new year

“Hey chiquita,” Javier’s voice pours through the phone like whiskey over ice, that familiar rasp curling straight into your ear and down your spine. “¿Qué haces?” (What are you doing?)

“Estudiando,” (Studying) you answer in a slow, lazy yawn, stretching your arms high above your head until your back arches and your old t-shirt rides up, exposing the soft curve of your stomach to the empty room.

You wedge the phone between your cheek and shoulder, flipping pages you’re barely reading anymore.  “If I have to annotate another article, I might just gouge my eyes out.” A theatrical sigh is added for dramatic effect.

His laugh slides right under your skin and dissolves half your irritation on contact. He always does that without even trying: makes the world feel a little less heavy just by existing.

“¿Y tú? ¿Qué haces? Es tarde,” (And you? What are you up to? It’s late) you ask, already imagining the tired slope of his shoulders from a long day, leaning against the hood of his truck, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip while he finds the words.

“Just finished something with Carrillo,” he finally answers, voice rougher than before. “Talked to a group of kids. Things got ugly.”

The exhaustion, no, the defeat in his tone makes your heart trip over itself. You know he carries the weight of violence in a way that only Javier Peña can manage.

Before you can ask if he’s okay or if he even wants to talk about it, he pushes on almost like he’s stepping closer despite the miles between you.

“Needed a smoke… y como siempre, pensé en ti.” There’s a brief pause, he’s likely taking another drag of the cigarette. “Imagining you in my bed. All that soft skin against my sheets, legs spread for me… tan bella, tan mía.” (So pretty. So mine)

“Javi…” you breathe, equal parts bliss and warning, warmth flooding your cheeks and everywhere else. 

This pattern of his is familiar. His own way of drowning out the blood and savagery with lust—something he can control. And you let him, every time. 

If wanting you quiets the monsters for even a minute, you’ll be that escape. You’ll be whatever he needs.

“What?” he teases, that cocky little fucking smirk audible. “You don’t like it when I talk to you like this?”

You bite your lip, tracing the margin of your textbook, your assignment fading into absolute irrelevance. 

“You know I do,” you murmur, flustered and not even trying to hide it as your thighs press together to relieve some of the building pressure. “Lo que no me gusta (what I don’t like)… is when you get me all worked up y no estás aquí para arreglarme (and you’re not here to fix me).” 

A low groan rumbles through the phone, and you can practically feel it between your legs.

“Keep talkin’ like that,” he begins, voice thick with promise, “and I’ll show you exactly what I’ve been picturing since the moment I lit this cigarette.”

“Entonces ven,” (Then come here) you breathe, the words slipping out sultry and reckless, “ven y muéstrame.” (come here and show me)

He makes an amused, scolding click with his tongue. “Look out your window.”

Your brows knit in confusion, but your body obeys before your mind fully catches up. You set your textbook on the coffee table and saunter toward the window, fingertips brushing the curtain aside.

There he is, just as you imagined him.

Bathed in the amber halo of the streetlamp, he stands with one boot propped against the curb, bulky work phone pressed to his ear.

That well-worn leather jacket stretches over his broad shoulders, the familiar shape of him immediately melting every bit of tension in your body. An almost-finished cigarette rests between those soft, plush lips you dream about, its cherry ember glowing as he breathes in a slow stream of smoke.

When he tilts his head back to look up at you, the warmth of the light catches the sharp line of his jaw, kissing his cheekbones, highlighting the tired shadows under his eyes and the slow-burning hunger in his brown irises.

He’s beautiful in the way storms are beautiful: dangerous and inevitable.

Desire consumes you entirely. “Come up here, Jav,” you whisper, and it’s not a request.

The line goes dead immediately.

You watch, pulse hammering, as he flicks the cigarette away then crushes it beneath the heel of his boot and shoves the phone into his jacket pocket. Then he’s moving, long strides eating up the sidewalk, disappearing under the awning, and you hear the heavy echo of his boots taking the stairs two, three at a time.

Knock-knock-knock. Impatient, urgent, unmistakably him.

You fling open the door and he fills the doorway, handsome and stoic and hungry. 

One heartbeat. That’s all either of you gets. Then he’s on you.

His large hand cups your jaw while slamming the door shut behind him with a kick of his boot.

The lock clicks like a loading gun and he walks you backward, mouth crashing onto yours, tasting of smoke and mint and everything you’ve been aching for.

Your back hits the wall; his body cages you in, hard muscle and worn leather, the zipper of his jacket pressing into your stomach through the thin cotton of his shirt you’re still wearing.

He groans into the kiss: low, desperate, relieved, like coming home is the same thing as coming inside you, and you realize you’re palming him through his tight jeans, trying to drag him closer, already lost.

“Fuck, te extrañe,” (I’ve missed you) he rasps against your lips, then moving down, teeth scraping your throat as his hands slide under the shirt and find nothing but bare skin underneath. His touch is greedy, palming your breasts like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he doesn’t touch you right this second.

You tilt your head back against the wall with a whiny moan, breathless, smiling through the haze.

“Took you long enough, Agent Peña.”

He opts to kiss you passionately, right hand slipping behind his back to discard the pistol on the entryway table with a dull thud that rattles the keys in the bowl. The leather jacket comes next—he shrugs it off in one impatient roll of his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor like dead weight.

You’re frantic with his belt, fingers fumbling the worn brass buckle, yanking the zipper down with a rasp that sounds obscene in the quiet apartment.

Your hand dives in without hesitation (no briefs, of course there aren’t), palm closing close around him, thick enough that your grip doesn’t quite meet and he snarls against your throat.

“Fuck me,” his hips jerk forward into your fist. He’s burning hot, already slick at the tip, pulsing against your touch like he’s been hard since the moment he thought about calling you.

Javi’s hands feel like they’re everywhere: calloused palms skating up the backs of your thighs, thumbs pressing bruises into your skin, greedy and possessive.

When he realizes you’re only wearing his threadbare DEA tee and the tiniest scrap of lace panties underneath, he makes this deep almost wounded sound and drags his teeth along your collarbone hard enough to sting.

“No shorts? Been walking around like this, wet and waiting?”

You answer by tightening your fist as you stroke his cock, thumb swiping over the bead of pre-come at his slit. His whole body shudders; his forehead drops to yours, breath ragged against your lips.

Both of his hands slide higher, cupping your ass, lifting you clean off the floor like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, the hard line of his cock now trapped between you, sliding against the soaked lace covering your pussy.

The friction makes you both groan.

He pins you harder to the wall, one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand shoving the shirt up to your neck so he can get his mouth on your tits.

Teeth scrape over your nipple; his tongue follows, hot and wet and relentless, until you’re arching into him with a broken whimper.

“Need to be inside you,” he groans against your skin, giving your other tit attention, hips grinding slow, merciless circles that drag the head of his cock over your clit again and again through the ruined panties. “Need to feel you come around me, need it so fuckin’ bad I can’t think.”

You reach between you just as desperately, yanking the lace aside with trembling fingers. The blunt, slick head of him nudges your entrance and you both freeze for one breathless second, eyes locked, air thick with yearning and lust.

Then he thrusts, one long, punishing stroke that seats him to the hilt.

Your head slams back against the wall on a silent scream; he buries his face in your neck and curses in shaking Spanish, hips already snapping, fucking you into the plaster like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin.

You can only claw at his back, moaning fervently, heels digging into the flex of his ass, urging him deeper, faster, more. Pleasure coils tight and bright at the base of your spine, ready to snap.

He feels it—he always feels it, shifts his angle just enough to grind against that spot inside that makes you see stars, mouth finding yours again in a messy, bruising kiss.

“Come for me,” he pants against your lips. “Let me feel it, let me have it, puta madre—”

You shatter, clenching hard around him, crying out into his mouth as the orgasm rips through you like wildfire.

You’re fluttering around his cock, thighs trembling, come dripping hot down the inside of your thigh, when Javier pulls out and that makes you whimper at the loss.

Before the emptiness can even settle, his big hands are on your hips, spinning you so fast the room tilts. 

Your cheek meets the cool wall with a soft smack; he kicks your feet wider, bends you forward until your back is a deep, greedy arch and your ass is tilted high, offered up like a gift.

“Hold still,” he rasps, and then he’s dragging the blunt, slick head of his cock through your folds once, twice, coating himself in the mess you’ve already made together.

“Javi—” His name breaks into a sob when he snaps his hips forward and buries himself again in one brutal thrust. The new angle is devastating: he’s deeper than before, the thick ridge of him dragging over every raw, oversensitive place inside you until sparks burst behind your eyelids.

Tears prick instantly, sliding hot down your cheeks as he starts to move. Not gentle, not slow, just a relentless rhythm that has your ass slapping back against his thighs with every plunge.

The sound is filthy: wet skin on skin, your shredded cries, his sexy grunts, the faint creak of the wall protesting under the force of it.

Javier can’t look away from where you’re joined. His gaze is molten, fixed on the way your puffy, wet sex stretches around his cock, the way you flutter and grip him every time he pulls out like your body is begging him to stay inside.

His cock gleams, veins standing out in sharp relief each time he draws back before slamming home again.

“Mírate,” (Look at you) he growls, voice ragged with awe. “Taking me so fucking perfect. This pussy is meant to be fucked raw.”

You can’t answer. Words are gone. Your palms are flat against the wallpaper, nails clawing for purchase as your spine bows harder, chasing every delicious stroke.

Your thighs shake; your toes barely touch the floor now, he’s holding you exactly where he wants you, using your body.

Every thrust punches the air from your lungs, sending another helpless tear streaking down to your jaw. 

Pleasure coils tighter, hotter, almost too much, until you’re babbling his name, clenching around him in fluttering waves that make him swear viciously.

He leans over you, chest to your back, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, just anchoring, thumb stroking the frantic beat of your pulse.

“Así mero,” (Just like that) he pants against your ear, hips never slowing. “Let me hear how good it feels.”

So you wail louder, not performative at all—a true testament on how euphoric he makes you feel, clenching so tight around him as you finish, he has to fight his way back in to keep fucking you.

Your whole body locks, shudders, gushes fresh wetness smearing both your thighs.

He follows with a groan that sounds like your name and relief and surrender all at once, slamming deep one last time and spilling hot inside you.

You feel every pulse, every throb against your walls, marking you from the inside.

He stays buried inside, chest heaving against your back, both of you trembling from the frenzy you just locked in to.

For a long moment there’s nothing but the sound of your mingled breathing the soft smack of his lips as he kisses up along your neck.

Slowly, so slowly it aches, Javier pulls out. The loss makes you both shudder—especially when some of his spend begins to leak. 

After pulling his jeans up on his hips again and wiping you clean with his now discarded button up, he turns you to face him gently, thumb brushing the tears from your cheek. Javi presses the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth, holding you against the wall like he’ll never let go.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice hoarse, lips brushing yours with the softest smile.

You laugh, breathless and wrecked. “Hey.”

Before your legs can give out, Javier gathers you up in his arms and carries you to your bedroom. Your face finds the damp curve of his neck instantly; you breathe him in… gunpowder, cigarette smoke, sweat, and the faint cedar-and-citrus cologne that’s lived in your sheets for months.

He lays you down on the bed and the mattress dips beneath his weight as he sits at the edge while helping pull off your t-shirt. His warm hand lingers on your hip before it slowly slips away.

Then he just… looks at you. Takes in the tear tracks, the way some of his come is still painted on your inner thighs, the ruined panties askew on the dip of your hips.

His expression goes soft, briefly, until that familiar frown settles between his brows, carving itself into his handsome face—the same one he gets when something’s clawing at him from the inside, something he’s trying too hard to swallow down.

Your chest tightens.

“What’s wrong?” you murmur, reaching for him instantly. You take his hand, fitting it between your palms. His knuckles are rough from work, from long nights and worse days, and you lift them toward your lips.

The soft kiss you press to them is feather-light, but it makes his shoulders tense, like he’s fighting the urge to fold into you completely.

Javier Peña, the man who stares down cartel killers without flinching, looks wrecked. The light coming through the window catches the wet shine on his lashes, turns the moisture on his cheeks into tiny shards of gold.

He isn’t crying, not quite, but he’s so close it hurts more than if he were.

“I saw things tonight,” he whispers, voice raw, “things I don’t think I’ll ever be able to unsee. And all I could think in that moment was… Necesito verla (I need to see her). Need to feel her alive and under my hands. Need to know the world still has something this good in it.”

Your heart suddenly swells and it feels heavy in your chest. You cup his jaw, thumbs stroking the stubble and every divot you’ve memorized in the dark.

“I’m here,” you breathe. “Estoy aquí, Javi. Siempre.” (I’m right here. Always)

He makes this sound, half scoff, half laugh, and drops his forehead to yours. His hands move to cradle your face like you’re sacred.

When he kisses you now it’s slow, reverent, tasting of every unspoken apology for the parts of himself he still thinks are too broken to deserve you.

You kiss him back the same way: I see you, all of you, and I’m still here.

He toes off his boots, shoves his jeans the rest of the way down, and crawls in beside you, pulling you into the cradle of his body.

You lace your fingers through his as they rest on your now naked stomach. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, like he can’t get enough.

“Te quiero,” he says against your skin, quiet yet steady, the words rare and priceless from him. You cherish the moments where he allows himself to be vulnerable. “Te quiero tanto que a veces me asusta.” (I care about you so much that sometimes it scares me)

Your nose brushes his. “No dejes que te asuste.” (Don’t let that scare you)

His eyes flutter shut and he pulls you (somehow) impossibly closer, leg sliding between yours, palm splayed wide and possessive over the small of your back.

You fall asleep like that, tangled, sticky, hearts pressed so close you can’t tell whose is whose anymore.

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