Her thighs were still trembling from the orgasm he'd wrung from her, the aftershocks rippling through her like echoes in a canyon. But the heat hadn't faded — it had sharpened, focused, narrowed to a single point below his belt. She pushed up onto her elbows, then her knees, and found him watching her with those amber eyes, dark and patient and knowing.
She reached for his belt. Her fingers fumbled once, twice, the metal buckle cool against her knuckles. He didn't help her — just watched, his chest rising and falling in that slow rhythm of a man who had all the time in the world. The leather gave. The button slipped free. The zipper teeth parted under her hand, and she was pushing his trousers down his thighs, his boxer briefs following, and then he was bare.
Her breath caught. Not the trained-in kind — the real kind, the one that lives in the back of the throat and doesn't leave until the body decides it's ready. His cock stood thick and heavy against his stomach, darker than his skin, the head slick and swollen. Larger than her husband's. Thicker. The sight of it sent a fresh pulse of wet heat through her, a hunger that had no name except the one she was about to give it.
She wrapped her fingers around the base. They didn't touch. The girth of him filled her palm and still her thumb couldn't reach her middle finger. She squeezed, felt the throb of his pulse against her skin, and a sound escaped her — something between a whimper and a laugh, a release of the tension that had been building since he first slid into the booth across from her.
"That's it, mami." His voice was rough, scraped low. "Touch it. Feel what you do to me."
She leaned down. Her hair fell forward, brushing his thighs, and she caught the scent of him — salt and musk and something clean underneath, like soap and sweat and the afternoon sun on his skin. She pressed her lips to the tip, soft, testing. The taste hit her tongue: salt, heat, the faint bitterness of precum. She licked slowly, tracing the ridge, and felt his whole body tighten beneath her hands.
"Ay, Dios." The words came out punched, half-breath. His hand found her hair, not pulling, just resting, a promise of control he wasn't using yet.
She took him deeper. Her lips stretched around the head, then the shaft, the sheer size of him forcing her jaw wide. She sank down until she felt him at the back of her throat, her eyes watering, her nose pressed against the dark hair at his base. She held there for three seconds — counting them, claiming them — then pulled back slowly, her tongue dragging along the underside, feeling every ridge and vein.
His hand tightened in her hair. "Fuck, Isabela."
She did it again. Slower this time. Taking him inch by inch, her mouth hot and wet and hungry, the sound of her sucking filling the small space between them. She hollowed her cheeks, pulled back, licked the tip, then took him deep again. The rhythm built — her hand working the base, her mouth on the head, the slick slide of spit and precum making everything wet and messy and right.
She could feel him throbbing against her tongue. Could feel the tension in his thighs, the way his hips wanted to thrust but held back, letting her set the pace. Letting her take what she wanted.
She pulled off with a wet sound. Spit connected them, a thin string that broke when she sat back on her heels. Her lips were swollen. Her chin was slick. She looked up at him — at his chest heaving, his jaw tight, his eyes nearly black with want — and she felt the word rising in her throat before she could stop it.
"Please, Diego." Her voice came out raw, scraped clean of everything except need. "Fuck me. Please — fuck me hard, my king."
The word hung between them. King. She hadn't planned it. It had just come — from somewhere deep, somewhere she hadn't visited in years, somewhere that belonged to the woman she used to be before the wedding ring and the school runs and the bedtime stories.
His eyes flared. Something in them shifted — the patient hunter giving way to something hungrier. He reached down, gripped her chin with those callused fingers, and tilted her face up to meet his gaze.
"Say that again." His voice was barely a whisper. "Say it again, mami."
She felt the heat rise in her chest, in her throat, in the wet space between her thighs. "Fuck me, my king."
He pulled her up by the chin. His mouth crashed into hers — not gentle, not patient, not any of the things he'd been all night. This was claiming. This was hunger given teeth. His tongue pushed past her lips and she tasted herself on him, salty and sharp, and the combination made her moan into his mouth.
He broke the kiss. Grabbed her waist. Flipped her onto her back on the leather booth before she could breathe. She landed with a soft thump, her sundress bunched around her hips, her thighs already open, already slick, already waiting.
He loomed over her. The light from somewhere behind him caught the scar through his eyebrow, and she thought he had never looked more beautiful — this man she barely knew, about to take her in ways her husband never would.
He reached down. His fingers found her wet, found her swollen, found her ready. He guided himself to her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her — not pushing, just resting there, a question she was desperate to answer.
"Please," she breathed. "Please, Diego."
He pushed.