Page 64 of Raspados & Regret

Finally.

His head tips back against the trailer, throat exposed, silver chain shining against his skin, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. His hands clutch my shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. His body is hard against mine, hot through denim and cotton, and the second he shifts—grinds—over my thigh, both of us go perfectly, terrifyingly still.

Because there is no pretending now.

No jokes.

No maybe.

He feels me, and I feel him. Both of us hard, aching, and so fucking obvious. We’re both breathing like we ran here, like we’re drowning, like the air is too thin behind these trailers.

He smirks, but it’s shaky. “That all you got, Salcedo?”

I laugh once, dark and ugly and real. “You really don’t know when to shut up.”

“So fucking make me then.”

My mouth crashes against his so hard his head bumps the trailer with a metallic thud, and he kisses back harder—of course he does, of course he has to win even this—and his hands go under my shirt, palms scorching against my stomach, fingers dragging up my ribs with nails that bite just enough.

When he touches bare skin, my body reacts like he put that live wire under my skin, current running from his fingertips to my cock, and I grab his ass over the shorts and haul him against me.

I lift him slightly, and Elías breaks the kiss with a gasp that sounds like my name.

“Fuck, Fabián.”

My name, but not in his teasing way—just wrecked.

Begging.

It goes straight through me like a knife, hot and sharp, and I kiss down his jaw because if I look at him too long, I’m going to say something stupid, something true, something like, “I’ve wanted this forever,” or “Don't ever stop,” or “You’re mine now.”

My mouth finds his throat, and I taste salt, heat, sugar, and the pulse hammering under his skin. He smells like syrup and sweat and laundry soap and something else, something that smells like him, like the nape of his neck where I wanted to put my mouth while he counted change.

His fingers dig into my back, pulling me closer, and I suck a mark into his throat just to watch him squirm.

“Thought you weren’t scared,” I murmur against his skin, tongue tracing the bruise I’m making.

“I’m not,” he whines.

“You’re shaking.”

“So are you.”

I lift my head and realize he’s right. My hands on him aren’t steady, my thumbs trembling against his hipbones.

That should embarrass me.

And it does—a little.

But his hands are shaking too, fingers twitching against my shoulder blades, and somehow that makes everything worse in the best way, makes this real in a way that the kissing wasn’t quite, because we are both standing here pretending this is just heat, just tension, just one bad decision, but our bodies know better.

Elías’s smile softens around the edges; it loses some of its sharpness, and I don’t like that.

Soft is dangerous.

“Soft” means things I can’t say.

So I kiss him again, rougher, and he meets me, matches me, gives as good as he gets. His tongue ring keeps catching against me, cool, slick, and maddening. Every time I feel it, I grip him tighter, and every time I grip him tighter, he makes another sound—low, guttural, desperate—and I am obsessed with those sounds, wanting to collect them, wanting to hear what other sounds I can pull from him if I just keep going.