, a lazy grin on his face. "I need a shower. You stay here. Get comfortable."
He stands, and I watch him walk to the bathroom, muscles shifting, water beading on his shoulders from the heat of the room. The door clicks shut. I hear the water start, the hiss of the showerhead, the sound of him stepping under the spray.
I wait. Ten seconds. Twenty. Then I slide off the bed, my feet silent on the cool floor. The door isn't locked. I push it open slowly, steam rolling out, and step inside.
He's facing away from me, head bowed under the water, hands braced against the tile. The water streams down his back, tracing the ink on his skin, every muscle defined. I close the door behind me, and he turns, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before a slow grin spreads across his face.
"Couldn't stay away?"
"Not a chance."
I step under the spray with him, the hot water shocking my skin, and he pulls me against him. His hands find my waist, sliding up to my breasts, water slick between us. I press my lips to his chest, tasting salt and soap.
"Thought you wanted me to wait," I murmur against his skin.
"Changed my mind."
His hand cups my cheek, tilting my face up, and he kisses me—deep, slow, the water streaming around us. I feel his cock hardening against my thigh, and I reach down, wrapping my fingers around him.
He groans into my mouth. "Fuck, princesa."
I stroke him slowly, feeling every inch, the weight of him in my hand. The water runs over us, steam filling my lungs, and he breaks the kiss, turning me around to face the tile.
"Let me take care of you." His voice is rough, hungry. "Bend over."
I do, palms flat against the cool tile, my body arching, offering myself to him. The water cascades down my back, and I feel his hands on my hips, spreading me open. His thumbs trace the curve of my ass, then part my cheeks.
I gasp as his mouth finds me—his tongue, hot and wet, pressing against my asshole. The sensation is electric, sharp and foreign and dizzying. I grip the tile, my knees weak, as he licks into me, slow and deliberate.
"Mateo—"
"Shh." His tongue circles, flickering, dipping deeper. "Let me taste you, princesa. All of you."
I moan, my forehead resting against the tile. The water beats down on my back, and his tongue works me open, teasing, probing. His hands grip my cheeks, spreading me wider, and he buries his face between them, the stubble on his jaw scraping my skin.
I feel myself building, a pressure low in my belly, my pussy clenching around nothing. His tongue fucks me, in and out, and I'm panting, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
"I'm gonna take this hole soon," he growls against my skin, the vibration making me shudder. "Gonna fill you up, make you mine. Every inch of you."
"Yes—yes—"
His tongue thrusts deeper, faster, and I feel the orgasm cresting, uncontrollable. I cry out, my body shaking, and the words slip out before I can stop them.
"Daddy—"
He freezes. His mouth pulls away, and I feel the sudden absence of his tongue, the cold air on my wet skin. I turn, my legs trembling, my heart in my throat.
He's staring at me, dark eyes unreadable, water streaming down his face. His hand is still on my hip, but he's not moving.
"What did you call me?"
I feel heat flood my cheeks, my chest tight. "I—I didn't mean—it just slipped—"
But he's already moving. Before I can finish, his hands are on my hips, spinning me around, slamming me against the tile wall. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, and he lifts one of my legs, wrapping it around his waist, his cock pressing hard against my entrance.
"Say it again." His voice is a growl, his face inches from mine. "Say it, princesa."
I can barely breathe. "Daddy."
And then he's inside me, slamming into my pussy in one brutal thrust. I scream—a raw, guttural sound that echoes off the bathroom walls. He fucks me hard, his hips driving into mine, the water sluicing over us, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.
"That's right," he grunts, his forehead pressed to mine. "My princesa calls me daddy. Nobody else. Understood?"
I can't form words. I can only moan, my hands clawing at his shoulders, my legs wrapped around him as he pounds into me.
"Understood?" He slams deeper, harder, and I feel myself climbing again, the pressure building.
"Yes—yes—daddy—"
His hand finds my throat, firm but not choking, and he kisses me, his tongue in my mouth, his cock in my cunt, the water everywhere. I come again, shouting his name against his lips, and he follows, his body shuddering, a low groan against my mouth as he empties himself into me.
We stay like that, caught between each other, the water still falling. He pulls back slowly, his forehead against mine, both of us gasping for air.
"You promise?" he breathes. "Only me. Only ever call me daddy."
"I promise." My voice is hoarse, but I mean it. "Always. Only you, daddy."
He kisses me, soft this time, a gentle brush of lips, and then he reaches past me, turning off the water. The sudden silence is deafening, our breathing the only sound.
He helps me out of the shower, wrapping a towel around me, his hands gentle now. I dry myself on autopilot, my body still humming, and he rubs a towel through his hair, catching my eye in the mirror.
"Get dressed, princesa. We've got school."
I pull on one of the outfits he bought me—the white crop top and the high-waisted shorts that barely cover my ass. He watches me from the doorway, a towel slung low on his hips, and he smiles. That slow, dangerous smile.
I walk past him, and he catches my wrist, pulling me close for one more kiss. "I meant what I said. Every hole is mine now."
I shiver, heat pooling low in my belly. "I know, daddy."
He grins, and we finish getting ready—him in his leather jacket, me in my new clothes—and when we walk out of his apartment into the morning sun, his hand finds mine, and I know this is just the beginning.
By the time we reach the lunch line, my body is still buzzing from the shower, from his hands, from the way he looked at me when I called him daddy. The cafeteria is loud, crowded, kids pushing past each other, trays clattering. I feel Mateo's hand on the small of my back, possessive, like a brand through the thin fabric of my crop top.
"Hungry, princesa?" His voice is low, close to my ear.
"Starving." I tilt my head back, meeting his eyes. He's wearing that leather jacket, the silver cross catching the fluorescent light, and he looks like he owns every inch of this place. Like he owns me.
We move through the line, and I feel the stares. Girls watching him. Guys watching me. I don't care. Not when his hand stays on me, thumb tracing small circles against my spine.
He grabs a tray, loads it with food. I grab a salad I know I won't eat. My body's too wired for food. Too aware of him behind me, his heat, his scent—motor oil and something darker, something that makes my thighs clench.
When we reach the register, I bend over to grab a napkin from the bottom shelf. It's not intentional. Not entirely. I hear a sharp intake of breath behind me, and I know my shorts have ridden up, exposing the bottom curve of my ass, my thong cutting deep between my cheeks.
Mateo's hand is on my hip instantly, pulling me upright, spinning me to face him. His eyes are dark, jaw tight.
"Careful, princesa." His voice is a low warning. "You're gonna make me forget we're in public."
I bite my lip, fighting a smile. "Maybe I want you to forget."
His hand tightens on my hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh. He leans in, his mouth brushing my ear. "You keep playing, and I'll take you in the bathroom. Fuck you against the stall door until everyone hears."
A shiver runs through me, pooling heat between my thighs. "Promise?"
He pulls back, something dark flickering in his eyes. "Pay for your food, princesa."
I do, my hands trembling slightly as I hand over cash. He pays for his own, then takes my tray, carrying both to an empty table near the window. I follow, watching the way his shoulders move under his jacket, the way his jeans hug his ass.
We sit across from each other, and I immediately lean forward, elbows on the table, letting my crop top gape open. I'm not wearing a bra—never do—and the fabric hangs loose, revealing the curve of my breasts, the dark circles of my nipples.
He sees. His eyes drop, linger, then snap back to mine. He takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly, watching me.
"You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what?" I bat my eyelashes, innocent.
His jaw works. "Trying to get a reaction."
"Is it working?"
He sets the sandwich down. Leans back in his chair. His eyes travel over me, slow, deliberate, like he's undressing me with his gaze. "You know it is."
I feel my cheeks flush, but I don't look away. I reach for my fork, stab a piece of lettuce, bring it to my lips. I take my time chewing, watching him watch me.
"You're a brat," he says, but there's no heat in it. Just amusement. Want.
"Your brat."
That gets me a smile. Slow. Dangerous. He picks up his sandwich again, takes another bite.
I stretch my arms above my head, arching my back, letting my crop top ride up until it catches under my breasts. My tits are fully exposed now—nipples hard from the air conditioning, from his stare. The table is mostly hidden from the rest of the cafeteria by a pillar, but anyone walking past would see everything.
Mateo's hand freezes mid-bite. His eyes lock on my chest, and I see his jaw flex, the muscle jumping.
"Val." His voice is strained. "Put your arms down."
"Why?" I stretch higher, holding the pose. "You don't like what you see?"
He sets the sandwich down again. Slowly. Deliberately. Leans forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to a whisper. "I like it too much. That's the problem."
I feel a thrill run through me. Power. I have power over him. The bad boy with the ink and the motorcycle and the reputation—he's undone by a pair of tits and a stretch.
I let my arms drop, but only to lean forward more, my breasts pressing against the edge of the table, the fabric of my crop top doing nothing to hide them. "What are you gonna do about it?"
He stares at me for a long moment. The cafeteria noise fades, the clatter of trays, the chatter of students—it all becomes background static. It's just us. Just him and me and the space between us that's thick with tension.
"After school," he says finally. "You're coming home with me."
It's not a question. It's a command. And I love it.
"And what are we gonna do at your place?"
His eyes flicker. "Whatever I want."
Heat floods through me, wet and aching. I squeeze my thighs together under the table, trying to relieve the pressure building there. "And what do you want, daddy?"
The word lands like a grenade. His whole body stills, his eyes darkening, his breathing changing. He reaches across the table, grabs my wrist, pulls my hand toward him until my fingers are brushing his jeans, the hard line of his cock pressed against the denim.
"That's what I want," he says, voice rough. "You. On your knees. In my bed. In my mouth. Every way I can have you."
My breath catches. My fingers trace the outline of him through the denim, and I feel him twitch under my touch. "Then take me," I whisper. "After school. Take me home."
He releases my wrist, but his eyes never leave mine. "Eat your lunch, princesa. You're gonna need your energy."
I pick up my fork, but I'm not hungry for food. I'm hungry for him. I take a bite anyway, watching him watch me, the game still playing out between us.
A group of girls walks past our table. One of them—a blonde with too much makeup—lingers, her eyes on Mateo. She smiles, flips her hair, says something to her friend that makes them both giggle.
Mateo doesn't even glance at them. His eyes stay on me.
"You got a problem?" His voice is flat, directed at the girls.
The blonde freezes. "What?"
"You heard me." He doesn't raise his voice, but it cuts through the air like a blade. "You got something to say? Say it to my face."
The girl's face flushes. She mutters something under her breath, and her friend pulls her away, disappearing into the crowd.
I feel a rush of something—pride? Possessiveness? He's mine. This man, this dangerous, tattooed man with the silver cross and the dark eyes—he's mine. And everyone who looks at him knows it.
"You didn't have to be mean to her." I say it teasingly, but there's a part of me that loves it. Loves that he's mean to everyone else and soft with me.
"She was looking at you wrong." He shrugs, takes a bite of his sandwich. "I don't share."
I feel my cheeks warm. "I'm not yours."
He looks at me, eyes locking onto mine. "You are."
Three words. Simple. Absolute. And I know he means them.
I don't argue. Because he's right.
I finish my salad, pushing lettuce around more than eating it. He finishes his sandwich, then reaches across the table, his thumb brushing a crumb from the corner of my mouth. The gesture is intimate, tender, a contrast to the possessive grip he had on my wrist moments ago.
"You got something on your face, princesa."
I lick my lips, tasting his thumb. His eyes follow the movement of my tongue, darkening.
"I'll get it," I say, voice low.
He pulls his hand back, but not before his finger traces my lower lip. "I know you will."
The bell rings, signalling the end of lunch. The cafeteria erupts into movement, students gathering their trays, heading to their next classes. I stand, and Mateo stands with me, his hand finding the small of my back again.
"I'll walk you to class."
We weave through the crowd, and I feel the stares—envious, curious, judging. I don't care. His hand on me is all that matters.
We reach my classroom. The door is open, a few students already inside. I turn to face him, ready to say goodbye.
Before I can speak, his hand is on my throat. Not hard—not choking—just there, a firm grip that makes my breath catch. He pulls me toward him, and his mouth meets mine.
The kiss is soft. Gentle. A contrast to the hand on my throat. His lips move against mine slowly, tenderly, like he's savoring me. His thumb traces my jaw, tilting my head back, deepening the kiss without rushing it.
I melt into him. My hands find his chest, gripping his jacket, holding myself steady as he kisses me like I'm something precious. The hand on my throat is a reminder of his dominance, but the kiss is a promise of something softer.
He pulls back slowly, his forehead resting against mine. "See you after school, princesa."
I'm breathless. Dizzy. "Yeah."
His hand drops from my throat, and he steps back, turning and walking away. I watch him go, his shoulders broad under his jacket, his stride confident. He doesn't look back. He doesn't need to.
I walk into my class in a daze, dropping into my seat. My lips still tingle from his kiss. My neck still warm from his hand. I can still smell him on me—motor oil and musk and him.
The teacher starts talking, some lesson about history or math or something I don't care about. All I can think about is the way he said "you are." The way his hand felt on my throat. The way he kissed me like I was his whole world.
And I know—I'm not going to make it through the rest of the day without him. Every minute feels like an hour. Every second stretches into an eternity.
I pull out my phone, slide it under the desk, and text him.
Val: I can't focus.
A minute passes. Two. Then my phone buzzes.
Mateo: Good. Think about me.
I bite my lip, typing back.
Val: I am. Can't stop.
Mateo: Tell me what you're thinking.
I glance at the teacher, then back at my phone. My fingers fly across the screen.
Val: Your hand on my throat. Your lips. What you're gonna do to me after school.
This time, his reply takes longer. I'm watching my phone, waiting, my heart pounding.
Mateo: I'm gonna take you home. Lay you out on my bed. And taste every inch of you. Slowly.
My thighs clench under the desk. Heat floods through me, wet and aching. I press my thighs together, trying to relieve the pressure, but it only makes it worse.
Val: I want that.
Mateo: I know you do, princesa. Be good. Only two more hours.
Two hours. It feels like a lifetime. I put my phone away, trying to focus on the lesson, but my mind is elsewhere—on him, on his bed, on the way his hands are going to feel on my skin.
I spend the rest of the class squirming in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn't make me ache more. It doesn't work. Every movement reminds me of how empty I feel without him inside me.
The final bell rings like a salvation. I grab my bag, nearly running out of the classroom. The hallway is chaos—students pushing, laughing, heading for the exits. I push through them, scanning the crowd for him.
And then I see him. Leaning against the wall near the main entrance, arms crossed, watching the flow of students with bored eyes. When he sees me, something shifts in his gaze. A hunger. A possession.
I don't slow down. I walk right up to him, drop my bag, and wrap my arms around his neck, pressing my body against his.
"That took forever," I breathe.
His hands find my hips, pulling me closer. "I know. Let's go."
He grabs my bag, slings it over his shoulder, and takes my hand. We walk out of the school together, his motorcycle waiting in the lot, gleaming under the afternoon sun.
He hands me the helmet, and I put it on. He swings onto the bike, and I climb on behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist, pressing my chest against his back.
The engine roars to life, and we're off, the school shrinking behind us, the wind whipping past. I close my eyes, pressing my face against his leather jacket, feeling the vibration of the bike between my thighs.
I don't know where we're going. I don't care.
As long as it's with him.