Page 96 of Offside Angle

I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

But I don’t want him to stop.

Santi lifts his head just enough to look at me. “Hands above your head for me, cariño.”

My arms stretch up and my fingers curl around the edge of the couch cushion. My brain catches up a second later and a small jolt of panic runs through me. I’m not supposed to be the one following orders. I’m supposed to be the one giving them. But my body already obeyed, and Santi’s eyes darken with approval.

He checks in immediately.

“Still okay?”

I nod, a little too fast. “Yeah.”

He leans down again and presses a slow kiss to the center of my chest. Then another, lower. His hands slide under my thighs and he gently pushes them open a little wider.

“Just like that,” he murmurs. “Stay open for me.”

My breath stutters. I keep my legs where he put them even though every instinct is screaming that this is backwards, that I should be the one on top, the one deciding. The panic is still there but it’s mixed with something hotter that makes my stomach flip.

Santi looks up at me again, waiting. “You can tell me to stop anytime,” he says. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” I manage. My voice sounds rough. “Don’t stop.”

He smiles against my skin and keeps going, trailing lower, his hands steady on my thighs and holding me firmly in place.

I don’t know how to be on this side of things.

But right now, with Santi between my legs and his voice soft, I don’t want to learn how to stop either.

Every time he checks in, I nod or manage a rough “yeah” before my brain can catch up. My body keeps following him without hesitation, and that scares me more than anything else.

I like it.

His voice settles over me and quiets something in my head. He moves me exactly where he wants me, and for once, I don’t have to decide what happens next. I don’t have to be the one in control.

And that’s the problem.

Because the realization hits hard and sudden: giving him that control feels good. Some part of me wants this far more than I’ve been willing to admit, and the second I understand that, my whole body locks up. My muscles go rigid and my breathing turns sharp and shallow.

Santi stops immediately. He crawls back up my body in one smooth motion and cups my face with both hands, stroking over my cheekbones as he looks down at me. “Matteo,” he says. “Look at me, mi cielo. I’m right here.”

I force my eyes up to his. Santi doesn’t look away. He just combs his fingers gently through my hair, slow and grounding, waiting for me to come back to myself.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You’re safe. We can stop. We can slow down. Whatever you need.”

I swallow hard, breathing too fast, trying to understand how something that feels this good can also feel this terrifying.

His hands stay on my face. His body is warm and solid above me. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.

“I don’t want you to stop,” I say, the words coming out rough and a little desperate.

“Okay.”

“But I don’t know how to let you keep going either,” I admit. The honesty feels raw in my throat. I want this. I want him. But every time he takes the lead my brain short-circuits between panic and how much I like it.

Santi just nods and reaches for my hands, threads our fingers together, and gently pulls me up with him. He switches our positions until he’s the one lying back against the couch and I’m the one above him with my knees on either side of his hips.

“Your pace,” he says simply, looking up at me with complete patience.