Page 96 of Raspados & Regret

Elías lies back, hair messy against the pillow, glasses gone now and folded on the nightstand. I settle between his thighs and look down at him—at his dick, hard and heavy against his stomach, already leaking. A clear bead sits at the slit, catching the lamplight. He’s cut, dark, and the skin looks impossibly soft.

I want to put my mouth on him.

Now I’ve done this before—with women—but never with a man. Never with someone whose body I wanted this badly, whose sounds I was desperate to swallow.

“Tell me if I’m—” I start.

“You’re thinking again,” Elías whispers. “Stop thinking.”

I lower my head, and the first taste is salt and skin and heat. I drag my tongue up the underside, from base to tip, and the sound he makes—choked, surprised—goes straight to my spine. He’s slick already, pre-cum smearing against my lips, and I realize I’m moaning around him, the vibration making his hips jerk.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck, Fabián⁠—”

I take him deeper.

He’s thick. Heavy on my tongue. The head bumps the back of my throat, and I gag slightly and pull back, embarrassed, but his hand finds my hair immediately—not pushing, just holding.

“You’re doing fine,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good, Papi.”

I look up at him, and his eyes are dark and blown wide, and his mouth is open. He looks wrecked already, and I’ve barely started.

I reach for the lube with one hand while I keep my mouth on him. The bottle is cold. I warm it between my palms, then slick my fingers—one, then two. Elías spreads his legs wider, knees falling open, and I can see everything—the dark, furled skin and the way his hole flutters when I brush over it with my thumb.

I press one finger against him while I suck at the head of his dick. He moans, too loudly, and slaps his own hand over his mouth.

I freeze.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers against his palm. “Don’t you dare stop.”

Slowly, I push in, and he’s tight. Hot. Slick with lube and clenching around my finger, and I can feel his pulse there, rapid and desperate. I curl my finger experimentally, searching, and his hips buck off the bed.

“There,” he gasps. “Right there, cariño, right there⁠—”

Cariño.

The word hits me like a physical thing. I work him open with my mouth and my hand, finding a rhythm—suck, press, curl—while he whispers praise in Spanish and English, filthy and reverent, until I can’t tell which language is making me harder.

“Eso, yes, just like that.”

“Your mouth, fuck, your mouth.”

“You’re gonna make me come before you’re even inside me if you don’t stop.”

I add a second finger, and he hisses, body tensing, and I freeze again—terrified I’ve hurt him, terrified I’m doing this wrong, that I’m being too clinical, too rough.

“It’s okay,” he whimpers, reading my panic. “It burns, but it’s good. It’s good, Fabi. Keep going.”

I crook my fingers, rub that spot, and he whines—high and broken and nothing like his usual clever voice.

“Please,” he breathes. “Please, I need you inside me. Te necesito, carajo.”

I pull off his dick with a wet sound. He’s dripping precum onto his own stomach, a thin trail of it glistening in the light, and I want to lick it up. I want to make more. But he’s pulling at my shoulders and my arms, dragging me up his body.

“Now,” he whispers. “Now, por favor.”

The head of my dick presses against his hole, and I can feel how open he is, how ready, but I’m shaking so hard I can barely line myself up. What if I do this wrong? What if I thrust like I’m straight—too hard, too fast, all rhythm and no finesse? What if I hurt him? What if he realizes I have no fucking idea what I’m doing with a man’s body, that I’ve only ever⁠—

“Hey.” Elías catches my jaw. “Look at me.”