Page 161 of Raspados & Regret

I’m close.

My dick is trapped between us, rubbing against his stomach with every thrust, slick from sweat and precum. It is almost too much and not enough all at once.

“Fabián,” I gasp, gripping his shoulders.

“I know.”

“No, I’m gonna come.”

His eyes lock on mine. “Good.”

I laugh, but it turns into a moan when he angles his hips and hits that spot again.

“There,” he says. “Right there, muñeco?”

I nod, frantic.

“Look at me.”

He loosens his hand from my throat and cups my face instead. The sudden tenderness nearly breaks me worse than the pressure.

“Come for me,” he whispers.

I come hard. It punches through me, hot and bright, my body locking under him. I grab his shoulders and bury a sound in his mouth while I spill between us, over both our stomachs, slicking the place where our bodies keep moving because he doesn’t stop.

He continues to fuck me through it. Not gentle but not cruel either.

Perfect.

I shake under him, helpless, while he chases his own release with his jaw clenched and his eyes open like he refuses to miss a second of what my face looks like.

“Lalo,” he whimpers.

A plea and I wrap my legs tighter around him. “Come inside me.”

His face twists. “Fuuuck⁠—”

“Fill your boyfriend.”

Fabián groans, raw and wrecked, and drives in deep, his whole body locking up as he groans. I feel his dick pulse inside me, the heat of him spilling, feel every shake, every broken breath, every part of him surrendering while he tries so hard to stay above me and fails.

He drops onto his forearms, face buried against my neck. His weight presses me into the mattress, and I love it.

Oh, dangerous word.

Wrong word.

Too soon, even if my stupid heart swears otherwise.

His breathing is harsh against my skin. Mine is worse, and for a few moments, neither of us moves. The room smells like sex and sweat and cold soup waiting in the kitchen like a chaperone that gave up. Fabián’s hand slides from my throat to my chest, then to my side, like he is checking whether I am still there.

I am.

Very much.

“Too rough?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

I drag my fingers over the peach fuzz on his head. “No.”