Elena

The room is immersed in an almost complete twilight, only pierced by the silver halo of the moon that filters through the curtains.

Your heart beats wildly as you stand there, barefoot on the fresh floor, your eyes riveted on Geto sitting on the edge of the bed.

He only wears a white towel, carelessly tied around his waist, and when he straightens up to look at you, she threatens to slip.

Your gaze lingers there for a second too long, a familiar warmth being born in the hollow of your belly.

“H-hey...” you whisper, your voice trembling, almost inaudible.

Geto doesn’t answer. He approaches, his steps slow and confident, his imposing figure making you take a step back. But before you can go any further, he grabs your waist with a firm hand and pulls you against him.

His lips crush on yours with raw urgency, and his hands immediately go down on your buttocks, kneading them hard.

A shiver runs through you as he bites your lower lip, sucking it gently before diving back into the kiss. Your breath stops, your legs falter.

The creaking of the bathroom door brings you back to reality. Gojo and Nanami enter, their presences filling the room with an electrical voltage.

Gojo, a towel tied low on his hips, sports a smirk, while Nanami, in a simple tight black boxer, stares at you with an intense look that makes you shiver.

“Are you really going to start without us?” Throws Gojo, his voice tinged with amusement as he approaches. He slips behind you, his warm hands resting on your hips.

His mouth finds your neck, depositing wet and burning kisses that make you tilt your head back.

Meanwhile, Geto presses his palms against your chest through the thin fabric of your towel, his fingers looking for your shapes with a precision that makes you bite your lip to stifle a moan.

Your thighs tighten instinctively, a humid heat already pulsating between your legs.

I get so wet you think, unable to control your body’s reaction.

Geto suddenly walks away, a corner smile on his lips, and gives way to Nanami. The latter, without a word, grabs the knot of your towel and undoes it with a dry gesture.

The fabric slides along your body, collapsing at your feet, leaving you naked and exposed under their hungry eyes.

Nanami grips your breasts with a firmness that makes you hiccup, your knees flexing under the sensation.

Gojo and Geto hold you, their hands on your arms, stabilizing you while you tremble.

“Look how hard your nipples are,” whispers Nanami, his deep voice vibrating in your body.

He bends over, his hot and wet mouth closing around one of them, his tongue slowly turning around before sucking hard. His other hand kneads your left breast, his thumb playing with the nipple, pinching it just enough to make you moan.

Behind you, Gojo presses his pelvis against your buttocks, and you feel the hardness of his erection through his towel, rubbing against you with a deliberate movement.

“N-Nanami... ugh, please stop... it feels... Gojo...” you stutter, your voice broken by uncontrollable moans.

They both move away, leaving you panting, short of breath. But this break only lasts a moment.

Before you can come to your senses, Geto lifts you with disconcerting ease and projects you on the bed.

The mattress creaks under your weight, and you find yourself lying down, your heart pounding, as the three men stand in front of you. Naked. Completely naked.

Your breath gets stuck in your throat. Your gaze goes from one to the other, unable to decide where to put your eyes.

Gojo’s smooth and muscular skin, his playful smile and the way he caresses his erection with provocative nonchalance.

Geto, darker, more intense, his massive body and protruding veins as he stares at you like a predator.

And Nanami, stoic but burning, his thick and heavy tail between his legs, a drop of liquid already pearling at the end.

My God, it’s a dream, you think, swallowing your saliva with difficulty.

Gojo is the first to move, climbing on the bed with feline agility. He sits behind you, lifting you slightly so that you are on all fours.

His hands slide on your hips, his fingers sinking into your flesh as he bends down to whisper in your ear: “You’re ready for us, huh?”

You don’t have time to answer. Geto stands in front of you, on his knees, his tail standing just under your nose.

He grabs a handful of your hair, not too hard but enough to guide you, and he looks at you with an intensity that makes you shiver. “Open your mouth,” he orders, his voice hoarse.

Meanwhile, Nanami positions herself on the side, her hands caressing your breasts before slowly going down to your belly, then lower.

His fingers touch your crotch, spreading your already soaked lips, and a discreet smile stretches his lips when he sees how excited you are.

“So wet,” he whispers, almost to himself, before slipping two fingers into you without warning. The sensation makes you moan loudly, your body arching with instinct.

Gojo, behind you, remove all restraint. You feel his glans pressing against your entrance, sliding against your wet before sinking slowly.

The pressure is almost unbearable at first, making you gasp, but he doesn’t stop, sinking until his hips slam against your buttocks.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he growls, his fingers clinging tighter to your hips as he begins to move, a slow but deep rhythm.

In front of you, Geto guides your head towards him, and you open your mouth, taking him between your lips.

The salty taste invades your mouth, and you feel his hand in your hair, guiding you to a rhythm that follows Gojo’s movements.

Your moans are muffled around him, each of Gojo’s kidney stroke pushing you further on Geto.

Nanami, always by your side, accelerates the movement of his fingers, pushing them deeper, his thumb rubbing your clitoris in precise circles.

The combination of sensations is overwhelming: Gojo taking you from behind, Geto in your mouth, and Nanami playing with you as if your body was an instrument he knew by heart.

Your body is a live wire, every nerve ending sparking with raw, unfiltered sensation as the three men work you over with ruthless precision.

Gojo’s thrusts pick up speed behind you, each powerful snap of his hips driving you forward, his grip on your waist bruising in the best way.

The wet, rhythmic sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your muffled moans around Geto.

“Fuck, look at you taking it so well,” Gojo mutters, his voice rough with lust as he leans over you, his chest pressing against your back. His breath is hot on your neck, and he bites down lightly, just enough to send a jolt through you. “You feel so damn good.”

Geto, still in front of you, tightens his hold on your hair, guiding your mouth along his length with a slow, deliberate pace that contrasts with Gojo’s relentless rhythm.

His eyes are half-lidded, dark with desire as he watches your lips stretch around him.

“Keep going, just like that,” he growls, his voice low and commanding. “Don’t stop.”

Your jaw aches, but the intensity in his gaze keeps you focused, even as your mind reels from the overload of pleasure.

Drool slips from the corner of your mouth, and Geto’s thumb brushes it away, smearing it over your chin with a smirk. “Messy little thing, aren’t you?”

Nanami, ever methodical, hasn’t let up either. His fingers are relentless, curling inside you with pinpoint accuracy, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur.

His thumb presses harder against your clit, circling faster, and the dual sensation of him and Gojo working you from both angles has your body trembling uncontrollably.

“You’re close, I can feel it,” Nanami says, his tone calm but laced with hunger. “Let go for us.”

You can’t speak, can’t even think straight with Geto filling your mouth, but your body answers for you.

Your walls clench around Nanami’s fingers and Gojo’s cock, a tight, desperate grip that pulls a groan from both of them.

The heat in your core builds to a breaking point, a tight coil ready to snap, and your muffled cries grow louder around Geto.

Gojo laughs breathlessly behind you, his pace faltering for a moment as he feels you tighten. “Shit, you’re gonna make me lose it if you keep squeezing like that.”

He slaps your ass lightly, the sharp sting sending a fresh wave of heat through you, and you jolt forward, taking Geto deeper.

Geto hisses, his grip on your hair tightening as his hips buck slightly. “Careful, or I’ll finish too soon,” he warns, but the way his voice wavers tells you he’s just as close as the others.

He pulls out for a moment, giving you a chance to gasp for air, your chest heaving as strings of spit connect your lips to him.

“Look at that face,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before guiding himself back to your mouth, slower this time, letting you savor the taste and weight of him.

Nanami’s free hand moves to your breast, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you whimper, the sharp pleasure mingling with the ache between your legs.

“Come for us now,” he orders, his voice firm, and it’s like a trigger. His fingers thrust deeper, his thumb pressing just right, and the coil inside you finally snaps.

Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, white-hot and blinding, ripping a scream from your throat that’s barely muffled by Geto.

Your body convulses, hips bucking wildly against Gojo, who curses under his breath and slows his thrusts to ride out your spasms.

Nanami doesn’t stop, drawing out every shudder and twitch with calculated strokes, while Geto pulls back just enough to watch your face contort in ecstasy.

“Damn, that’s hot,” Gojo pants, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your hips as you come down, trembling and breathless. But there’s no real reprieve.

As soon as your breathing steadies, Nanami pulls his fingers free, slick with your arousal, and shifts to take Gojo’s place behind you.

“My turn,” Nanami says simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. His hands grip your hips, positioning you just right, and you feel the blunt pressure of him at your entrance.

He’s thicker than Gojo, and the slow stretch as he pushes in makes you gasp, your oversensitive body protesting and craving more all at once.

“Relax,” he murmurs, one hand sliding up your spine to steady you. “You can take it.”

Gojo, now on the side, kneels near your face, still hard and glistening with your slick. He grins, stroking himself lazily as he watches Nanami claim you. “Don’t forget about me,” he teases, tapping your cheek lightly with his tip.

You turn your head, eager to please, and take him into your mouth, the familiar taste grounding you even as Nanami starts to move, slow and deliberate, each thrust deeper than the last.

Geto, not one to be left out, moves to your other side, his hand reaching between your legs to tease your swollen clit.

“Let’s see how many times we can make you break,” he says, his voice a dark promise as his fingers start their torturous work.

Nanami’s rhythm builds, steady and punishing, each thrust jolting you forward onto Gojo, who groans with every bob of your head.

Geto’s fingers are merciless, circling and flicking, sending sparks through your already overwhelmed nerves.

"𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝖢𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗋𝗒; 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖨'𝗆 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗏𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖾."

Nanami has everything to be happy: a loving family, friends, and a stable life.

Higuruma has known nothing but violence. Between the loss of his mother, an abusive father, and his addictions, he is simply looking for a place to disappear. Nanami's apartment is his only refuge.

They have nothing in common, and yet, they recognize each other.

"𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖾'𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖾𝖫𝖫."

𝟑 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞.

Nanami (𝟐𝟕 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐥𝐝)

I adjust my hair with a sweep of my hand while looking at myself in the mirror; it's already 10 PM. I let out a sigh and throw myself onto the couch, but the doorbell rings. I frown, head to the door, and open it.

Fuck, what is he doing here?

Higuruma is standing in front of me, wearing an old t-shirt and soaked joggers. His wet hair falls over his face, yet it isn't raining. He's shaking from head to toe and stares at me, waiting to come in.

How can I tell you that: Our relationship is complicated. His father is a violent alcoholic, and he has the habit of taking refuge at my place.

At first, we started fucking because, for him, it was his fix.

Then he started smoking, using drugs, shooting up. When he didn't have me or his drugs, he would self-harm.

And I was sick of it, so I stopped seeing him and stopped opening my door, but one night, I gave in. We fucked again.

I look at him; his eyes are glassy, red. He must have injected some shit or snorted something again to forget his old man's beatings. I should close this door, let him rot on the landing for my own good. But his hands are shaking too much. He takes a step forward, and without a word, I step aside.

𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬

Nanami (𝟑𝟎 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐥𝐝)

Today I'm 30, so it's been 3 years that Higuruma and I have been seeing each other. The good thing is that now he has a job, so he can be far from his father.

The bad thing is that our relationship has gotten worse; I have no control over anything anymore.

I run a hand over my face while loosening my orange collar. I walk toward the exit to go to work. I hate being late, but my head is elsewhere.

As I head toward my car, my phone vibrates in my pocket; I pull it out. It's a message from my group of sorcerers. Then a few seconds later, checking my notifications, I come across the one from Higuruma that I've been ignoring on purpose for 3 days.

"I need you. Please."

I close my phone and slip it into my pocket as I get into my car. I won't answer. Before going to work, I need some donuts and a good hot chocolate to start the day.

It's my only healthy routine, my only moment before seeing corpses and curses.

I stop at my favorite little café, where Claire works. As I walk in, she gives me a radiant smile.

Apparently, she has a new employee. I look forward to meeting him, if it can lighten her workload.

"Hi, the usual," I say, leaning on the counter.

"Right away!" she answers with a smile while I wait, staring at my watch. Time is ticking.

Suddenly, I freeze. I look up as I catch that scent. I know this smell by heart.

Higuruma is there. Behind the counter, in an apron.

He also seems shocked to see me; he almost drops the tray he's holding. Then his expression changes.

His eyes move down toward my pocket, where my phone is hidden. He knows I saw his messages. He knows I left him hanging while he was probably destroying his arm with a blade or a needle.

Shit. The messages.

The air becomes heavy, unbreathable. Claire looks at us; she doesn't understand. I act like I don't know him. I take my order, my fingers brushing his for a second.

I don't say thank you. I leave the café almost running, my heart beating too fast under my suit.

Fuck. It's not possible. He's everywhere.

Anyway. I have training today with Yuji and the others. I need to clear my head.

Arriving at the training field, Yuji greets me with his usual enthusiasm, but I don't even listen. I still see Higuruma's look at the café.

"Nanami-san? Is everything okay? You look... elsewhere," Yuji asks, tilting his head.

"Focus on your movements, Itadori. We aren't here to chat," I answer sharply.

Trapped in the Server Room

My name’s Ethan, I’m 27, and I’m a database engineer at a tech company in San Francisco. This job is my life, even if sometimes it feels more like hell than a dream. Today’s one of those days. It’s Friday night, past 8 PM, and I’m stuck in the server room with Ryan, my 35-year-old colleague, a guy who looks like he’s seen and lived through everything. We’re supposed to fix a critical outage that’s crashed half the company’s services. But right now, I can feel the air getting heavier, and not just because of the fans blasting at full speed.

The server room is usually a cold, sterile space, with rows of humming machines and blue lights blinking like in a spaceship. But tonight, the AC is dead, and we’re sweating like pigs. I take off my plaid shirt, toss it on a chair, and I’m left in a gray t-shirt, already soaked. Ryan, on the other hand, has been shirtless for ten minutes. He’s built like he spends his weekends at the gym instead of coding. Lean muscles, slightly tanned skin, and a thin layer of sweat glistening under the neon lights. Shit, I shouldn’t be staring, but it’s hard not to notice.

“Damn, it’s getting even hotter, isn’t it?” I mumble, wiping my forehead with my forearm.

Ryan looks up from his laptop screen, set on a table near a server rack. He gives me a glance, a smirk tugging at his lips that does something weird to my stomach.

“Yeah, it’s hot. But you look like you’re holding up, kid.”

Kid. He always calls me that, even though I’ve proven a hundred times I’m just as competent as he is. It pisses me off, but there’s something in his voice, a rough edge, that makes me shiver despite the suffocating heat. We’ve been trapped here for three hours, the door locked from the outside due to a bug in the security system, and no one’s coming until tomorrow morning. Might as well say we’re alone, truly alone.

I refocus on the terminal where I’m frantically typing commands to reboot the servers. But my eyes keep drifting to Ryan. He’s crouched by a cable, the muscles in his back shifting with every move. I swallow hard. I need to get a grip.

“Found anything?” I ask, more to break the silence than because I expect an answer.

He stands up, wipes his hands on his jeans, and steps closer to me. Too close. I can smell his sweat, a raw, masculine mix that turns my head upside down. He places a hand on the table beside my laptop, his arm brushing against mine.

“Not yet. But I think we’re gonna be here all night, you and me,” he says, his voice low, like he’s whispering a secret.

I laugh nervously, but my heart’s pounding. There’s something in the air, a tension that’s got nothing to do with the outage. I turn to him, our eyes meet, and for a second, I swear he’s looking at me in a way that’s anything but professional.

“You serious? Spend the night here?” I ask, trying to keep my tone detached.

He shrugs, but doesn’t step back. Instead, he leans in a bit more, his face just inches from mine.

“Got a better idea, Ethan? ‘Cause right now, we’re screwed. In every sense of the word.”

The double meaning hits me like a punch. I feel my cheeks heat up, but I can’t look away. His lips are full, slightly chapped, and I catch myself imagining what it’d feel like to have them pressed against mine. Shit, what’s wrong with me? I’m not usually like this. But this room, this heat, this damn loneliness… it’s making me lose it.

“Real funny,” I mutter, turning back to the screen to hide my flustered state.

But Ryan doesn’t let up. He places a hand on my shoulder, firm, possessive. I flinch, but I don’t push him away. His skin is warm, almost burning.

“Relax, kid. We’re stuck here, might as well make the most of it.”

I spin around, ready to throw out some sarcastic comeback, but the words get stuck in my throat. He’s staring at me with an intensity that pins me in place. His dark eyes, almost black, are full of something I can’t ignore. Desire. Raw, direct, unfiltered.

“What do you mean by ‘make the most of it’?” I ask, my voice shakier than I’d like.

He chuckles, a deep sound that echoes in the room. Then, without warning, he slides his hand from my shoulder to the back of my neck, pulling me toward him. My heart races, but I don’t resist. His lips crash against mine, hard, demanding. I should push him away, freak out, but instead, I kiss him back. His mouth tastes like salt, like sweat, and I completely lose my mind.

“This, damn it,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to catch his breath. “This is what I mean.”

I’m breathing hard, my hands on his bare chest without knowing how they got there. His skin is hot, slick with sweat, and I can feel his heartbeat under my fingers. I should stop, think this through, but my body decides for me. I pull him close again, my lips seeking his with an urgency I don’t fully understand.

He growls, a primal sound, and pushes me against the table. My laptop falls to the floor, but I don’t care. His hands are everywhere, sliding under my t-shirt, exploring my skin. His fingers are rough, calloused, but every touch sends electric shocks through my body.

“You sure about this?” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice rough.

“Shut up,” I gasp, out of breath. “Just keep going.”

He laughs, but there’s no mockery this time. It’s a sound of pure pleasure. He tears off my t-shirt, tosses it somewhere in the room, and his lips move to my neck. He nibbles, sucks, and I moan despite myself. My hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he marks my neck like he wants to leave evidence.

“Damn, you’re sensitive,” he says, lifting his head with a satisfied smirk.

“Shut it,” I growl, but my voice lacks conviction.

He pushes me harder against the table, my ass hitting the metal edge. His hands move to my belt, undoing the buckle with a skill that betrays his experience. My jeans slide down to my ankles, leaving me in just my boxers, vulnerable like never before. But Ryan’s gaze, burning and hungry, makes me forget any embarrassment.

“Nice,” he comments, sliding a finger under the waistband of my boxers, brushing my skin.

I shiver, my hips instinctively lifting toward his touch. He chuckles again, but his eyes are serious, focused. He kneels in front of me, and my breath catches. Fuck, is he really gonna do this? Here? Now?

“Relax, kid,” he murmurs, yanking my boxers down in one swift motion.

The cool air of the room hits me, but it’s quickly replaced by the heat of his mouth. I let out a moan, my hands gripping the edge of the table to keep from collapsing. His tongue is warm, skilled, and I lose all sense of time or place. There’s nothing but him, his mouth, and the raw pleasure coursing through me.

“Ryan…” I pant, my voice breaking.

He looks up, locking eyes with me through his lashes, and that look almost kills me. He keeps going, not slowing down, his hands gripping my thighs to hold me in place. I’m at his mercy, and fuck, I love it.

But I want more. I want to touch him, to return the favor. I push him away gently, though it takes everything in me to stop him. He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, one eyebrow raised.

“What’s up?” he asks, voice rough.

“My turn,” I say, pushing him against a server rack.

He lets me, a taunting smirk on his lips. I undo his jeans, my fingers shaky with impatience. When I pull down his boxers, I hold my breath. He’s… impressive, and for a second, I doubt myself. But his encouraging look pushes me forward.

I kneel, hands on his hips, and take my time. I want him to feel what I felt. His fingers tangle in my hair, pulling lightly, and his deep groans fill the room. Every sound he makes drives me to go further, to push him to the edge.

“Fuck, Ethan… you’re good,” he says between breaths, his voice trembling.

I glance up, proud to see him losing control. His eyes are half-closed, head thrown back against the cold metal of the servers. But he suddenly pulls me up, dragging me into another kiss, desperate, almost rough.

“I can’t take it anymore,” he growls against my lips. “I want you. Now.”

My heart races. I know what he means, and though part of me is nervous, the other is ready for anything. He digs into his jeans pocket, pulling out a condom and a small bottle of lube. I raise an eyebrow, surprised.

“You’re always prepared like this?” I ask, a bit sarcastic.

“Always,” he retorts with a wink. “You never know.”

I laugh, but it turns into a moan as he flips me around, bending me over the table. His hands are firm, but he takes his time, making sure I’m ready. He whispers dirty words in my ear, stuff that makes me blush but turns me on even more.

“Relax,” he says, sliding a finger inside me, slow and careful.

I clench my jaw, the mix of pain and pleasure catching me off guard. But he’s patient, adding a second finger, then a third, until I’m ready to break. My hips push back against his hand, craving more.

“You ready, kid?” he asks, his voice thick with excitement.

“Yeah… go for it,” I breathe, at my limit.

He doesn’t hesitate. He positions himself behind me, and I feel the pressure, then the heat. I groan, my fingers clutching the edge of the table. He goes slow, but every movement is intense, almost too much. He pauses for a moment, letting me adjust, his hands stroking my back to ease me.

“You good?” he asks, a hint of concern in his voice.

“Yeah, just… keep going,” I reply, voice tight.

He listens, picking up the pace bit by bit, his thrusts getting deeper, harder. The pain turns into pure pleasure, and I lose myself in the sensations. His growls, my ragged breathing, the sound of our bodies colliding—it all blends into perfect chaos.

“Fuck, you’re incredible,” he grunts, his hands gripping my hips so hard I know I’ll have marks tomorrow.

I can’t even respond, my mind empty, consumed by what we’re doing. He leans over me, his chest against my back, his mouth biting at my shoulder. Every sensation builds on the last, pushing me to the edge.

“Ryan, I’m gonna…” I start, unable to finish.

“Me too,” he whispers, voice broken.

A few more thrusts, and everything explodes. I cry out, my body shaking under the intensity. He follows soon after, a guttural groan echoing in the room as he collapses against me. We stay like that, panting, drenched in sweat, for what feels like forever.

Finally, he pulls away, and I stand, my legs shaky. He looks at me, a tired but satisfied smile on his face. We get dressed in silence, the air still heavy with what just happened.

Ghost smut stories

I adjust my mini-skirt as I enter the classroom, pulling slightly on the fabric that barely covers my thighs. Simon, aka Ghost, is there my worst enemy. I hate him with every fiber of my being. But, I have to admit, he’s an... unusual enemy. We have a twisted, fucked-up history. We hate each other, that’s for sure, but we also fuck. Often. Too often. And every time, I tell myself it’s a mistake, but I dive right back in anyway.

This morning, I’m walking through the high school hallways, notebooks clutched to my chest, surrounded by my friends. We’re laughing, talking about nothing and everything. Passing the lockers, I spot Simon leaning against the metal, a smirk on his face, surrounded by his crew. They whistle when they see me—heavy, provocative whistles. I spin around and throw them a lethal glare, daring them to keep going. Simon catches my eye, and I give him a very deliberate middle finger. He bursts out laughing and returns the gesture, but adds an obscene back-and-forth thrusting motion with his hips. Asshole.

I roll my eyes, exasperated, and continue toward the classroom. This morning, we have history firs the only subject where I’m stuck without my friends, but with him. Ghost. And the worst part? We sit side by side. Every class is a fucking torture, a mix of tension and looks that say way too much.

When I arrive, the room is empty. Not a soul. I drop my things on the desk, sit down, and fold my arms, glancing at the clock. Five minutes pass, and finally, he shows up. Simon, basketball under his arm, walking with that nonchalant gait like he owns the whole world. He’s wearing a tight black T-shirt that highlights his broad shoulders and worn-out jeans that sit low on his hips. His dark eyes settle on me, a smirk forming on his face.

"Where is everyone?" I ask sharply, not looking at him directly.

He shrugs, drops his ball on the floor, and walks closer. "I don’t know... maybe late. Or maybe they sensed we needed some privacy."

I scoff coldly. "In your dreams, Ghost."

I sit in my usual spot by the window and start flipping through a notebook to keep busy. But he won’t leave me alone. He comes to stand right in front of me, hands in his pockets, his shadow looming over me. I feel his heavy, insistent gaze.

"Ignoring me?" he says, his voice low, almost a growl.

"Yes," I reply without looking up, determined not to give him the satisfaction.

He chuckles softly, a sound that makes me shiver despite myself. "And yet, yesterday..."

"Shut up." I cut him off instantly, my cheeks burning. I don’t want him bringing that up. Every time we... we do that, I tell myself it’s the last time. A mistake. A fucking mistake I keep repeating.

But Simon isn't the type to let go. He circles the desk, stands behind me, and before I can react, his arms are around me. He pulls me against him, his large hands settling unhesitatingly on my ass. He squeezes firmly, possessively, and a thrill runs down my spine. My body betrays my head, as always with him.

"Come here," he whispers against my ear, his warm breath making me flinch.

I snap my head up, ready to hurl an insult, but before the words can come out, my lips meet his. It’s violent, almost desperate. Our tongues tangle, our teeth clash, and I feel the heat of his body against mine. He pushes me back until my backside hits the edge of a desk. In one movement, he lifts me and seats me on it, my legs parting instinctively. He slides between my thighs, his hands already under my skirt, pushing my panties aside without any gentleness.

"You’re already soaked," he growls, sliding two fingers inside me, his thumb rubbing my clit with precision. I moan in spite of myself, my head falling back.

While he fingers me, his lips move down to my neck, biting and sucking the sensitive skin. With his other hand, he undoes the buttons of my shirt, exposing my black lace bra. He grunts in approval before pulling down a strap and taking one of my breasts into his mouth, his tongue playing with my hardened nipple.

"Fuck, it’s so good," I breathe, unable to hold back the words. My body is on fire; every caress, every bite pushes me further toward the edge. I want him. Now. "Ghost... I’m begging you, fuck me."

He pulls back just enough to look at me, an arrogant smirk on his lips. "You’re begging now? Didn’t you say it was a mistake?"

"Shut up and just do it," I snap, annoyed, but my voice is trembling with desire.

He laughs, a deep sound, and his hands slide over my body while mine claw at his T-shirt. I feel the firmness of his chest under my fingers as he quickly undoes his belt buckle and lowers his jeans just enough to free his sex. He’s hard, ready, and the sight makes me salivate. Without wasting time, he grabs my legs, lifting them to rest on his shoulders, and lines himself up against me.

"Hang on," he whispers before thrusting into me in one sharp motion. I let out a cry, a mix of pain and raw pleasure. He’s thick, and the stretch burns for a moment before my body adjusts.

He starts to move, slow but deep thrusts, each one taking my breath away. His hands grip my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh, and he delivers a sharp smack to my ass. The sound echoes in the empty room, followed by another slap. My moans fill the air, uncontrollable.

"You love it, don't you?" he says, his voice hoarse, picking up the pace. "You can say you hate me all you want, but your body speaks for you."

"Shut up, Ghost," I pant, but I can't help arching my back, offering myself even more to him. He chuckles and slaps my ass again, harder, leaving a burning mark on my skin.

He suddenly pulls out, leaving me empty and frustrated, but before I can protest, he pulls me off the desk and spins me around abruptly. "Lean over," he orders, and I obey without thinking, placing my hands flat on the cold wood. My skirt is pushed up to my waist, my panties still shoved to the side, and I feel the cool air against my exposed skin.

He positions himself behind me, one hand on my hip, the other guiding his sex against my entrance. He penetrates me again, more brutally this time, and starts taking me from behind, every thrust sending a shockwave through my body. My breasts swing beneath me, half out of my shirt, and I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming too loud.

"You’re so fucking tight," he groans, one hand sliding down to play with my clit as he continues to pound me. His other hand grabs my hair, pulling my head back so I have to look at him over my shoulder. His eyes are burning with desire, and I feel my own orgasm building, uncontrollable.

"I’m... I’m gonna come," I moan, my legs shaking from the intensity.

"Not yet," he says, deliberately slowing his movements to torture me. "You come when I tell you to."

I groan in frustration, but he’s in control, and I know it. He pulls out again, and this time, he turns me around to face him. He lifts me as if I weigh nothing and pins me against the wall, my legs wrapped around his waist. His dick slides into me effortlessly, and he resumes his thrusts, fucking me against the wall with a force that makes the frames hanging nearby shake.

"Look at me," he commands, and I lock my eyes onto his, unable to look away. There’s something raw and savage in his expression, and it drives me crazy. My nails dig into his shoulders, leaving red marks on his skin.

"Harder," I whisper, and he obeys, his movements becoming almost violent. The sound of our bodies colliding fills the room, accompanied by our gasps and my increasingly loud moans.

Then he sets me back on the floor, but not for long. He sits on a chair near the teacher's desk, pulling me toward him. "Ride me," he says, and I climb onto his lap without a word, impaling myself on him. I start to move, rising and falling, hands on his shoulders for balance. He grabs my hips to guide my movements, his fingers sinking into my skin.

"That’s it, fuck yourself on me," he groans, and his words push me to go faster, my thighs burning from the effort. He leans his head down to bite one of my nipples through the thin fabric of my bra, and the sharp pain makes me moan louder.

I feel the orgasm approaching again, an overwhelming wave threatening to submerge me. "Ghost, I can’t hold it..." I pant, my movements becoming erratic.

"Go on, come for me," he finally says, his voice raspy, and that’s all I need. I collapse against him, my body racked with spasms as the pleasure crashes through me, intense and devastating. He keeps moving inside me, prolonging the sensation until I’m completely breathless.

But he isn't finished. He lifts me and puts me back on the desk, legs spread, and stands between them. "We’re not done," he whispers with a predatory smile. He starts taking me again, his thrusts slower now, but still deep. He wants to make it last, I can feel it, and I’m too exhausted to protest.

"You’re mine, you know that, right?" he says, his eyes locked on mine as he continues to fuck me. "No matter what you say, you’re mine."

I don’t answer, too lost in the sensations to form a coherent thought. But deep down, I know he’s right. No matter how much I hate him, no matter how much I fight it, I always come back to him.

He speeds up again, his grunts getting louder, and I feel him getting close. "Where do you want me to finish?" he asks, his voice strained.

"Inside me," I whisper without hesitation, and his smile widens.

A few seconds later, he releases himself with a guttural groan, his body trembling against mine. The heat of his sperm fills me, and I close my eyes, savoring the moment despite everything.

When he pulls out, we stay there for a moment, panting and sweaty in the silent classroom. I slide off the desk, adjusting my skirt and shirt with trembling hands. He zips up his jeans, a satisfied smirk on his face.

"A mistake, huh?" he says sarcastically, picking up his basketball.

You are sitting between Ghost’s thighs, the warm pool water caressing your skin as his strong hands wrap around your waist. The sun is setting on the horizon, painting the sky a burning orange, and the surface of the water shimmers around you.

 His lips brush against the sensitive skin of your neck, placing light but deliberate kisses there. A shiver runs down your spine, and a sigh escapes your lips before you tilt your head back to give him better access.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice rough and warm against your ear. 

His fingers, calloused but gentle, stroke your cheek before he slowly turns your face toward him. His dark eyes devour you for a moment before he captures your lips in a kiss.

 At first, it’s soft, almost hesitant, but very quickly the tenderness gives way to raw passion. 

He nibbles on your lower lip, sucking it with a hunger that steals your breath. You let out a soft moan into his mouth, your hands gripping his forearms to steady yourself.

He barely pulls back, giving you three miserable seconds to catch your breath before diving onto your lips again.

 This time, the kiss is fierce, almost desperate. Your back is pressed against his muscular chest, and you can feel the hardness of his erection against your ass through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs and your panties.

 The heat of his body contrasts with the coolness of the water, and your heart starts to race.

His right hand slips beneath the surface of the water, his fingers grazing your skin as they slowly slide down your stomach. 

They stop right at the edge of your panties, and a wave of heat floods your lower abdomen. “Oh my God,” you think, instinctively squeezing your thighs together to contain the tension building inside you. But Ghost doesn’t let you.

 With a sharp movement, he spreads your legs with his hand, his strong and relentless fingers slipping between your thighs.

He hasn’t stopped kissing you for a single second, his tongue exploring your mouth with an intensity that makes your head spin. 

Then he breaks the kiss, resting his chin on your shoulder, his warm breath against your ear. 

You feel his hand slip beneath the fabric of your panties, his fingers immediately finding your clit.

 You grip his forearm, your nails digging into his skin as he begins tracing small, slow, deliberate circles.

Your entire body trembles beneath his touch, and you tilt your head back, holding in a moan. You know you’re alone on this vast property, but the thought that someone, a staff member or a guard, might hear you freezes you with embarrassment.

“Moan,” he orders in a low tone, almost a growl. His voice is authoritative, sending an electric shock down your spine.

You shake your head, breath short, trying to keep control. 

But Ghost doesn’t stop. His fingers speed up, playing with the sensitive tip of your clit, alternating between light strokes and firmer pressure.

 “Y/N,” he growls against your ear, and that single word is enough to shatter your last defenses.

Your head falls back, and a loud moan escapes you, echoing in the warm evening air. Your thighs tremble violently as the orgasm hits you full force, waves of pleasure spreading throughout your body. 

Ghost lets out a small satisfied laugh, his lips brushing your ear before he slowly licks it, sending another shiver through your already hypersensitive body.

Your hands grip the edge of the pool behind you to steady yourself as he finally releases your waist.

But he doesn’t stop there. Under the water, you feel him move, and before you can protest, he disappears beneath the surface. You glance around, confused, until you feel his hands tugging at your panties. 

The fabric slides down your legs, and a gasp of surprise escapes you as he resurfaces, his gaze burning with desire.

 Without a word, he grabs one of your legs and gently lifts it, placing it on the edge of the pool to open you up further to him.

“W-Wait… what if someone sees us?” you whisper, your heart pounding, fear and excitement mixing in your voice.

A crooked smile stretches his lips, and he leans in to kiss you again, a short but intense kiss. 

“Worst case, let them watch. But if you want to stop, we’ll stop.”

Your gaze gets lost in his, and despite the panic tightening your throat, you can’t deny the fire consuming every inch of your body.

 Your breathing is erratic, but you finally whisper, almost desperately, 

“No… keep going… take me, Ghost, please.”

His smile widens, a predatory glint in his eyes. You stifle a gasp of surprise when you feel him enter you in one smooth, powerful motion.

 You briefly wonder when he removed his boxer briefs, but the thought vanishes as he begins to move, slowly at first, his hips rolling against yours under the water. 

His hand slides back to your clit, playing with your body’s heightened sensitivity, while his other hand firmly holds your leg in place.

A moan escapes you despite yourself, and your hands clutch his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he picks up the pace. 

The water sloshes around you with every thrust, the sound blending with your ragged breathing.

 “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he growls against your neck, his voice rough with desire. “You drive me crazy.”

His words make you blush, but they also fuel the fire inside you. You arch against him, seeking more contact, more friction. 

He answers your silent request, his movements becoming faster, harder. 

Your hands slide from his shoulders to his back, scratching his skin as your breathing grows more and more erratic. 

“Ghost…” you murmur, unable to form a coherent sentence as pleasure threatens to overwhelm you again.

“That’s it, say my name,” he grunts, his teeth grazing the tender skin of your neck before he bites lightly, just enough to make you shiver. 

His fingers on your clit speed up, and you feel the orgasm rising inside you like an unstoppable wave. 

He comes inside you at the same moment, a guttural groan leaving his lips as he pulls you tight against him, his hips trembling against yours.

You both remain still for a moment, breathless, the water gently lapping around you. 

Then, with unexpected softness, he places a kiss on your forehead, his warm lips against your still-burning skin.

 “I love you,” he murmurs, his voice softer but still tinged with that intensity that defines him.

Your heart tightens, and you snuggle against him, your arms wrapped around his torso.

Sabrina

The Californian sun filters through the silk curtains, casting golden lines across my king-size bed. I let out a muffled groan before stretching long and hard, feeling every muscle in my body wake up painfully after yesterday's intense rehearsal. 

I mechanically massage my neck, which is still a bit stiff, and finally slide out of bed. My feet find my fur sandals, and I head toward the bathroom with my eyes half-closed. 

A splash of cold water on my face pulls me out of my morning. 

The silence of the house is soothing, or so I think. Leaving the bedroom, I make my way toward the kitchen, with only one thought in mind: a black coffee to calm the humming in my brain. But as I reach the entrance of the living area, I freeze.

A masculine silhouett from behind.

My heart skips a beat, and adrenaline instantly replaces the caffeine I so desperately needed. Who is it? An intruder? A paparazzi who managed to bypass security? 

In a somewhat ridiculous survival reflex, I silently grab a ceramic vase sitting on the hallway side table. The weight of the object in my hands reassures me a little. 

I approach on tiptoe, holding my breath. Every creak of the floorboards beneath my steps seems to scream in the silence of the villa.

Once I am less than a meter away from the dark figure, I raise the vase above my head, ready to strike. 

It is at that precise moment that the man suddenly turns around, as if he sensed my presence.

"¡Coño!"

The shout makes me jump. I completely lose my balance, my sandals sliding on the polished floor. In a chaotic chain of movements, I tumble forward. 

The vase slips from my grip and shatters on the floor in a crash of broken porcelain, right next to us. I fall with all my weight onto him, taking him down with me.

The impact is brutal but strangely cushioned by his body. I find myself nestled against him, my head buried 

in the crook of his neck. His scent washes over me immediately. A mix of leather, expensive tobacco, and a woody note of sandalwood. 

Damn, he smells divinely good. It's a scent that screams confidence, a scent that dizzies me more than the fall itself.

I lift my head, eyes wide, and lock onto his dark gaze. Bad Bunny... His hands have instinctively settled on my hips to stabilize our fall, and I can feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric of my clothes. 

Time seems to stop; the sound of the broken vase fades away, leaving only the sound of our erratic breathing.

Suddenly, reality hits me like a punch. I realize our compromising position. I hurry to pull myself up, nearly tripping again on the pieces of glass, and I hold out a trembling hand to help him up.

That's when I see his gaze shift. His eyes slowly travel down, then he abruptly turns his head toward the ceiling, a flash of surprise and embarrassment crossing his face. I look down at myself. 

Oh. My. God.

I am in an oversized white t-shirt, but with nothing else but small lace panties underneath. My legs are completely bare, and with the morning light behind me, the t-shirt is probably not as opaque as I had hoped. My face turning red with shame, I don't even try to explain myself. I spin around and run toward my room as if my life depends on it, slamming the door shut.

Shit, shit, shit...

 I sliding down against the wood of the door.

That was so embarrassing I want to melt on the spot. I want to cry, disappear, or maybe jump out the window. 

How am I going to look him in the face after this? 

Rule number ten said not to fall in love, but it didn't account for me literally falling on top of him half-naked on the very first morning.

I hurry to put on baggy sweatpants and a hoodie that hides every single inch of my skin. I take two deep breaths and return to the living room, trying to regain the dignity I lost five minutes ago.

He is there, standing by the bay window with his phone to his ear. He seems calm, as if nothing happened, but I notice he doesn't look at me directly as I approach.

"I... I..."

"If that's what you want to know, I didn't see anything," he says in a calm voice, almost too detached. "I mean, I respect you, I already looked away."

Oh...

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh yes, sorry. Kai asked me to stop by and get you," he explains, putting his sunglasses back on. "He wanted me to tell you that tonight, we are leaving for Miami. That's where our collaboration is going to take place."

I nod. He gives me a wave of his hand and heads toward the exit.

"And oh, sorry again about earlier. I also picked up the pieces of glass. See you tonight, Sabrina..."

"See you tonight..."

I feel my cheeks turn scarlet, and I throw myself onto the back of the sofa, covering my face with a pillow. My God!

Few hours later 

The tarmac at the private airport in Los Angeles shimmers under the late afternoon heat. I readjust my sunglasses, trying to keep a straight face despite the chaos still swirling in my mind.  

Kai is right behind me, talking on the phone with a typically Italian intensity, his hands waving through the air as if he's trying to catch the words mid-flight.

"Sì, sì, tutto bene! We'll be in Miami in a few hours. Get the villa ready; I don't want any mistakes!" 

he barks before hanging up. In front of us, the massive private jet waits, its engines humming softly. And there, at the foot of the stairs, is him. Benito. 

He's talking to a member of his team, one hand in the pocket of his linen trousers, the other holding a bottle of water. He's traded his leather jacket for an unbuttoned shirt, offering a glimpse of his tattoos and that golden skin that looks like it was made for the sun.

I feel my stomach knot. The memory of this morning hits me like a slap. I take a deep breath and climb the steps.

The interior of the jet is the height of luxury. Cream leather seats, dark wood accents, and dimmed lights. Kai settles into the back to work, leaving me alone in the main cabin. I sit by the window, hoping for some peace.

No such luck.

Benito enters and, without a moment's hesitation, sits in the armchair directly across from mine. The space is tight. Our knees are only a few inches apart.

"Ready for Florida?" he asks, his low voice barely masking the sound of the engines powering up.

"I think so, yes. I just need to sleep," I reply, trying not to stare at his lips.

"Sleep, then. It's a long flight."

I close my eyes, but sleep doesn't come. I can feel his gaze on me. It's a heavy, burning stare that seems to pierce right through my closed eyelids. An hour into the flight, the plane hits a patch of turbulence. 

The aircraft tilts sharply to the side. A cry of surprise escapes me, and by reflex, I grab the first thing I can reach.

His hand.

My fingers lock onto his. His skin is warm, firm. I snap my eyes open, panicked, and see that he hasn't moved. 

He's staring at me, his dark eyes searching mine. Instead of pulling his hand away, he turns his palm over to interlace his fingers with mine.

"Tranquila, Sabrina. I've got you," he whispers.

The plane stabilizes, but neither of us lets go. It's a flagrant violation of Rule Number Ten, and yet, it's the only thing that feels real in this pressurized jet. I eventually fall asleep, my head tilting gently to the side, my hand still a prisoner of his.

10:00 PM, Miami The Coral Gables Villa

The Miami humidity hits us like a wall the moment we step off the plane. The air is heavy, thick with the scent of salt and jasmine. A black car whisks us through palm-lined streets to a monumental estate. This is where the real test begins.

James, the supervisor, is waiting for us at the villa's grand entrance. He looks even stricter under the outdoor neon lights.

"Welcome to your home for the next few weeks," he says, handing us access badges. "Remember: 24/7. The security cameras are here for your protection, but also to ensure the contract is respected."

I walk beside Benito toward the entrance. The villa is a labyrinth of glass and white stone, opening up to an infinity pool that seems to spill into the ocean.

"It feels like a golden prison," I whisper as we head up the stairs to the bedrooms.

Benito stops in front of his suite, which is of course directly  across from mine. He turns to me, a smirk playing on his lips.

"It's only a prison if you're afraid of what's inside, Sabrina."

He takes a step toward me, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body. He reaches up and gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brush against my temple, and I freeze, almost forgetting how to breathe.

"Tomorrow, we start in the studio. Get some rest. And try not to attack me with a vase this time."

I let out a nervous little laugh.

"I make no promises."

"See you tomorrow, mami."

He steps into his room and closes the door. I'm left alone in the hallway, my heart drumming against my ribs. 

I push open the door to my new room. The bed is huge, the sheets are crisp, but I already know I won't sleep.

I throw myself onto the bed, exhausted, thinking about his hand in mine during the flight.

"Shit... I'm in trouble," 

I breath into my pillow

Bad bunny (Benito) 

I close the door to my suite and lean against the cold wood for a few seconds. The silence of the room is broken only by the quiet hum of the air conditioning, but inside my head, it's a mess. I can still feel the spot where her hair brushed against my fingers.

"See you tomorrow, mami."

Why did I say that? I let out a sigh and toss my keys onto the marble dresser. I'm not supposed to play this game. James was clear, the contract is clear, and yet, every time I'm near her, I feel like I'm driving a sports car with no brakes on a mountain road.

I walk over to my suitcase sitting on the leather stand and start taking my things out. Unpacking is my way of regaining control. I take out my silk shirts, my wide-legged trousers, and I arrange them in the massive walk-in closet that still smells like fresh wood. 

Every movement is precise, slow. I fold a white t-shirt the same kind she was wearing this morning when she fell on top of me.

The memory returns without warning. The crash of the vase, the weight of her body against mine, and above all, the look in her eyes when she realized she was half-naked in front of me.

I wasn't lying when I told her I respected her and that I had looked away, but I didn't say I hadn't seen anything. 

I saw the paleness of her skin, the curve of her hips, and that vulnerability that doesn't match the "Pop Princess" image she sells to the rest of the world.

I take out my jewelry my gold chains, my rings and lay them out on the velvet tray.

I walk toward the balcony of my room, which also overlooks the pool, right next to hers. I don't go out; I stay behind the tinted glass. 

I see her. She's there, leaning against the railing, watching the Miami lights. She looks so small in this massive villa.

I pull out my phone and see a message from my team asking if the "connection" with her is good for marketing. I don't reply. The connection is too good; that's exactly the problem. On the plane, when she grabbed my hand during the turbulence, I should have let go the second the aircraft stabilized. That's what a professional would have done. 

But I kept her fingers between mine. I liked the feel of her hand, so delicate yet squeezed so tight against mine.

I go back to my bed and pull out my notebook. I write a few words in Spanish, fragments of lyrics that come to me.

I scratch out the line.  I can't afford to screw up this project. There's too much money at stake, too many reputations. 

But when I think back to her nervous little laugh in the hallway, I know these next six weeks are going to be the longest of my life.

I pull off my shirt and catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I rub a hand over my tired face.

Behave yourself, Benito.

The problem is, I've never been very good at following rules. Especially when Rule Number Ten asks me to ignore the only thing I've wanted to do since I saw her walk into the  office: protect her from the world, and maybe, keep her all to myself.

I throw myself onto the bed, arms behind my head, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The next morning, the Florida light is aggressive, almost rude. It seeps in everywhere. I get up, my body feeling heavy. I head to the bathroom ensuite in my room. 

I preferred using this one; after the vase incident and the too-short t-shirt yesterday, I didn't want to risk startling her again by wandering through the common hallways in my boxers. I splash my face with ice-cold water and brush my teeth. 

I step out of my room. The hallway is dead quiet. I head downstairs, my bare feet making no sound on the cold tile. 

Once in the kitchen, I feel the need to do something with my hands. I pull out bacon, eggs, and fresh bread. The sizzle of the meat on the pan and the smell of coffee finally start to wake up my senses.

That's when I hear them. Light, hesitant footsteps. I turn around, and there she is. Sabrina. She's wearing grey sweatpants and a white tank top that stops just above her navel. 

Her hair is a bit messy, her eyes still clouded with sleep as she rubs them gently with the back of her hand. She looks... human. 

Not the untouchable red-carpet star, just a girl waking up in an unfamiliar house. 

"Good morning," she whispers, her voice still a bit husky.

"Morning. Sleep well?"

She nods and sits on a leather stool by the center island. She rests her chin in her hand, watching me work at the stove.

"It smells good," she says with a small, shy smile.

I don't answer right away, too busy plating the crispy bacon and sunny-side-up eggs. I set the plate in front of her, like a peace offering. Then, I open the fridge, pull out a carton of fresh juice, and pour her a tall glass.

That's how I imagine breakfast

"Thank you," she says, surprised by the gesture.

I cross my arms, leaning against the counter to observe her. She takes a first bite, closes her eyes, and a small sigh of contentment escapes her lips. I already knew it was good, but seeing her enjoy something I made gives me a strange sense of satisfaction.

"Mhhh, I love it! It's perfect!"

I chuckle softly a rare sound for me in the morning. I serve my own plate and sit down next to her. After we finish, she wipes her mouth with a napkin while I dry my hands.

"Today, James said we could go sightseeing, though I doubt it's your first time here. Afterward, we'll visit the studio where we'll be working. And maybe later, start thinking about a song."

She nods, her blue eyes locked onto mine.

"Okay, I see. I'm going to go get ready, wait for me."

I watch her walk away toward the stairs. Despite myself, my eyes slide down the curve of her back and linger a bit lower, where her sweatpants hug her frame. 

I immediately look away, clearing my throat as if I'd been caught doing something wrong. 

"Pórtate bien"

I head off to get ready too. A quick shower, black jeans, a light sweater, and my usual sunglasses. When Sabrina returns a few minutes later, my breath catches again. 

She's changed her style completely. She's wearing a denim mini-skirt that shows off her never-ending legs, mid-calf heeled boots, a simple tank top, and a structured jacket over it. 

Her blonde hair falls in cascades over her shoulders, and she's carrying a small designer bag.

"You look magnificent..." The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them.

She blushes, looking down.

"T-thank you..."

"Here, a mask, for the fans. You never know," I say, handing her a black face mask. "Alright, now, let's go see Florida, yeahhh!"

We get into the car, a classic convertible the team left in the garage. I take the wheel. The Miami sun welcomes us with open arms.

Our first stop is Wynwood Walls. It's the arts district, filled with giant murals and open-air art galleries. I want to see how she reacts to the color, to the street culture. 

We walk side by side, surrounded by walls painted by the world's greatest street artists. Tourists look at us, intrigued by this masked couple, but no one dares approach. 

She stops in front of a massive fresco of a woman in psychedelic colors.

"It's incredible, Benito. It's so... alive," she says, pulling out her phone to take a photo.

"That's how it is here. Nothing is ever grey."

Next, I take her to Little Havana. The smell of cigars and Cuban coffee floats in the air. We pass by Domino Park, where old men play with intense passion. I buy her a mantecado ice cream at Azucar. 

She laughs when a drop almost falls on her jacket, and I find myself smiling behind my mask. We share a moment of stolen freedom. We don't talk about the contract, we don't talk about James; we just talk about the music spilling out of the open bar windows.

To finish the afternoon, we drive along Ocean Drive. The pastel-colored Art Deco buildings blur past. The wind in her hair, the sound of the South Beach waves to our right... everything feels too perfect to be a simple marketing arrangement.

Then, the vibe shifts. The sun begins to set, painting the sky in shades of purple and orange. I steer the car toward the Design District, where the studio is located. It's an ultra-modern building hidden behind luxury storefronts.

The drive to the studio is more reflective. I can feel Sabrina growing more tense beside me. The recess is over. Now, we're going to have to lock ourselves in a room and create intimacy from nothing.

We step out of the car and enter the studio, where a woman greets us to lead the tour. The space is incredible a sleek, high-tech sanctuary designed for legends. But as soon as we finish exploring the rooms, it's already time to head back.

During the drive home, a silence settles between us. It isn't awkward or heavy; it's the kind of quiet that feels like a shared breath after a long day. We both stare out at the passing neon lights of Miami, lost in our own thoughts about what starts tomorrow.

Sabrina Pov

USA, California 9AM 

Sabrina

I let out a long sigh that seems to come from deep within my lungs before pushing open the heavy studio door. The familiar scent of hairspray, cold coffee, and floor wax hits me instantly. It's my second home, but some mornings, the walls seem to close in just a bit more.

Inside, Kai, my manager, is already a whirlwind of activity. He's glued to his phone, but as soon as he hears the click of my heels, he looks up. 

An automatic smile spreads across his face as he approaches and hands me my favorite drink.

"Hi! Here's the schedule for today. You have rehearsal now, and around noon, you have a meeting with someone. Then around 3:00 PM, you come back here to practice, and you'll finish early, around 5:00 PM."

I'm not really listening. I'm focused on my strawberry drink, massaging my neck. The cold plastic against my palm is the only thing keeping me grounded.

"Are you listening to me?" he asks, snapping his fingers in front of my face.

His Italian accent, usually subtle, suddenly flares up under the stress. I roll my eyes, a small laugh escaping me.

"Ma che fai? Mi stai ascoltando o sei su un altro pianeta?" (But what are you doing? Are you listening to me or are you on another planet?), 

he exclaims, waving his hands above his head in that typical, theatrical Italian gesture.

I can't help but giggle as he continues his dramatic display.

"O Dio, dammi la forza! Sei testarda come un mulo!" (Oh God, give me strength! You are as stubborn as a mule!), 

he cries out, shaking his head.

I head toward my dressing room to change into my rehearsal clothes. Kai is intense, but he's the only one who can make me laugh when the pressure is on.

"I'm going to change, Kai. Don't have a heart attack before noon!"

I close the dressing room door behind me. The room is bright, filled with mirrors lined with lightbulbs. I set my drink down and start pulling off my jacket. 

I glance at my workout gear: a tight lycra set that doesn't leave much to the imagination, but it's perfect for moving.

While I slip into my leggings, 

I think back to what Kai said. A meeting at noon. He didn't give me a name, just a mysterious smirk. Usually, when he does that, it means it's big. Very big. I look at my reflection in the mirror, adjusting my ponytail.

"Sbrigati, Sabrina! Il tempo vola!" (Hurry up, Sabrina! Time flies!), Kai yells through the door.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!"

I finish lacing up my sneakers, take one last sip of my strawberry drink, and prepare to face three hours of intense dance. 

I step onto the stage and the music starts with an explosion of bass that makes the floor vibrate under my feet. Immediately, my body switches to automatic mode. 

The next three hours aren't meant for thinking; they are meant for burning. I launch myself toward the mirror, my movements sharp, precise, almost aggressive.

Sweat quickly begins to bead on my forehead, sticking a few blonde strands to my temples. During every thirty-second break, I glance at my reflection. 

My cheeks are flushed pink, my eyes shining with a mix of fatigue and adrenaline.

Kai is sitting in a corner, eyes glued to his iPad, but I can feel him watching me. 

He's waiting for the moment I falter, for the second my foot slips even a millimeter.

"Again! The transition on the second chorus is too slow, Sabrina!" he calls out without looking up.

I groan internally, but I start again. I hate that he's right. I restart the choreography; my muscles begin to burn, a dull ache settles in my calves, but I push through.

Around 11:00 AM, I feel my energy dipping. My strawberry drink is nothing more than a distant memory, and my stomach begins to knot less from hunger and more from nerves.

This noon meeting is running through the back of my mind like a catchy chorus. Kai finally stands up and claps his hands to stop the music.

"Enough for this morning. You're going to end up hurting yourself if you keep going with this much rage,"  he says in a softer tone.

He approaches and hands me a white towel. I wipe my face, short of breath, feeling my heart thumping all the way in my ears.

"Go shower and change. Wear something that says 'I'm a star but I'm still cool.' We leave in twenty minutes," 

he adds with a wink I nod, unable to speak for the moment. I head toward the showers, my legs feeling like they weigh a ton. Turning on the lukewarm tap, 

I let the steam envelop me. This meeting... Kai never makes this much of a mystery for nothing.

"Muoviti, tesoro!" (Hurry up, treasure!) he shouts from the other room.

I close my eyes under the stream of water. In an hour, I'll know. But for now, I savor the last moment of calm before Kai's millimetric schedule takes over again.

1pm, California studio Studio 78

 The car ride with Kai had been a torment of silence and mystery. He hadn't let a single thing slip, contenting himself with tapping nervously on his iPad while mumbling Italian phrases that I didn't even bother to mentally translate. Now, I am here. Studio 78. 

It's an imposing place, tucked away on a discreet but ultra-secure street in Los Angeles, where the walls seem to sweat success and industry secrets.

My heels click against the polished marble floor of the hallway, a sharp echo that resonates with the beat of my heart. 

A woman with a strict appearance, dressed in an impeccable suit, leads us toward an office at the back of the complex. With an elegant gesture, she signals for us to sit. 

Kai settles in to my left, adjusting his jacket with an unusual restlessness. To give myself some composure and hide the fact that I'm dying to ask a thousand questions, 

I pull out my phone. I launch a stupid game, my fingers sliding across the screen to align colored candies, but my eyes never stop glancing at the top of the screen: 1:05 PM.

Five minutes pass. an eternity.

Suddenly, the click of the lock makes me jump. The door opens with perfect fluidity, and a man in a dark suit enters the room. He exudes a calm confidence, a natural authority. I have to admit, he's not bad looking, with graying hair at his temples and a piercing gaze. 

Kai stands up immediately, almost like a spring, to shake his hand. 

The man walks around us with a professional smile and sits behind the massive mahogany desk. I straighten up, put my phone away, and offer him my hand as well. His grip is firm.

"Sorry, he'll be a little late," he says in a deep voice as he settles in. "I'll introduce myself, I'm James, the legal supervisor and special projects coordinator for this collaboration."

"Nice to meet you, James," 

I reply, offering him my best "Pop Princess" smile the one that perfectly hides my annoyance at the lateness of this mysterious partner.

We've barely begun to exchange a few pleasantries about my last concert when the door opens. This time, it's not a fluid opening. It's brutal. 

The door almost slams against the wall, creating a draft that sends a few strands of my hair flying. I turn around immediately, a reproach already ready on my lips, but the words die instantly in my throat.

My breath hitches.

I recognize him immediately. No one wears a black leather jacket with that much presence. He walks into the room, dressed in a simple white t-shirt that molds to his chest, baggy jeans, and that aura of danger that precedes him everywhere. 

Bad Bunny. 

Benito.

Our eyes lock head-on. At that precise moment, I feel like the office disappears. Kai and James's voices become a distant, inaudible hum. We find ourselves sucked into a white bubble, an empty space where only his dark eyes and my short breath still exist. 

There is something wild in the way he observes me, a silent analysis that strips me bare.

Then, suddenly, he breaks the moment by looking away toward James. 

The bubble bursts. I stay there, heart pounding wildly, trying to regain my composure. Kai stands up to greet the global star, and I do the same, my legs feeling a bit less solid than they did during this morning's rehearsal.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He is taller than I imagined. More imposing. He takes a step toward me, closing the personal space I'm desperately trying to maintain. 

I hold out my hand, expecting a formal, cold handshake. 

To my great surprise, he doesn't shake it. He takes it delicately, his slightly calloused fingers brushing against my skin, and he raises it to his lips. 

His eyes don't leave mine as he places a chaste but burning kiss on the back of my hand. 

I feel an electric shiver run through me from my hand to my spine. My heart races, thumping against my ribs like a caged bird.

"Sorry for being late, there was a traffic jam," 

he says in a husky voice, his trailing accent making every syllable incredibly magnetic.

I guess he's part of this little surprise... I shoot a glare at Kai, who carefully avoids my attention. James clears his throat, bringing the seriousness back into the room.

"Right. Now that everyone is here, let's get down to business," 

James begins, spreading two thick folders on the table. 

"This collaboration is not just a simple song. It's an image contract, a fusion of two worlds. And for this to work, there are rules. Ten strict rules that you have already consented to through your agents, but which I am going to read back to you here."

Benito sits down, slumping slightly in his chair with a calculated nonchalance. I remain upright, tense as a piano wire.

"Rule number one," James begins, adjusting his glasses. "Total exclusivity. For the next six weeks, you will work on no other projects."

"Rule number two: Absolute discretion. No social media posts, no photos, no hints about your location without the committee's approval.

Rule number three: Cohabitation. To create real chemistry, you will live in the Studio 78 villa, 24/7."

I feel a weight settle in my stomach. Live with him? In the same space? James continues, rattling off rules about schedules, interviews, security... until he reaches the last two. His tone becomes colder, more solemn.

 "Rule number nine: Professionalism must come before everything else. No personal conflicts must hinder the recording sessions."

He pauses, looking up at us. Benito suddenly seems very attentive.

 "And rule number ten, arguably the most important for the stability of this marketing project: It is strictly forbidden to fall in love. Any real romantic or sentimental relationship between you is prohibited by the contract. If the media suspects something, it must remain 'storytelling,' nothing more. If a real relationship develops, the contract is breached, and the financial penalties are in the millions."     

The silence that follows is deafening. I don't dare look at Benito. The clause is clear: we are here to sell a dream, not to live it.  

   "Is that understood?" James asks.

   "Claro," Benito replies in a low voice, almost a whisper. 

 "Yes, it's understood," I add, even though my voice trembles slightly.

Hello, I'm new to this App, I've been writing on Wattpad for a long time so this is the first time I've used this app

chapter two 👇👇👇