The door clicks shut behind me and before I can turn around his hands are on me. Rough. Desperate. His fingers find the hem of my crop top and he pulls—not undressing me, taking it off me, the fabric tearing at the seam. I gasp and he swallows the sound, his mouth on mine, his tongue pushing past my lips like he's been starving for the taste of me.
I feel the cool air on my stomach, my ribs, and then my breasts are bare and his palms are on them, cupping, squeezing, his thumbs dragging across my nipples until they're hard peaks under his touch. He breaks the kiss to look at me, to watch his own hands on my body, his jaw tight, his eyes dark. "Te dije que te iba a saborear toda," he growls. I told you I was going to taste every inch of you.
He drops to his knees.
The denim shorts hit the floor. My thong follows, peeled down my thighs, and his breath is hot against my skin, his hands gripping my ass, spreading me open. His mouth finds the inside of my thigh and I feel the scrape of stubble, the wet heat of his tongue, the way he bites down just hard enough to leave a mark. "Mateo—" My voice breaks when his mouth moves higher.
His tongue slides through my folds and I think I stop breathing. He takes his time. Slow. Deliberate. Like he's memorizing the taste of me, the shape of me, the way my hips rock against his face when he finds the spot that makes me see stars. My fingers tangle in his hair and he moans against me, the vibration sending a shudder through my entire body.
"Fuck," I whisper. "Fuck, Mateo—"
He pulls back just enough to look up at me, his lips glistening, his eyes half-lidded. "You taste like heaven, Princesa." He says it like a prayer. Like I'm something holy. "Give me one. Let me taste it on my tongue."
I'm already there. His mouth finds my clit and I shatter, my thighs clamping around his head, his name falling from my lips as he works me through it, lapping up every drop, not stopping until I'm trembling and gasping and pushing at his shoulders because I can't take any more.
He stands. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Grins.
"One down. Nine to go."
My knees feel weak. He catches me, lifts me, carries me to his bed and lays me out on the rumpled sheets like I'm something precious. The lamp casts shadows across his face, across the ink on his arms, and I reach for him, needy, wanting. "I need you inside me."
"Not yet." He pulls away, and I whimper. He chuckles, that low dark sound that goes straight between my thighs. "Patience, Princesa. I promised I'd taste every inch of you. I'm not done."
He starts at my neck. His lips there, his tongue tracing the line of my collarbone, his teeth grazing my shoulder. Then lower. His mouth on my breast, sucking, licking, his thumb rubbing my other nipple until I'm arching off the bed, a string of curses falling from my lips. He moves lower. His tongue traces my ribs. My stomach. The dip of my hip.
He spreads my legs. Settles between them.
And then his mouth is on me again and I'm gone.
He takes his time. Two orgasms. Three. I lose count. He doesn't stop until I'm a shaking mess, my chest heaving, my fingers gripping the sheets, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes from the sheer overwhelm of it all.
"Mateo—please—I need you—"
He finally relents. But instead of climbing over me, he reaches under his bed and pulls out something that makes my breath catch. Two silk scarves. Black. And a pair of leather ankle cuffs connected by a short wooden bar.
"You trust me?" he asks. His voice is low. Serious.
I nod without hesitation.
He takes my wrists. Presses them above my head. Wraps the scarf around them, around the headboard, cinches it tight—not too tight, but secure. I test the give. There isn't much. A thrill runs through me.
Then he fastens the cuffs around my ankles. I feel the cool leather against my skin, the weight of the bar between them. "What does that do?" I ask, my voice breathy.
He smirks. Grabs the bar. Gives it a firm shake.
It stretches open. Spreading my legs.
Wide.
I gasp. I'm completely open to him, completely exposed, completely at his mercy. He chuckles, low and dark, running a hand down my spread thigh. "Now I have access to both," he says. And I know exactly what he means.
He lines himself up at my entrance. The head of his cock presses against me, slick with my wetness, and I moan before he even pushes in. "Tell me what you need, Princesa."
"You. All of you. Just—fuck me."
He pushes in. Slow. Inch by inch. Until he's buried inside me, his hips flush against mine, and I feel so full I think I might split apart. He waits. Lets me adjust. Then he moves.
The first thrust steals my breath. The second draws a moan from somewhere deep in my chest. The third makes me forget my own name. His pace builds, steady and merciless, his hands gripping my hips, his eyes on my face, watching every expression, every gasp, every moan.
"You feel that?" he growls. "That's me. All of me. In your pussy, in your head, in your blood. You're mine, Princesa."
"Yes—fuck—yes, I'm yours—"
He pulls out. I whimper at the loss. But then he flips me over, unties the scarves from the headboard, reties my wrists behind my back. I'm on my knees, face-down, ass up, the ankle bar keeping me spread wide. He runs a hand over my ass, squeezes, slaps—just hard enough to make me yelp.
"I promised I'd taste every inch." His thumb presses against my asshole, circling, teasing. "I meant every inch."
I feel his tongue there and I cry out. His hands hold me open while he works me, his tongue pressing inside, licking, sucking, driving me absolutely insane. I'm dripping onto the sheets, trembling, pleading.
"Please—Mateo—please fuck me—"
He lines up behind me. Presses into my pussy first, filling me again, and I moan into the mattress. But then he pulls out, repositions, and I feel the head of his cock pressing against my ass. "Tell me if it's too much."
I don't have words. I just push back against him.
He enters me slowly. The stretch is intense, burning, perfect. I gasp, my fingers clenching into fists behind my back, my whole body tensing. He stops, waits, lets me adjust. "You okay?"
"Yeah—fuck—yeah—keep going—"
He sinks deeper. All the way. And then he's fully inside me, in my ass, and I feel so full, so completely taken, I don't know where I end and he begins. He starts moving. Slow at first. Then faster. His hand reaches around to find my clit, rubbing in circles, and the dual sensation sends me hurtling toward the edge.
"Come for me, Princesa." His voice is ragged. Desperate. "Come on my cock."
I shatter. My body convulses, my vision whites out, and I hear myself scream his name. He keeps thrusting, chasing his own release, and when he comes I feel him pulse inside me, his groan low and animal, his grip on my hip bruising.
We collapse.
He unties my wrists. Rubs them gently. Kisses each one. Then he pulls me into his chest, his arm around my waist, his lips pressed to my hair. "Three more," he murmurs. "You owe me seven."
I laugh. It comes out hoarse. "Give me a minute."
He gives me two.
Then he's inside me again, and we don't stop until we've both lost count.
---
The ride to my house is quiet, but it's a good quiet. My body aches in ways I've never felt before—pleasurably sore, marked, claimed. His arm is around my waist as I lean into his back, the wind whipping my hair, the taste of him still on my lips.
He parks outside my house. Kills the engine. Turns to me.
"I have to go away for a few days."
My heart drops. "What? Where?"
"Family thing. Back home. I'll be gone until Tuesday." He cups my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. "I don't want to go."
"Then don't." I hear the pout in my voice. I don't care.
He smiles softly. Presses his forehead to mine. "I'll text you every hour. I'll call you before you sleep. When I get back, I'm not leaving your side for a week."
I wrap my arms around his neck. Kiss him slow, deep, trying to pour everything I feel into it—the want, the need, the ache at the thought of three days without him. "I'll miss you," I whisper against his lips.
His hand slides down to my ass. Squeezes once. Then again, slower, like he's memorizing the feel of me. "Miss you too, Princesa."
He watches me walk to my door. I turn at the threshold, blow him a kiss, and catch the flash of his grin even in the dark.
The next morning, I wake up to my phone buzzing.
Good morning, Princesa. Dreamt about you.
I smile. Stretch. Feel the soreness between my thighs and remember exactly why.
A plan forms.
I take photos. The first is simple—just my lips, my teeth catching my bottom lip, a hint of the sheet falling low. The second, I push the sheet down, let the camera catch the curve of my breast, the nipple just visible. The third, I slide my hand between my thighs, bite my lip, and snap it at the exact right angle.
Three photos. Two words with them.
I miss you.
I hit send.
Three seconds later, my phone rings.
I answer with a smirk. "Good morning to you too."
His voice is rough, strained, wrecked. "Princesa. You're trying to kill me."
I laugh. "You said you'd text me every hour. I'm just making sure you keep your promise."
A beat of silence. Then, low and serious: "When I get back, I'm not letting you out of my bed for a week. Clear?"
I feel heat pool in my stomach. "Clear."
His groan is audible through the phone. "Fuck. I'm gonna need a cold shower."
"Send me a picture."
"Princesa."
"What? Fair's fair."
He laughs. That low, dark, beautiful sound that makes my toes curl. "I'll see you Tuesday. Keep your phone close."
"Always."
The line clicks. I drop back onto my pillows, clutching my phone to my chest, and count the hours until he comes home.
A few minutes later, my phone buzzes again. I grab it, heart already skipping, and the image on screen makes my breath stutter.
He's naked. Sitting on the edge of what must be his bed back home, legs spread, his hand wrapped around his cock — thick, hard, the head glistening. The angle catches everything: the veins, the curve, the way his thumb drags slowly along the shaft. His stomach is tight, tattooed arm flexed, and his eyes — dark, hungry — are looking straight at the camera like he knows exactly what this does to me.
Below it, a text: Send me a picture of you bent over and spread your asscheeks.
No punctuation. No question. A demand. And my body answers before my brain catches up.
I kick off the sheets, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. I turn, plant my knees on the mattress, and lower myself until my chest is flat against the bed, my ass up in the air. The position makes me feel exposed, vulnerable, owned — and I fucking love it. I reach back, grab both cheeks, and pull them apart. The cool air hits me, and I know exactly what he'll see. My pussy, wet and pink. My asshole, tight and waiting. Everything open for him.
I angle the phone, snap the photo, and send it without looking. Then I drop my face into the pillow, breathing hard, waiting.
Three dots appear immediately. Then nothing. Then dots again. Then a single word: fuck.
I grin into the pillow. Then my phone buzzes with a notification. Instagram. He's tagged me in a post.
I open it. My breath catches.
He's posted a carousel. The first photo — one of the nudes I sent this morning. My lips, the hint of my breast, my hand between my thighs. The second — a shot of me from the pool party, bent over to grab a drink, my thong disappearing between my cheeks. The third — the one I just sent, bent over, spread, everything he owns on display. His caption, simple and brutal: Mine.
I feel heat flood through me, pooling low in my stomach. He's claiming me. Publicly. For everyone to see.
I like the post immediately. Then I scroll through my camera roll, finding the photo I took yesterday — before he left, when I pressed my back against his chest in his room, no bra, no panties, his forearm crossing over my breasts, his other hand cupping my pussy through the fabric. My head tilted back against his shoulder. His lips at my ear. The intimacy of it, the possession.
I post it. Caption: Yours. Tag him.
For a moment, nothing. Then the notifications start pouring in.
Bro wtf since when
No way she's taken
Lucky motherfucker
Valentina nooo you were the chosen one
That's El Lobo's girl?? Damn
Y'all are so hot together
RIP to every guy at school
I had a chance and I missed it 😭
I laugh, scrolling through the jealousy, the bitterness, the grudging respect. All the guys who looked at me like meat, who thought they had a shot — they see his tag, his caption, his arm around me, his hand on my pussy — and they know. I'm not available. I was never available. Not for them. Only for him.
My phone rings. I answer without looking. "You're making a scene."
His voice is rough, wrecked. "You started it."
"I finished it too."
He laughs, low and dark. "You did, Princesa. You really did." A pause. "I can't stop looking at that photo you just sent. The one with your ass spread."
I bite my lip. "Good."
"I'm gonna come home so hard for you."
"Promise?"
"I don't make promises I can't keep."
I feel the weight of his words, the heat behind them. "Then I'll be waiting."
Another pause. Then, softer: "I miss you."
My chest tightens. "I miss you too."
"Tuesday. I'll be at your door by noon."
"I'll be ready."
"Wear something easy to take off."
I laugh. "I wasn't planning on wearing anything."
His groan is audible. "Fuck. I gotta go before I do something stupid."
"Go. Text me tonight."
"Every hour, Princesa. Promise."
The line clicks. I drop back onto my pillows, clutching my phone, scrolling through the comments again. The jealousy. The possessiveness. The way he claimed me in front of everyone.
I open his post again. Stare at the photo of me bent over, spread open, captioned Mine.
I've never felt more wanted. More owned. More his.
And I love every second of it.
Over the next three days, I make it my mission to destroy him.
Every hour, on the hour, a new photo. The ones I know he loves. My tits pressed together in the mirror, nipples hard, captioned Thinking of you. My ass spread open on my bed, thong pulled to the side, captioned Come home. My pussy glistening in the bathroom light, fingers teasing, captioned I'm so wet for you.
He loses his mind. Every single time.
"Princesa, I'm in a meeting."
"Then leave."
"I can't just—fuck. Send another."
I do. This time my legs spread wide, my cunt on full display, dripping onto the sheets. His reply comes in all caps: I'M GOING TO FUCK YOU SO HARD.
I bite my lip and type back: Promise?
His phone calls come at midnight, his voice ragged. "I'm touching myself to your pictures, Princesa. You have no idea what you're doing to me."
"I have some idea." I trail my hand down my stomach, fingers finding my clit. "I'm doing it too."
His groan fills the line. "Tell me what you're wearing."
"Nothing. Just my sheets. And my fingers."
"Are they inside you?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
"Two." I slide them deeper. "Wish they were yours."
I hear him spit, the wet sound of his hand moving. "Fuck, Princesa. I'm so close."
"Come for me. I want to hear it."
He does, a low growl, my name on his lips, and I follow right after, my thighs clenching around my hand.
Sunday passes the same way. Monday too. By Tuesday, I'm a raw nerve, aching for him, counting hours until noon. I fall asleep with my phone clutched in my hand, his last message glowing on the screen: See you tomorrow, Princesa. Sleep tight.
I drift off, dreaming of his hands, his mouth, his cock.
And then I'm not dreaming.
The feeling starts slow. Warmth between my legs. A pressure. A rhythm. My body arches off the mattress before my brain catches up, a moan slipping from my lips as I surface toward consciousness. There's something there. Something hot and wet and insistent, lapping at my core like I'm the sweetest thing it's ever tasted.
My eyes flutter open. Dim light from the hallway spills into my room, and between my thighs, dark hair, a familiar silhouette.
Mateo.
He's eating me out. In my sleep. Like it's the most natural thing in the world.
I should be shocked. I'm not. I'm already so close, the orgasm building from somewhere deep, the one I've been chasing all weekend finally within reach. His tongue slides through my folds, circles my clit, and I gasp, my hands finding his hair, gripping tight.
"Fuck—Mateo—"
He doesn't stop. He doubles down, his mouth sealing over me, sucking hard, his fingers spreading me open so he can taste every inch. I'm keening now, my hips rocking against his face, and he groans against my cunt, the vibration sending me over the edge.
I come undone. My back bows, my toes curl, my scream muffled by my own hand as pleasure rips through me, wave after wave, his tongue never slowing, drinking me dry.
Before the last tremor fades, I feel him move. His weight shifts, his body lining up with mine, and then—
He thrusts inside me.
No warning. No slow push. Just one smooth, hard stroke that fills me completely, and I cry out, still clenching from my orgasm, his name a broken prayer on my lips.
"Mateo—"
"Shh, Princesa." His voice is wrecked, dark, his forehead pressed to mine. "I had to. I couldn't wait another second."
He pulls out almost all the way, then slams back in, and I feel every inch of him, the stretch, the heat, the way my body welcomes him like he never left.
"You've been tormenting me for days," he growls, his hips setting a punishing pace. "Sending me those pictures. Making me stroke my cock in hotel rooms. Do you have any idea what you did to me?"
I can't answer. I can only moan, my nails raking down his back, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper.
"Answer me."
"I wanted you," I gasp. "I wanted you to lose your mind."
"Well, I did." He drives into me harder, the bedframe creaking beneath us. "I drove six hours straight to get here. Didn't even unpack. Just came straight to your window."
My window. He climbed through my window. The thought makes me wetter, hotter, and I kiss him, taste myself on his lips, and he moans into my mouth.
"Fuck, Princesa. You taste so good."
His hand finds my throat, not squeezing, just holding, and he looks down at me with those dark eyes, possessive, hungry. "I'm not done with you. Not even close."
He pulls out, flips me onto my stomach, yanks my hips up. I'm on all fours, my face pressed into the pillow, and he slides back inside me from behind, a guttural sound tearing from his chest.
"This ass," he breathes, his hand slapping my cheek. "I've been dreaming about it."
He fucks me like that, deep and relentless, his balls slapping against my clit, and I'm already climbing toward another orgasm, my toes curling, my fingers twisting the sheets.
"I'm close," I whimper.
"Not yet." He slows, almost to a stop, and I whine in protest. He chuckles darkly, leaning over my back, his lips at my ear. "You sent me forty-seven pictures this weekend, Princesa. I counted. You owe me at least that many orgasms."
"Forty-seven?" I laugh breathlessly. "That's not—"
"Shut up and take it."
He starts moving again, faster now, his thumb finding my clit, circling in time with his thrusts. I'm done for. My body clenches around him, my second orgasm crashing over me, and he follows right after, his hips stuttering, his groan muffled against my shoulder as he empties inside me.
We collapse together, sweat-slick, breathing hard. His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against his chest, his lips pressing lazy kisses to my shoulder.
"Missed you," he murmurs.
I smile, weak and satisfied. "Missed you too."
He nuzzles into my neck. "I have to leave again tomorrow morning. Just for a day. But tonight I'm all yours."
I turn in his arms, cup his face. "Then don't waste a second."
He grins, that dangerous, beautiful grin, and rolls me onto my back again. "I wasn't planning to."