I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat under my fingers. "Don't go." The words come out before I can stop them, raw and desperate in a way I hate.
Mateo's dark eyes find mine, and that slow smirk spreads across his lips—the one that makes my stomach flip. "Princesa." His voice is a low rumble. "I told you. A few days."
"I don't care." I step closer, my bare toes brushing against his boots. The crop top I'm wearing rides up, and I feel the cool air against my ribs. "I want you to stay."
His hand comes up, callused fingers tracing my jaw, tilting my face toward his. "You want me to stay?"
"Yes." No hesitation. No games.
He chuckles, low and dark, and my thighs press together at the sound. "I'll never leave if you do one thing, Princesa."
"Anything." The word falls out of me like a promise.
His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I feel the rough pad catch on the soft skin. "Move in with me."
My heart stops. Then pounds so hard I feel it in my throat, in my chest, between my legs. "What?"
"You heard me." His eyes don't leave mine. "Move in with me. Today. Right now."
I should think about this. I should—
"Yes."
The word is out before I can catch it. I don't want to catch it.
His smirk deepens, and he pulls me into him, his mouth crashing against mine. The kiss is hard, claiming, and I melt into him, my fingers twisting in his shirt. His tongue slides against mine, and I taste cigarettes and something sweet—gum, maybe. I don't care. I just want more of him.
He breaks the kiss too soon, breathing hard. "Pack your things. We're gone in an hour."
"An hour?"
"I don't want to give you time to change your mind."
I laugh, breathless. "I won't."
He watches me as I scramble around my room, shoving clothes into bags. I don't care about folding, about being neat. I just want to be out of here. Away from this house, from the memories that linger in the walls. Into his space. His life.
An hour later, I'm standing in his apartment, my bags at my feet, looking at the bare bulb buzzing overhead. The place smells like him—stale smoke, leather, something sharp and masculine. It's not much. A mattress on the floor in the corner. A worn couch. A kitchen with chipped counters.
But it's his. And now it's mine.
"Make yourself at home, Princesa." He's already pulling off his jacket, tossing it onto the couch. "I'm gonna grab us some food. You hungry?"
I nod, still taking it all in. The way his presence fills the small space. The way the room feels smaller with him in it, but in a good way. Like I'm wrapped in him.
He pauses at the door, looking back at me. "Don't get into trouble while I'm gone."
"Me?" I press a hand to my chest, feigning innocence. "Never."
He shakes his head, but the smile is there, soft and private. Then he's gone, and the door clicks shut behind him.
I stand in the middle of his apartment, my heart racing. This is real. I'm really here. Living with him.
I start unpacking, pulling clothes from my bags. His dresser is half-empty, and I slide my things in next to his. His shirts smell like him. I press one to my face and breathe in.
Then an idea hits me.
He'll be back soon. I should greet him properly.
I strip off my clothes, letting them fall to the floor. The air is cool against my skin, and I shiver. I bend over the edge of the mattress, my palms flat on the worn sheet, my ass in the air. I reach back and spread my cheeks wide, feeling the cool air against my most intimate places. My breasts hang beneath me, heavy and full.
I wait. The position is vulnerable, exposed, but I feel powerful. He'll walk in and see me like this. Ready for him. Waiting.
The door creaks open.
"Finally," I purr, not turning around. "Took you long enough. I've been waiting for you, papi."
Silence.
I frown. "Mateo?"
A throat clears. Not his throat. Deeper. Rougher.
I twist my head, looking over my shoulder.
A man stands in the doorway. Not Mateo. One of his friends—the one with the scar above his eyebrow. I've seen him at the pool party. He's staring at me, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open. His gaze rakes over my exposed body, lingering on my spread ass, the wetness I know is already slick between my thighs.
My heart lurches, but I don't move. I don't cover myself.
I've never been shy about my body. And right now, I feel the heat of his gaze like a physical touch. It's wrong. He's not who I was waiting for. But the power I feel—the control—it's intoxicating.
"Don't stop on my account," I say, my voice steady. I hold the position, my ass still spread, my breasts still hanging. "He'll be back any minute."
The friend swallows hard. He takes a step forward. Then another.
I should stop him. I know I should. But I don't. I stay in place, watching him approach, feeling the tension coil in my stomach.
He stops behind me. I feel the heat of his body, the rough denim of his jeans brushing against the backs of my thighs. His hand hovers near my ass, not touching, but close enough that I feel the warmth radiating from his palm.
"You're fucking insane," he mutters, but there's no heat in it. Just awe.
"Maybe." I push my ass back slightly, almost brushing against the bulge in his jeans. "But you like it."
He lets out a shaky breath. His fingers graze my ass cheek, featherlight. I shiver.
The door slams open.
"What the fuck—"
Mateo's voice. Cold. Deadly.
I barely have time to register the shift before something—someone—smashes into the friend's back. The friend lurches forward, and his body slams into mine, pinning me to the mattress. I feel his hard cock pressed against the curve of my ass, separated only by denim.
Mateo roars. Hands grab the friend by the collar, ripping him backward. I hear fabric tear, a thud as the friend hits the floor, then Mateo's voice, low and shaking with rage.
"Get the fuck out. Now."
The friend scrambles to his feet, stammers something I don't catch, and then the door is slamming again, and it's just me and Mateo.
I don't move from the position. I can't. My heart is pounding, my skin hot. The air is thick with tension, with the aftermath of what almost happened.
Mateo stands over me, breathing hard. I look up at him from over my shoulder, still spread, still waiting.
"Valentina." His voice is tight. Controlled. Dangerous. "What the hell was that?"
"I thought you were him." My voice comes out steady, but I feel the shake underneath. "I was waiting for you."
He stares at me. His jaw is clenched so hard I see the muscle jump. His fists are white-knuckled at his sides.
Then he exhales. Long. Slow. He runs a hand through his hair, and I see the anger bleed into something else. Possessiveness. Hunger.
"You were going to let him touch you?"
"I didn't say no."
"That's not an answer."
I turn, pushing myself up onto my knees. I'm still naked, still wet, still aching. I look up at him, my eyes meeting his. "I wanted him to look. I wanted him to want what he can't have. Because it's yours. All of it. It's yours."
His eyes darken. He crosses the space between us in one stride, his hand fisting in my hair, pulling my head back. His mouth is a breath away from mine.
"You're mine, Princesa." His voice is a growl. "You don't let anyone else look at you like that."
"Then make sure everyone knows."
His lips crash into mine, hard enough to bruise. His hand tightens in my hair, pulling until I gasp, and he swallows the sound. His other hand finds my throat, pressing lightly, just enough to remind me who's in control.
He pulls back, breathing hard. "Get on the bed."
I don't hesitate. I crawl onto the mattress, my knees sinking into the thin fabric. I turn and look back at him, my hair wild, my lips swollen, my body already trembling with anticipation.
He watches me. His hand goes to his belt, and the slow, deliberate motion makes my breath catch. The metal clinks. The leather slides free.
He steps closer, the belt still in his hand. "You think you can just offer yourself to anyone who walks through that door?"
"I was offering myself to you."
"Is that what you call it?" He's behind me now, the belt dangling from his fingers. "Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were offering yourself to him."
I shake my head, but the denial dies in my throat as the leather wraps around my wrist. He pulls, drawing my arm behind my back. Then the other. The belt tightens, binding my wrists together.
I gasp. Not from pain. From the shock of it. The surrender.
He leans down, his mouth at my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "You're going to learn, Princesa. You're going to learn exactly who you belong to."
I shudder. And I've never wanted anything more in my life.
His hand slides down my spine, slow, deliberate, stopping at the small of my back. I arch into the touch, my wrists still bound behind me, the belt leather biting into my skin. He trails his fingers lower, over the curve of my ass, and I press back against his hand, desperate for more.
"Please," I whisper. "Please, Mateo."
He doesn't answer. His hand slips between my thighs from behind, fingers finding me slick and swollen. I gasp as he drags them through my wetness, teasing, not entering. He circles my clit once, twice, and I buck against his hand, the pleasure building fast.
"You're going to come," he says, his voice low, almost bored. "But not yet."
He speeds up, just enough, and I feel the edge approaching—my breath catches, my thighs tremble. I'm right there, right on the precipice, and then he stops. His hand vanishes.
A whimper escapes me. "No—please, I was so close—"
"I know." He leans over me, his mouth at my ear. "That's the point."
He repeats it three more times. Brings me to the brink, my whole body shaking, and then pulls away. Each time it's harder to hold back the tears of frustration. By the third time, I'm begging, my voice cracking.
"Mateo, I can't—"
"You can." He sits back, and I hear the belt unbuckling. My wrists are free. I collapse onto the mattress, my arms aching, my cunt throbbing with unspent need. He doesn't touch me. He just watches.
"This is your punishment, Princesa." His voice is hard. "I'm not going to touch you for the next day. Not a single finger. Not a single kiss. You need to learn that you belong to me, and I don't share."
My heart cracks. I roll onto my back, looking up at him, tears blurring my vision. "I wouldn't have let him touch me. I thought it was you. You were supposed to walk through that door. I was waiting for you."
"Doesn't matter what you thought." He stands, walks to the window, his back to me. "You were on display. Bent over. Offering yourself to whoever walked in. I saw it."
"I was offering myself to you." My voice is small. Broken.
He doesn't turn around. "Tomorrow. Party at my house. You can come, but I still won't touch you. You'll see what it's like to be near me and not have me."
I sit up, my naked body cold in the dim light. "Mateo—"
"Get dressed. I'm taking you home."
I dress in silence, my hands trembling. He drives me home on the motorcycle, and I cling to his back, my cheek pressed against his leather jacket. He doesn't say a word. When he drops me off, he just looks at me, his dark eyes unreadable, and then he's gone.
The next morning, I wake up empty. My phone has a text from him: *Party at six. Wear something that makes you feel beautiful.*
I smile through the ache. I'll show him. I'll show everyone.
I choose carefully. Pasties—tiny circles of fabric that cover only my nipples. The areolas peek out, dark and full, completely on display. Over that, a micro thong that disappears between my ass cheeks, the thin string the only thing between my body and the world. I don't wear anything else. No shorts, no cover-up. I want him to see what he's punishing himself by not touching.
I take an Uber to his house. The party is already loud—music thumping, laughter, the smell of chlorine and beer. Friends are scattered around the pool, grills smoking, girls in bikinis. But when I walk through the gate, the noise dips. Heads turn. Eyes lock onto my body.
I keep my chin high. I'm his. Didn't I say it? All of it—it's his.
Mateo stands by the grill, tongs in hand. When he sees me, his jaw tightens. His eyes travel over me—the pasties, the thong, the way my breasts move as I walk. He doesn't move toward me. He can't. The punishment is for him, too.
"Princesa." His voice is neutral, but I see the hunger in his gaze. "Come here. Meet my friends."
I walk over, my hips swaying. Three guys stand around him, their eyes glued to me. "This is Val," Mateo says. "My girl."
I smile and step forward to hug the first one. My breasts press against his chest, the pasties the only barrier. His arms wrap around me, and I feel his hands land on my bare lower back. I don't pull away.
"Nice to meet you," I say, then move to the next. Same hug. Same press of my body against theirs. I'm oblivious to their stares, their swallowed stares, because my heart is only for Mateo. I'm just being friendly.
Mateo's smirk dies. His eyes narrow.
"Want a beer?" I ask, already turning to the cooler. I bend over, slow and deliberate—or maybe that's just how my body moves. The thong rides up, exposes everything. Behind me, I hear a low whistle. Someone mutters, "Fuck, Mateo."
I grab three bottles and straighten, handing them out with a bright smile. "Here you go."
"How the hell did you get her?" one of them asks, his voice thick with disbelief and envy. "Seriously, bro. She's—" He gestures at me, lost for words.
Mateo says nothing. His eyes are on me, dark and dangerous.
I laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "I saw him on his motorcycle, all tatted up, and I knew I had to have him. I didn't let up until he noticed me." I look at Mateo, my heart swelling. "He called me Princesa, and I was done for."
The friends laugh. "He's a lucky bastard."
"No," I say, still looking at Mateo. "I'm the lucky one."
Mateo's expression doesn't soften. He just watches me, his fingers gripping the tongs so hard his knuckles go white. I'm oblivious to the way the friends' eyes crawl over my body, hungry and imagining. I see only him.
I take a step closer, my voice dropping. "Are you going to talk to me?"
"I'm not touching you, Princesa." His voice is a warning. "Don't push."
"I'm not asking you to touch me." I tilt my head. "I'm asking you to look at me. See me."
He looks. For a long moment, he just looks. Then he turns back to the grill. "Get yourself a drink. Mingle."
I do. I walk around the party, accepting compliments, smiling, completely unaware that every time I move, every time I bend to pick up a napkin, every time I laugh and my breasts jiggle, the men in the crowd follow me like moths. I hug more of his friends, press my body against theirs, because that's how I am—warm, open, affectionate. I don't see their hands lingering a second too long. I don't see the way their eyes drop to my chest.
I only see Mateo, standing by the grill, watching me with a possessive fire that burns hotter than the coals.
And for the first time all day, I feel a flicker of hope. He may not be touching me, but he's watching. And that's a start.