Page 99 of Offside Angle

Santi’s hand slides up my stomach, pressing me down gently, holding me in place as he takes me deep again.

The pleasure coils tighter and tighter until it feels like I’m going to snap. Panic spikes through the haze and I reach down, grabbing Santi’s hair and pulling him off with a broken sound.

“Cariño…” Santi scolds softly, but there’s no real anger in it.

Before I can catch my breath he grabs both of my wrists with one hand and pins them firmly against my stomach. I don’t even have time to protest before he’s back down on me, taking me deep again with no hesitation. The sudden intensity rips a loud, desperate groan out of me. My back arches hard off the couch and I come so hard my vision whites out for a second. I dig my own fingers into my stomach where Santi’s holding my wrists, cursing in Spanish as wave after wave crashes through me.

He keeps going through every shudder, every twitch, milking me until I’m completely spent and trembling. Only then does he slowly pull off, licking his way back up my body with lazy, open-mouthed kisses until his mouth finds mine again.

He kisses me deep and filthy, letting me taste myself on his tongue, then pulls back just enough to whisper against my lips.

“Never try to stop me from swallowing you again, guapo. I won’t be so nice next time.”

My ears burn so hard I’m sure they’re glowing red. I can’t even look at him. I just groan and hide my face against his shoulder.

Santi chuckles softly and presses a kiss to the side of my head, one hand running soothingly up and down my side.

The next morning I find myself leaning against the doorframe of my bedroom, a warm cup of coffee cradled between my hands. I’ve been standing here for a while now, just… watching.

Matteo is fast asleep in my bed, one arm flung above his head, the other resting across his stomach. The sheets are tangled around his hips, and the morning light coming through the curtains paints soft gold across his bare skin. He looks peaceful.

It took me ten years of waiting, of almosts and maybes and so many nights where I convinced myself this would never happen. And then a lot of luck — the kind you don’t question too closely when it finally shows up. Now he’s here. In my bed.

I hope he doesn’t wake up one day and realize there are, in fact, other men on this earth. Men who might be easier. Less complicated. Men who don’t come with ten years of history and a messy almost-kiss that never quite left his mind.

I take another sip of coffee and let my eyes trace the line of his jaw, the way his lashes rest against his cheeks, the faint marks I left on his skin last night. He’s absolutely gorgeous like this — soft and real and mine, at least for right now.

Without thinking, I set my coffee down on the desk and reach for my camera. It’s already there, exactly where I need it. I lift it quietly, frame the shot, and press the shutter.

The soft click is barely audible.

I lower the camera and just look at him again, a small, helpless smile tugging at my mouth.

Yeah.

I could get used to this.

His eyes flutter open slowly, and for a second he blinks at the ceiling, clearly trying to remember where he is. Then his gaze slides sideways and lands on me.

A slow, lazy grin spreads across his face.

“You taking pictures of me while I sleep now?” he mumbles. He stretches one arm above his head, the sheet slipping dangerously low on his hips, and arches an eyebrow at me. “That’s a little creepy, guapo. But also… kinda hot.”

I lower the camera, trying to hide my smile.

“Couldn’t help it,” I admit. “You looked too good to pass up.”

Matteo’s grin turns cockier. He rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow with the smug confidence of a man fully aware of the effect he’s having on me.

“Careful,” he says, eyes sparkling even though he’s still half-asleep. “Keep doing shit like that and I might start thinking you’re obsessed with me.”

I step into the room and set the camera back on the desk, then walk over to the bed. Leaning down, I press a slow kiss to his forehead.

“Maybe I am,” I murmur against his skin.

Matteo huffs and reaches up, tugging me down by the front of my shirt until our mouths meet. The kiss is warm and lazy, tasting like sleep and morning and something that feels dangerously close to forever.

When we pull apart he’s still smirking. “Morning,” he whispers.