Page 65 of Raspados & Regret

This is bad.

This is very bad.

I don’t fucking care.

A laugh bursts somewhere on the other side of the trailers—close, too close—and we both freeze. My mouth is still against his, open, breathing his air. His hands are under my shirt, spanning my ribs. My thigh is between his legs, pressed up against him, and I can feel him throbbing even through the layers.

The market is twenty yards away. His mother and my tía are twenty-five yards away.

Jesus is probably watching us, disappointed, from an undisclosed location.

Elías whispers against my lips, breath hot and shaky: “If my mom catches us, I’m blaming you.”

I pull back just enough to glare at him, but I don’t move away. “You followed me.”

“You grabbed me.”

“You volunteered.” I remind him.

“You wore that shirt.”

“You fucking wore those shorts.”

He raises his brow. “Because you told me to.”

My brain stalls, and he smiles, smug and breathless and beautiful in the worst possible way, mouth swollen from mine, hair messed up where I touched it.

“You really wore them because I told you to?”

His eyes narrow, but he’s still smiling, still hard against me, still not pulling away. “Don’t make it… what’s the word you’ve been using? Oh yeah, weird.”

I lean in until our mouths are barely touching, until I can taste his next breath. “Too late.”

His own words. His mouth twitches when he recognizes them, and then he shoves at my chest—not hard, just enough to challenge me, to keep this game going because neither of us knows how to stop.

“Move.”

I don’t. I press closer, my thigh shifting against him just to watch his eyes flutter. “No.”

“Fabián.”

“You always this bossy after getting kissed stupid?”

His eyes flash, dark and furious. “Stupid?”

I grin—actually grin—feeling it stretch my mouth, unfamiliar and wild. His gaze drops like the grin offended him personally, like he wants to bite it off me.

“You wanna try that again?” he asks, voice dropping to a register that goes straight to my dick.

“Kissed. Stupid?” I say, enunciating each word.

He grabs the front of my crop top and yanks me closer until we’re sharing breath, until our mouths are touching without kissing, just hovering, just waiting.

His voice lowers, rough and wrecked. “You kiss good for a man who’s acting like this is his first time.”

My chest goes tight, stomach clenching, and he feels it—his fingers flex in my shirt, pressing against my thundering heart.

There are a lot of things I could say. I could lie and say he’s not the first man I’ve ever kissed. I could make a joke and say I’ve fucked plenty of guys just like him and push him back into the easy place where this is only bodies and heat and stress, where we don’t have to name what this is.