Page 33 of Raspados & Regret

My reflection doesn’t believe me.

Neither do I.

I unzip and slide my hand inside my boxer briefs, and the first touch pulls a rough breath out of me. It’s way too sensitive.

Too wound up.

I’m gonna blow my load like a two-pump chump in the back of his primo’s lowrider. I close my eyes, but that makes it worse because now I see him without the screen.

Elías licking syrup off his thumb and looking up at me through his glasses.

Elías saying, “Maybe you’re too scared.”

My hand tightens and a shudder rolls through me.

“Shit.” I gasp as I open my eyes and look at the phone again because apparently I’m committed to making this worse.

Shirtless Elías smiles at me.

I imagine that mouth losing the smirk, my thumb at the corner of it again, wiping syrup from his skin. Only this time I don’t stop. This time I press my thumb between his lips and feel the slick slide of his tongue ring against my skin. My hips jerk into my hand, and my head drops back when the fantasy hits so hard I almost drop the phone.

“No,” I moan, like that means anything.

My body doesn’t care about no; it’s done listening to the committee of common sense. I stroke myself slower, then faster, setting the phone down so I can grip the edge of the sink with my other hand. The tiny barbells in my nipples drag against the fabric every time my chest moves, sparks of sensation cutting through the heat. The piercing in my dick catches with the glide of my palm, sending a sharper jolt up my spine.

My forehead hits the mirror, and I bite my lip to keep quiet. I should think about someone else.

Anyone else.

A woman, my ex, some anonymous body that doesn’t come with a family raspado business, public beef, and the ability to make me feel like I’m getting jumped by my own nervous system. But the second I try to change the picture, Elías comes back stronger.

Elías on his knees for me behind the booth.

Elías’s tongue ring dragging over my happy trail.

Elías’s hand under my crop top, tugging at the piercings in my nipples while he says something filthy just to see if I break.

I stroke harder, and my breaths turn rough. The restroom feels too small, too hot, and too bright. I make a grunt, and it feels like it echoes in the space.

Not loud.

But not quiet enough because my tío’s voice rises outside the restroom, distant but too close.

“Fabián?”

I freeze with my hand around my dick. My soul is halfway out of my body.

“Yeah?” I call back, voice wrecked.

Silence.

Then, “You okay?”

I stare at the door. I swear to fucking God, this family needs to stop asking me that question.

“I’m fine,” I say, drawing in some staggered breaths.

“You sound weird.”