Page 100 of Raspados & Regret

“Right there, papi.”

“Yeah. Yeah, like that, you feel so fucking good.”

My whole body goes tight. “Elías.”

“I know,” he whispers. “Me too.”

His hand slides between us, and I catch his wrist. He looks at me with confusion.

“Let me,” I say.

His eyes darken, and I wrap my hand around him. He’s slick, hot, and heavy in my palm. I stroke him in time with my thrusts, and he bites my shoulder to muffle the sound.

Pain sparks and pleasure answers. I lose the rhythm for half a second.

He laughs against my skin, breathless. “Sensitive?”

“Shut up.” I grunt softly, picking up a little more speed, chasing the tingles that are traveling down my spine.

“Make me.”

Alright… So my hand moves faster between us. Sure as shit that makes him. His hips move slow and deep, taking every inch of me inside his perfect ass. Then his thighs start shaking around me, and his mouth opens under mine on a moan.

The first sound slips out when I angle my hips the way he told me to and stroke him at the same time. A small, wrecked noise that breaks against my mouth. Then he smiles, filthy and tender, because apparently he can be both and ruin me twice.

“I want to see it.”

That is what breaks me, not the pressure of thinking it has to be perfect. Or the undeniable heat between us. Not my piercing dragging through his impossible tightness.

That.

Elías wanting to see me feel good.

I thrust once, deep, and his body locks under mine. My hand tightens around him, and he comes first.

It starts with a shudder—his whole body arching, spine curving off the bed, mouth falling open in a silent cry. Then the sound comes, ragged and choked, buried in my shoulder as he shakes. Hot white stripes spill over my fingers, his stomach, and his chest—thick and obscene in the lamplight. He keeps pulsing in my hand, his body clenching around me in waves, and I feel every spasm, every aftershock, milking me toward my own edge.

“Fabián,” he chokes, “Fabián, vente, cariño, vente para mí⁠—”

I thrust into him—once, twice, deep and uncontrolled—and then I come too.

It hits like a freight train. My vision whites out, my whole body going rigid, and I’m spilling into him, pulse after pulse, filling him while he clenches around me, taking it, taking me. I groan against his neck; the sound rips out of me, raw and broken and his. The piercing drags through my orgasm, making it sharper, almost painful, dragging the pleasure out until I’m shaking, spent, and collapsed on top of him with my face buried in his sweat-damp hair.

For a long minute, there is nothing but breathing.

His.

Mine.

The fan.

His fingers move slowly against the back of my neck.

Gentle, and it’s intimate in a way I’ve never experienced after coming. He presses kiss after kiss to my temple, and it fucking ruins me. I can feel the hot tear trickle from the corner of my eye, and I go to wipe it before he notices and makes a joke.

“You alive?” he whispers.

“No.”