I find him by the keg, red Solo cup in hand, laughing at something one of his friends just said. Marco. That's his name. Marco. I remember it now because Mateo said it through gritted teeth when he ripped him off me yesterday.
My stomach knots. I hate that. I hate that I feel anything but confidence right now.
"Marco."
He turns. His eyes drop to my chest before they find my face. I don't notice. I'm too busy rehearsing the words in my head, too focused on getting this right so Mateo doesn't have any reason to be angry, so I don't fuck up the best thing that's ever happened to me.
"I need to apologize." I step closer. The bass thrums through the floor, through my bare feet, up into my thighs. "For yesterday. I thought you were Mateo. I was—I was presenting myself for him, and when you walked in, I didn't realize it was you, and I just—" I shake my head. "I'm so sorry. That was not okay. That was not fair to you."
His eyes drag down my body. Slow. Measured. I don't see it.
"I would never do that intentionally. I'm Mateo's. I belong to him. And I would never—" I press my hand to my chest, right between my breasts, barely covered by the micro string top. "I just wanted you to know that I respect you and I respect him and I'm really, really sorry."
Marco's jaw tightens. His gaze lingers on my hand, on the way my fingers press into the soft swell of my tits. I think he's considering my words. I think he's being gracious.
"No worries, princesa."
The word hits different from his mouth. Wrong. It's Mateo's word. But I don't catch the edge in it. I just smile, relieved.
"Really? You're not mad?"
"Mad?" He laughs, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "You were bent over, ass spread, pussy dripping. Trust me. I'm not mad."
I blink. Process the words. Decide they mean forgiveness because I want them to mean forgiveness.
"Okay. Good. I just—I don't want there to be any weirdness. I live here now. And I don't wanna mess anything up."
His eyes flare. Just a flicker. "You live here now?"
"Yeah." I smile, bright and genuine. "I moved in yesterday."
He looks at me for a long moment. His cup freezes halfway to his lips. I think he's surprised. I think he's happy for us.
I turn and walk back toward Mateo, weaving through the bodies swaying to the bass, the heat of the party pressing in from all sides. My micro g-string rides up between my ass cheeks with every step, the thin string the only thing between me and the world, and I feel the weight of eyes on me. I think it's admiration. I think it's desire for what I represent—the girl who landed El Lobo.
Mateo stands by the couch, arms crossed, talking to one of his boys. But his eyes aren't on his friend. They're on me. Tracking me as I move through the crowd.
I love it. I love being watched by him. I love being the thing he can't look away from.
I slide up to him, pressing my body against his side, letting my hand rest on his chest. The silver cross is cool against my fingers. His heart beats steady underneath.
"Hey."
"Princesa." His voice is low, rough. His hand finds my waist, thumb stroking the bare skin just above the waistband of my thong. "Everything good?"
"Yeah. I apologized to Marco. He said it's fine."
Mateo's eyes flick past me, toward the keg. His jaw tenses for half a second. Then he looks back at me, and the tension melts into something softer. Something just for me.
"Good." He pulls me closer, his hand sliding down to cup my ass. His fingers find the string of my thong, trace it. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know. But I wanted to. I want everything to be good between us." I look up at him, my dark eyes meeting his. "I don't wanna mess this up, Mateo. I've never—" I stop. Swallow. "I've never had something worth keeping before."
His hand stills. His eyes search mine. Something passes between us that isn't heat, isn't hunger, isn't the game we've been playing. Something quieter.
He leans down, his lips brushing my ear. "You're not gonna mess this up, princesa. You're mine. That's not something you can break."
My chest tightens. My heart pounds. I press closer, my tits flattening against his chest, the thin string top the only barrier between my nipples and his skin.
"Kiss me."
He does. Slow. Deep. His hand grips my ass, pulling me into him, and I feel him hard against my stomach. I moan into his mouth, my fingers curling into his shirt.
Someone wolf-whistles nearby. Someone else laughs. I don't care. I don't hear them. I only hear Mateo's breathing, only feel his tongue sliding against mine, only taste the beer and the want on his lips.
He pulls back, breathing hard. His eyes are dark, pupils blown.
"You're gonna get us in trouble."
"Good."
He shakes his head, but he's smiling. That slow, dangerous smile that makes my thighs clench.
"Go mingle, princesa. Let me finish talking to my boy. Then I'm all yours."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
I step back, letting my hand drag down his chest, his stomach, stopping just above his belt. His breath catches. I smirk.
"Don't keep me waiting too long."
I turn and walk away, feeling his eyes on my ass the entire time. I know he's watching. I know because I'm his, and he can't help it. I sway my hips a little more, just for him, and I hear him exhale.
I love this. I love the power. I love that I'm the one who makes him lose control.
I grab a red Solo cup, fill it with something that tastes like cheap vodka and orange juice, and lean against the wall near the sliding glass door. The party spills out onto the patio, bodies in the pool, smoke rising from a joint being passed around. I sip my drink and watch, content, happy, floating on the high of being wanted.
"So you're really living with him now?"
I turn. A girl I don't recognize stands next to me, her arms crossed, her eyes scanning my body like she's taking notes. Black hair pulled into a high ponytail. A bikini that covers more than mine does. Which is not hard.
"Yeah." I smile. "I am."
"Damn." She shakes her head. "You move fast."
"When you know, you know."
She looks at me for a long moment. I catch something in her expression—envy, maybe. Or curiosity. Or both.
"He's never brought a girl home before."
I blink. The words land somewhere deep in my chest, warm and heavy. "What?"
"Mateo. He's never brought a girl to his place. Never. We've been coming here for two years, and you're the first." She shrugs. "So either you're really special, or he's lost his goddamn mind."
I don't know what to say. I just stand there, holding my cup, my heart pounding.
She grins. "He's not the type to settle down. But the way he looks at you?" She shakes her head. "Yeah. You're special."
She walks away, disappearing into the crowd, leaving me alone with the weight of her words.
I look across the room. Mateo is still talking to his friend, but his eyes find mine instantly, like he felt me looking. He doesn't smile. He just holds my gaze, steady and sure.
My heart swells.
I finish my drink, set the cup down, and walk toward him. I don't want to mingle. I don't want to play the game. I want to be in his space, in his orbit, pressed against his skin until I can't tell where I end and he begins.
I
I pause mid-step, Mateo's eyes still on me, but a voice cuts through the crowd—one of his boys, the one with the faded Dodgers cap and easy grin. "Yo, Val! Come over here, we got questions." I glance back at Mateo. He nods, a small smirk playing on his lips. Permission. Or maybe just amusement. I don't need permission. But I like that he's watching.
I weave through bodies, the bass thudding in my chest, and reach the cluster of guys near the kitchen counter. They're all looking at me like I'm a prize they're trying to figure out. I smile, open my arms. "I'm a hugger. Don't be shy." The first one steps in, wraps his arms around me a beat too long, his hands pressing flat against my bare back. I don't think anything of it. I'm just being friendly. I pull back, move to the next. Same thing—lingering hands, fingers that graze the curve of my waist. I laugh it off.
"Damn, girl, you're built different," one of them says, shaking his head.
"Built better," I correct, winking.
They all laugh, and I laugh with them, my whole body shaking. I feel the jiggle—my breasts bouncing under the string top, my ass trembling in the micro g-string. I don't think about it. I'm just having fun. "So what's the question?"
"How the hell are you so confident?" Dodgers cap asks, crossing his arms. "Like, wearing that, showing up here, living with Mateo after a week—"
"Easy." I wave a hand down my body, slow and deliberate. "This body? Should be illegal to contain. I'm just doing the world a favor."
They crack up. I laugh again, harder this time, and my tits bounce. I catch one of them staring at my chest, his mouth slightly open. I don't register it as a problem. I'm too busy basking in the attention, in the warmth of being wanted.
A few more hugs. A few more lingering touches. A hand that slides just a little too low on my lower back. I don't pull away. I'm Mateo's, and they know it. So what's the harm?
Across the room, I feel Mateo's gaze. Heavy. Unblinking. I look over—he's still on the couch, talking to someone, but his eyes are locked on me. Dark. Focused. I give him a little wave. He doesn't wave back. He just watches.
I decide I've mingled enough. I want to be in his space. I walk over, hips swaying, feeling the eyes on me. His friends on the couch—the same ones I hugged, the same ones I handed beers to earlier—shift to make room. Mateo doesn't move. He just spreads his knees slightly, an invitation.
I take it. I settle onto his lap, straddling him sideways, my bare thigh pressing against his jeans. His hand finds my waist immediately, thumb slipping beneath the waistband of my g-string, resting right above my pussy. I feel the heat of his palm, the weight of his claim. I shiver.
His friends are still talking. Something about a game, a bet, I don't know. I try to follow, nodding along, making friendly conversation. "Yeah, I saw that play," I say, even though I have no idea what play. I just want to be part of the group. I want them to like me.
But Mateo's hand is moving. Slow. Deliberate. His fingers trace the line of my hip, then dip lower, pressing against the fabric of my g-string. I feel the heat of his touch through the thin material. I blush, a hot flush spreading across my chest.
I keep talking. "So you guys grew up together? That's so sweet." My voice is steady, but my breath is getting shallow.
Mateo's thumb circles lazily over my clit through the g-string. I grip his thigh, hard. His friends are looking at me, but I don't see them. I only feel his hand, his pressure, his claim.
"Yeah, since middle school," someone says. "He was always the quiet one, though. Until he got his bike."
"Mm-hmm," I manage. Mateo's fingers slide lower, pressing into my wetness through the fabric. I can feel how soaked I am. I pray no one notices.
But Mateo's friends notice. They're not looking at my face. They're looking at his hand. At where it's disappearing between my thighs. Their expressions are a mix of jealousy and disbelief. I still don't fully compute it. I'm too focused on not moaning out loud.
Mateo leans in, his lips brushing my ear. "You're making a mess, princesa."
I bite my lip. "Your fault."
He chuckles, low and dark. Then his hand moves higher, cupping my breast through the string. He squeezes, his thumb rubbing over my nipple. I gasp, just barely covering it with a cough.
"You okay?" one of his friends asks, concern flickering in his eyes.
"Fine," I breathe. "Just—something in my throat."
Mateo smirks against my neck. He knows exactly what he's doing. He gropes me openly now, his hand rough, possessive, his fingers digging into my flesh. I'm blushing furiously, but I don't stop him. I don't want him to stop.
I force myself to keep the conversation going, asking about their jobs, their cars, anything to anchor myself. My voice is a little high, a little breathless. They answer, but their eyes keep dropping to Mateo's hand, to the way my body responds to his touch.
The bass thuds. The party swirls around us. And I'm here, on his lap, being claimed in front of everyone.
I'm his.
I feel Marco before I see him. The air shifts, the casual buzz of conversation around us stuttering as a familiar figure steps into my peripheral vision. Marco. The one from yesterday. The one whose body slammed into mine when Mateo ripped him off me. His eyes are fixed on me, dark and hungry, and he doesn't bother hiding it.
"Mateo." His voice is casual, but there's an edge to it. "Mind if I borrow your girl for a minute?"
Mateo's hand stills against my thigh. The heat that was building—his fingers tracing the wet line of my g-string, his thumb circling my clit—dies in an instant. The absence is a physical ache, a hollow space where his claim used to be. I feel the tension ripple through his body, the coiling of muscle, the slow, deliberate control he exerts over himself.
I don't give him a chance to answer. I can't let this sit. I owe Marco an apology—yesterday was my fault, my body on display, my choice to bend over naked. I need to clear the air. I turn in Mateo's lap, facing Marco directly, my thighs still spread over my man's jeans.
"Actually," I say, my voice bright and easy, "I wanted to talk to you anyway. About yesterday. Give me one second, babe?" I squeeze Mateo's thigh beneath my palm, a silent promise. I'm yours. I'm coming back. His jaw is tight, but he gives me a small, sharp nod. Permission, or maybe just trust. Either way, I take it.
I slide off his lap, my bare feet hitting the sticky floor. The bass thuds through the soles of my feet, vibrating up through my legs, settling between my thighs. My g-string is soaked—I can feel it clinging to me, a wet second skin. I don't think about it. I don't care. I'm all confidence, all sway, as I follow Marco toward the kitchen.
The party parts for us, bodies pressing aside. I feel them watching—Mateo's eyes on my back, the other guys tracking my every move. I let my hips roll, let my ass sway under the micro g-string, let the string top bounce with each step. I'm friendly, not fragile. I'm comfortable in my body. That's my whole thing.
Marco leads me to the counter where a couple of half-empty cups sit. He leans against the kitchen island, crossing his arms, and I stop in front of him—close enough for conversation, far enough to keep it casual. I smile, genuine and open.
"So," I say, "yesterday. That was a mess. I'm really sorry. I didn't know you were coming back in, and I was just—" I gesture vaguely at my body, at the string barely covering my nipples. "—being me. I didn't mean to make things weird."
He laughs, but there's no humor in it. His eyes trace the line of my collarbone, the slope of my breasts, the way the string bites into my skin. "Weird? Girl, that was not weird. That was a goddamn gift."
I blink, laughing it off. "Okay, chill. I'm just saying—I didn't mean to cause drama between you and Mateo."
"No drama." He pushes off the counter, stepping closer. I don't step back. I'm not scared. "I just wanted to see what the hype was about."
"The hype?"
He stops inches from me. His eyes drop to my mouth, then lower. "You. The way you walk around here like you own the place, wearing nothing but a string and a smile. The way Mateo got you on his lap, all wet and needy for him. You know we all saw, right? Saw his hand. Saw you getting off on being watched."
I feel the heat rise to my cheeks, but I don't break. "I'm not getting off on anything. I'm just comfortable in my skin."
"Bullshit." He reaches out, his fingers brushing my wrist. Light. Testing. "You love it. You love knowing we're all looking. You love that he's the only one who gets to touch."
My heart pounds, but I don't pull my wrist away. I'm not gonna let him see me flinch. "Marco—"
"I'm just sayin'." His thumb traces the inside of my wrist, where my pulse is hammering. "If you ever get tired of being the wolf's prize, you know where to find me."
And just like that, the playful tension snaps. I pull my wrist back gently, a soft smile on my lips. "I'm not a prize, Marco. And I'm not tired. I'm exactly where I wanna be."
He holds up his hands, grinning. "Had to shoot my shot."
"I respect it," I say, and I mean it. "But I'm Mateo's. Full stop."
He nods, the grin settling into something more genuine. "He's lucky."
"I know." I wink, then turn, walking back through the crowd.
The bodies part again, and I feel Marco's eyes on my ass as I go. I don't look back. I don't need to. I know exactly where I'm heading.
Mateo is still on the couch, but he's not sitting anymore. He's standing, arms crossed, watching me approach. The space around him is clear—his boys have given him room, sensing the storm brewing behind his dark eyes. The silver cross at his throat catches the dim light.
I don't slow down. I don't explain. I walk right up to him, wrap my arms around his neck, and press my body against his. He's solid, warm, tense. I feel the rumble in his chest before he speaks.
"What did he want?" His voice is low, dangerous.
"To apologize. And to see if I was interested." I say it flat, meeting his eyes.
His jaw tightens. "And?"
"I told him I'm yours."
A beat. Then his hands are on me—rough, possessive, pulling me flush against him. His mouth finds my neck, biting down just hard enough to make me gasp. "That's right, princesa." His lips trace up to my ear, his breath hot. "You're mine."
I moan softly, my hands fisting in his shirt. "Yours."
"And I'm gonna prove it." He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and burning. "Right here. Right now. Let them all see."
I don't hesitate. I don't blush. I just nod, my thighs pressing together, desperate for his touch.
He grabs my hips and spins me around, bending me over the arm of the couch. My hands catch the cushion, my ass in the air, my g-string a thin, wet line across my skin. I hear the party around us—the chatter, the bass—but it all fades to a dull hum. There's only him. Only his hands on my hips, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my g-string.
"You're so wet for me," he growls, pulling the fabric aside. I feel the cool air hit my pussy, and then his finger slides through my folds, gathering my slickness. "So wet, and you let another man talk to you."
I whimper, gripping the cushion. "I shut him down."
"I know you did." He spreads my wetness over my clit, and I buck against his hand. "But I still gotta remind you who put this wetness here."
His jeans hit the floor, and then I feel him—the thick, hot press of his cock against my entrance. I'm so ready, so empty, that the first push makes me cry out. He slides in deep, filling me completely, and I hear his breath hitch. "Fuck, you feel good."
He sets a rhythm, hard and fast, the slap of his hips against my ass echoing through the room. I don't care who's watching. I don't care who hears. I let myself moan, let myself gasp his name, let myself fall apart on his cock. His hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back, arching my spine.
"You're mine," he grunts, each word punctuated by a thrust. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Louder."
"I'M YOURS, MATEO!"
He pounds into me, and I come hard, my cunt clenching around him, my whole body shuddering. He follows a moment later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he spills into me, his grip on my hips bruising.
We stay there, panting, catching our breath. The party slowly filters back in—someone whistles, someone claps, but I don't care. All I feel is him, softening inside me, his hands gentle now, stroking my back.
He pulls out slowly, and I feel his cum leaking down my thigh. He tucks himself back in, then turns me around, pulling me into his lap. I curl into him, my face buried in his neck, breathing him in.
His arms wrap around me, his voice a low rumble in my ear. "See? All mine."
I smile against his skin. "Always."
His hands settle on my waist, thumb tracing lazy circles. He pulls his phone out, lights up the screen, angles it. A quick flash. I frown, pulling back. "Did you just—"
"Had to capture the masterpiece." He turns the phone to show me. It's us—me on his lap, his cum dripping down my thigh, his arms wrapped around me, my body marked and claimed. The way the light catches my skin, the flush across my chest, the peace on my face.
"Delete that," I laugh, swatting at his hand.
"Never." He pockets the phone. "I told you. You're art. And I'm never letting you go."
I slide off his lap, feeling the slick trail of his release cooling on my inner thigh. The party's still buzzing around us, but I'm floating in that space where nothing else matters. I press a kiss to his jaw, feeling the muscle jump under my lips.
"I'm gonna clean up," I murmur against his skin. "Then I'm getting in the pool."
His hand catches my wrist, pulling me back. Dark eyes roam my face, my body, like he's memorizing the sight of me marked by him. "Don't be long."
I smile, slipping free. The bathroom's down the hall, past clusters of people who part for me like I'm the one making the room move. The mirror catches me as I step inside — flushed cheeks, messy hair, the unmistakable glow of a girl who just got railed by her man in front of everyone. I grab a paper towel, wet it, press it between my thighs, wiping away the evidence. The cold makes me shiver. My pussy's still sensitive, still aching.
I adjust my string top, making sure my nipples are still covered — barely. The fabric's a thin web of white against my brown skin, my areolas peeking through like they always do. My g-string's soaked, clinging to me, but I don't bother changing it. I like feeling him on me. I like knowing everyone saw.
When I step back out, the bass hits me again, and the warm air wraps around my damp skin. Mateo's still on the couch, but his eyes find me immediately. I give him a little wave and head toward the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard.
"Pool's that way," I call over my shoulder, not waiting for his response.
The water glows turquoise under the patio lights, steam rising off the surface where the cooler night air meets the heated pool. Bodies move through the water — girls in bikinis, guys in swim trunks, all of them laughing, splashing, living. I toe off my sandals at the edge, feeling the rough concrete under my soles, and dive in without hesitation.
The water shocks my skin, cool and clean, swallowing me whole. I surface with a gasp, pushing my wet hair back, water streaming down my face, my neck, my chest. The string top clings to me, transparent now, my nipples hard and visible through the wet fabric.
And then I feel them. The stares.
Every guy in the pool has stopped. Some of them mid-sentence, mouths open, eyes fixed on me like I'm something they've never seen before. The water laps at my waist, my breasts floating slightly, the g-string doing nothing to hide the curve of my ass beneath the surface.
I smile, easy, natural. "What? Never seen a girl before?"
A couple of them laugh, breaking the spell. One guy — tall, with a fade and a gold chain — swims closer. "Nah, we've seen girls. Just never seen one like you."
I tilt my head, playing along. "Smooth line. You rehearse that?"
He grins, unbothered. "Didn't have to. You made it easy."
I laugh, treading water, letting my body drift closer to the group. "I'm Valentina."
"I know. Everyone knows. You're Lobo's girl." He says it like it's a challenge, like he's testing if I'll correct him.
"I am." No hesitation. "But I can still say hi to people, can't I?"
He nods, and suddenly there's a phone in his hand, the camera pointed at me. "Mind if I get a picture? My boys back home won't believe me."
I blink, surprised, but the attention feels good. It feels familiar. Before I can think about it, I'm nodding. "Sure. Just tag me."
He angles the phone, and I pose — one hand in my hair, the other resting on my hip, my body angled just enough to show the curve of my waist, the way my breasts press against the wet fabric. The flash goes off, and I hear him mutter, "Damn."
"Tag me," I repeat, giving him my handle. "I wanna see it."
And then another guy is there. And another. Each one with a phone, each one asking for a picture, and I say yes to all of them. Why wouldn't I? I know I look good. I feel good. The water's perfect, the music's pumping, and I'm surrounded by people who want a piece of me. I pose with each one — a peace sign, a wink, a hand on my hip, a laugh caught mid-air.
One guy, shorter with glasses fogged by the heat, asks if he can get a picture from the side. I turn, giving him my profile, the curve of my ass just above the waterline. He swallows hard, and I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. "Don't forget to tag me."
Another guy, older, maybe one of Mateo's friends, moves in closer. His phone's already up. "One with your arms above your head? Like you're reaching for something?"
I stretch, my arms rising, my string top riding up, my breasts lifting, the thin fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the dark circles of my nipples. The flash pops, and I drop my arms, laughing. "That one better not end up on a weird site."
He laughs, but his eyes linger. "No promises."
I roll my eyes, still smiling, and paddle toward the shallow end where the water's warm and calm. The guys follow — not aggressively, just present, orbiting me like I'm the sun. I make conversation, easy and light. One's studying engineering. One just got a new job. One's dating Mateo's cousin. I nod, I ask questions, I laugh at their jokes.
My phone's not with me — it's in my bag inside — but I don't need it. I'm present. I'm loose. I'm happy.
I float on my back, staring up at the stars, my body weightless, the water lapping at my ears, muffling the world. My arms spread out, my breasts rising above the surface, my nipples pointed at the sky. I hear a whistle from somewhere on the deck, but I don't look. I just smile, letting myself drift.
When I finally right myself, Mateo's standing at the edge of the pool. He's taken his shirt off. His tattoos gleam in the patio light, black ink against bronze skin, the silver cross catching the glow. His jeans are still on, but he's barefoot, and his eyes — dark, burning — are fixed on me.
He didn't need to say anything. The look says everything.
I swim toward him, water streaming off my shoulders, my arms finding the edge. I look up at him, wet and grinning. "You're not getting in?"
"Watching you is better." His voice is low, rough, barely audible over the music.
I bite my lip, pushing up onto my elbows, my chest rising above the waterline. "You sure?"
His hand finds my chin, tilting my face up. "You know every guy in this pool took a picture of you, right?"
"They asked. I said yes." I say it like it's nothing, because to me, it is.
"You're too friendly, princesa." But there's no heat in it. His thumb traces my bottom lip. "They're gonna post you all over the internet."
"Then I'll be the most viewed girl in school." I grin, teasing. "Good publicity."
The music's changed — slower now, the bass still thumping but less frantic. I'm still in the water, my fingers pruned, my skin cooled despite the heat. Mateo's been watching me from the edge for what feels like hours, his eyes tracking every move I make, every laugh I share, every guy who swims too close.
His friends start drifting toward the gate. Handshakes. Back slaps. The kind of goodbyes that take twenty minutes because nobody can stop talking. I push off from the shallow end, water streaming down my body as I climb the ladder, and the night air hits my wet skin like a blessing.
Every step I take toward the gate feels like slow motion. The water drips from my hair, down my shoulders, between my breasts, tracing the curve of my stomach before falling to the concrete. My g-string is plastered to my skin, translucent, showing everything. My string top clings to my nipples like it's painted on.
I know they're watching. All of them. Mateo's boys. The ones who've been circling me all night. Their eyes drag over my body like hands, and I let them. I don't slow down, don't speed up. I just walk, hips swaying, water catching the patio light.
"Thanks for coming." My voice is warm, genuine. I reach the first guy — tall, faded, the one who took the first picture — and I don't hesitate. I step into him, arms wrapping around his neck in a quick hug. His shirt soaks up the water from my chest, my stomach, my thighs. He freezes for half a second, then his arms come around me, tighter than they need to be.
I pull back, smiling. "Seriously. It was fun."
His eyes are dark, his jaw tight. "Yeah. Yeah, it was."
I move to the next one. And the next. Each hug leaves a wet imprint on their clothes, a ghost of my body pressed against theirs. One guy's hands find my waist and linger. I let them. Another's breath catches when my chest presses into his. I pretend not to notice.
When I reach Marco — the friend from yesterday, the one who walked in on me bent over, the one whose body slammed into mine when Mateo shoved him — I pause. His eyes meet mine, and there's something there. Heat. Want. The memory of what he saw.
I step into him anyway. "Hey," I say, soft. "Thanks for coming."
His arms wrap around me, and I feel his hands spread across my bare back, my wet skin sliding under his palms. "Wouldn't have missed it." His voice is rough, strained.
I pull back, and his hands drop slowly, reluctantly. I give him a small smile — apologetic, genuine — and move on to the last guy.
Mateo appears beside me, his hand finding the small of my back, possessive and warm. He says his goodbyes — shorter, cooler, the alpha dismissing his pack. I lean into him, feeling his heat, his solidness, the way his fingers curl into my hip like he's claiming me in front of all of them.
The gate clicks shut behind the last of them. We're alone.
The pool filter hums. The music's still playing from the speaker on the patio. I shiver, the night air finally finding my wet skin.
Mateo's hand slides from my back down to my ass, cupping the wet fabric, squeezing. "You're cold."
"A little." I turn into him, my hands finding his chest, his bare skin warm under my palms. "Help me warm up?"
His smile is slow, dangerous. "Shower first. You're dripping everywhere."
I laugh, and he takes my hand, leading me inside. The house is quiet now, the aftermath of a party — empty cups, a spilled ashtray, the faint smell of beer and cologne. We walk through it together, his hand never leaving mine.
In the bathroom, the steam rises as the water heats. He undoes my string top with one flick of his fingers, and it falls away, my breasts bare, my nipples hard from the cold. His hands find them immediately, cupping, warming, his thumbs tracing circles that make me gasp.
Then the g-string. Gone. I step out of it, naked, and he guides me into the shower. The water's hot, almost too hot, and it hits my shoulders like a release. I tilt my head back, letting it stream over my face, my hair, my neck.
Mateo steps in behind me, his chest pressing against my back, his arms wrapping around my waist. He's still in his jeans — wet now, clinging to his thighs. I feel his cock hard against my ass through the denim.
"You were the most beautiful thing I've ever seen tonight," he says against my ear, his voice low, rough. "Every guy out there wanted you. And they couldn't have you."
I shiver, not from cold. "They looked."
"They fucking stared." His hands slide up my stomach, cupping my breasts, his thumbs finding my nipples. "And I loved it. Because at the end of the night, you're mine."
I press back into him, my ass grinding against his trapped cock. "I'm yours."
He kisses my shoulder. "The way you hugged them. All smiles, all warmth, all that perfect body pressing into them. I saw their faces, princesa. They wanted to take you home." His teeth graze my skin. "But you're already home."
My heart swells, and I turn in his arms, water streaming between us. "I love making you feel like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you have something nobody else can touch."
His eyes darken, and his hands find my waist, pulling me against him. "You do. Every time you walk into a room, every time you smile at someone else, every time you let them look but not touch — you remind me that I'm the one who gets to have you."
I rise on my toes, kissing him. Soft. Slow. The water cascades around us.
We dry off in the steamy bathroom, sharing a towel, his hands finding every inch of me as he dries my hair, my shoulders, my breasts. I catch him watching me in the mirror — my reflection, my bare body, the way my skin glows from the heat.
"You're staring," I say, grinning.
"I'm admiring." He drops the towel, his hands finding my hips. "There's a difference."
The bedroom is dark, lit only by the city glow through the curtains. I walk ahead of him, naked, letting him watch. I feel his gaze on my ass, on the curve of my waist, on the way my hips sway with every step.
I turn to face him, and he's standing in the doorway, still in his wet jeans, his chest bare, his tattoos dark against his skin. The silver cross catches the light.
"Come here," I say, my voice soft.
He crosses the room in three steps, his hands finding my waist, pushing me back onto the bed. I land on the sheets with a gasp, my arms spreading, my body open to him.
He takes off his jeans. Slow. Deliberate. His cock springs free, hard, thick, the head glistening. I wet my lips without thinking.
"You want this?" His voice is a growl.
"I want you. All of you."
He crawls over me, his body covering mine, his weight a warm pressure. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, my breasts. I arch into him, my fingers threading through his damp hair.
"Tell me what you want, princesa."
"Fuck me." My voice is a breath. "Fuck me hard."
He positions himself at my entrance, and I feel the head of his cock pressing against me, the heat, the pressure. He pushes in, and I gasp, my back arching, my nails finding his shoulders.
He fucks me. Hard. Deep. Each thrust hits that spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans, his forehead pressing against mine.
"You feel that?" he rasps. "You feel how much I want you?"
"Yes — yes —"
He pulls out, and I whimper at the emptiness. But then he's rolling me over, pulling me onto my hands and knees, and I know what's coming. I brace myself, my ass in the air, my face pressed into the pillow.
His hands spread my cheeks. His thumb circles my asshole, pressing, teasing. I moan, pushing back against him.
"You want it here too?"
"Yes. Please."
I feel the head of his cock press against my ass, the stretch, the burn. I breathe through it, and he waits, his hand stroking my back. Then he pushes in, slow, inch by inch, until I'm full, until I can't tell where I end and he begins.
He fucks my ass with the same rhythm — hard, deep, relentless. I'm drowning in sensation, your body moving with his, your moans mixing with his grunts. The bed creaks beneath us.
And then the door opens.
I freeze. Mateo doesn't.
Marco stands in the doorway, his mouth open, his eyes locked on the sight of me on my hands and knees, my ass in the air, Mateo's cock buried deep inside me. His chest is heaving. His hands are clenched at his sides.
Mateo grins. I feel it more than see it — the shift in his body, the way his rhythm doesn't falter. He looks over his shoulder at his friend, and there's a savage satisfaction in his voice when he speaks.
"You need something, Marco?"
Marco doesn't answer. He just stares. At me. At the way Mateo's cock slides in and out of my ass. At the way my body takes it, accepts it, wants it.
"Mateo —" I start, my voice shaky. "He's — can we —"
Mateo thrusts harder. Deeper. My words cut off into a moan.
"No," he says, his voice low, dark. "We don't stop."
Another thrust. I cry out.
"Look at him," Mateo growls in my ear, his mouth hot against my skin. "Look at the way he's watching you. He wants you so bad it's killing him."
I can't look. I can't not look. My eyes find Marco's, and there's something in them — jealousy, hunger, rage. His jaw is tight, his fists white-knuckled.
Mateo's hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back. "Tell him who you belong to."
I'm gasping, my body trembling, the pressure building. "You — Mateo —"
"Say it louder." Another thrust, harder.
"I belong to you!" My voice breaks, a scream rising in my throat.
Mateo fucks me harder, faster, his breath ragged, his hips slapping against my ass. I feel the orgasm building, white-hot, unstoppable. Marco is still watching, still frozen, and it's wrong and it's filthy and it's so hot.
"Come for me," Mateo grunts. "Come for me while he watches."
The orgasm hits me like a wave, like a crash, like something breaking loose inside me. I scream — his name, a wordless cry, I don't know — and my body clenches around him, waves of pleasure ripping through me.
Marco slams the door. The sound echoes through the room.
Mateo doesn't stop. He fucks me through it, through the aftershocks, through the trembling of my thighs. I collapse onto the bed, my face in the pillow, and he follows me, his body covering mine, his cock still buried deep.
He comes with a groan that vibrates through my chest, his body shuddering, his hands gripping my hips like I'm the only thing keeping him anchored. I feel him pulse inside me, warm and full, and I moan into the pillow.
We lie there, tangled, breathing hard. His weight on me feels like safety. Like home.
He presses a kiss to my shoulder. "I love you, princesa."
I turn my head, my cheek against the pillow, and look at him. His eyes are soft now, the predator gone, just Mateo looking at me like I'm the only thing that matters.
"I love you too."
He pulls out, and I feel the wetness trickle down my thigh. He reaches for the towel, cleaning me gently, tenderly, before pulling me into his arms.
I curl into his chest, my ear over his heart. His hand strokes my hair, slow and soothing.
"Get some sleep, princesa."
I smile against his skin, my eyes heavy, my body spent. "Already falling."
His arms tighten around me. The last thing I hear is his heartbeat, steady and sure, as I drift into the deepest sleep I've had in weeks.