#(r.)

The bass of the song pulsed through your chest, that thick, addictive reggaeton beat that made everything feel a little looser. A little easier. You were on your second drink, perched on a high stool near the edge of the bar, one leg crossed over the other. You didn’t come here to meet anyone. But the universe always had other plans, didn’t it?

“Still drinking the same thing you had an hour ago?”

The voice was familiar, annoyingly smooth. You didn’t even have to turn to know.

“Franco,” you said without looking, taking a slow sip through your straw. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

He leaned on the bar beside you, all casual confidence and cocky energy, dressed in a fitted black tee and jeans that clung a little too well to his thighs.

“Didn’t expect you to look this good either.”

You finally glanced at him, eyes locking. There was that glint in his gaze. The one that always made your stomach tighten.

“Try harder. That line’s older than this bar.”

He grinned, sliding into the stool next to you.

“Alright. Let me try again. I saw you walk in, and I’ve been standing at the other end of the bar just watching. Trying to figure out if I should come over or leave it alone.”

“And?” you asked, raising a brow.

“And I said fuck it. Because you look like you’re waiting for trouble, and I happen to be excellent at causing it.”

Your lips twitched, fighting a smile. His hand brushed your bare knee, subtle, slow, and lingering like he had every right. You didn’t move it.

“La Difícil” played in the background, loud and dirty. You leaned in just enough to be heard, your voice just low enough to tease.

“She’s hard to get, huh?”

Franco didn’t miss a beat. His eyes dropped to your lips, then right back up.

“Yeah. But that just makes her worth it.”

You didn’t know who leaned closer first. Maybe it was both of you. Maybe it was the tequila. Maybe it was the fact that every time you saw Franco Colapinto, you remembered the way he touched you like he already knew your body. And the way he always left you wanting more.

“You always say the right thing,” you said, tilting your head. “Even when you shouldn’t.”

He reached out, fingers gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb rubbing slow circles over your pulse point.

“Tell me to stop,” he said. “And I will.”

You stared at him for a long second. The bar kept spinning. The music kept thumping. And your heart matched every beat.

“I’m not going to,” you whispered.

He stood then, pulling you with him. Not rough, not fast. Just a silent command, and you followed. Through the crowd. Past the bathrooms. Down a hallway only half lit. He turned to you, backing you against the wall, his hand flat beside your head.

“You sure about this?”

You nodded. He leaned in but didn’t kiss you. Not yet. His mouth hovered just above yours, breath hot and intoxicating.

“You remember what happened last time?” he asked, voice rough now.

“I remember you left before I woke up,” you said.

Franco’s jaw clenched.

“Didn’t mean to. I had a flight.”

“I didn’t ask.”

He exhaled, something shifting in his expression. His hand slipped down your waist, fingers hooking into the belt loop of your jeans.

“I thought about you,” he said. “More than I should have.”

You hated how that made your breath hitch. You weren’t here for feelings. You were here for heat. For tension. For the way he looked at you like he wanted to ruin your night and fix it in the same breath.

“Then shut up and touch me.”

And he did.

His hands slid up under your top, fingertips dragging slowly along your spine. His lips finally met yours — hot, slow, deep. He kissed like a man who wanted to memorize every inch of your mouth. Tongue tasting, teeth scraping, hands gripping your hips like they were the only thing tethering him to the moment.

You moaned into him as he pressed you harder against the wall, his thigh slipping between your legs, the friction perfect and filthy.

“You wore this just to kill me, didn’t you?” he muttered against your neck, pulling the strap of your top down with his teeth.

“I didn’t wear it for you.”

“Liar,” he said, biting gently just below your ear. “You knew I’d find you.”

You dragged your nails down his back, earning a low groan from him.

“Franco.”

He froze. Just for a second. Then pulled back enough to look at you.

“You’re not just some hookup to me,” he said.

You blinked.

“This wasn’t supposed to be serious.”

“It still isn’t,” he said. “But I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t think I want to.”

Your breath caught.

The music still played behind you. Another Bad Bunny song now. But everything had slowed down.

You looked at him, really looked.

And then, softer, quieter this time, you said,

“Then don’t stop.”

The cab ride was quiet, but not in a bad way. His hand never left your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth in a slow rhythm that matched the pounding in your chest. Outside, the streets were slick with rain, red and yellow reflections from traffic lights smearing across the windows like paint strokes.

Franco leaned closer, whispering against your ear.

“You always this quiet after making out in dark corners of bars?”

You turned to him slowly, lips still slightly swollen.

“I’m just thinking about what happens next.”

He smirked, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip. “Yeah? And what exactly are you picturing?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, your hand slipped down, brushing over his knee, inching higher. He let out a sharp breath and grabbed your wrist, holding it still.

“Careful,” he said low. “We’re ten minutes away. Don’t make me lose my mind in a cab.”

You leaned in, lips ghosting over his jaw. “Then maybe hurry up and show me what you’ve been thinking about.”

He didn’t say anything else.. he just paid the driver too fast, pulled you out into the rain, and led you through a quiet building lobby like a man who couldn’t afford one more second of waiting.

The moment the apartment door shut behind you, his mouth was on yours again... greedy, open, searching. His hands cupped your face, then slid into your hair as he pressed you up against the entryway wall. The heat between you was electric, but there was something softer this time. He wasn’t rushing. He kissed you like he wanted to taste you for hours.

Clothes came off in pieces, scattered across the floor. Your shirt first, his next. Then jeans, socks, your bra unclipped with one hand and a low laugh.

“You remember everything,” you said breathless.

“Every single fucking detail,” he murmured, eyes trailing down your body. “I’ve replayed it too many times not to.”

He took a step back just to look. And God, the way he looked at you... like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen... it made something flip deep in your stomach.

“What?” you asked, suddenly self-conscious.

Franco walked back up slowly and took your face in both hands. His voice was rough but honest.

“Just... can’t believe you’re actually here.”

And then he lifted you... just like that... and carried you to the bedroom.

The mattress dipped under your weight, and before you could even adjust, his mouth was back on your skin. Kisses trailed down your neck, your chest, your stomach. His fingers teased every inch of you, exploring like he was rediscovering. You arched up into him, chasing his touch.

“Still taste like you did last time,” he whispered against your inner thigh. “Sweet. Addictive.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he dipped his head lower, and everything after that became a blur of moans, gasps, and begging. He took his time... no rush, no pressure, just patient, aching pleasure. He didn’t let you come easily, either. Every time you were close, he’d slow down just enough to keep you hanging.

“Franco,” you panted, “please... I need...”

His voice was a growl against your skin. “I know exactly what you need. Let me give it to you right.”

When you finally did come, it was with a cry muffled by the back of your hand, your entire body trembling as he held you through it.

And then he kissed his way back up your body, slow and open-mouthed, until he was hovering over you again. His hair was messy, lips swollen, eyes dark and focused only on you.

“Still want this?” he asked, voice low.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in.

“I came back with you, didn’t I?”

That was all he needed.

When he finally slid into you, it was slow and deep, his forehead pressed against yours. There were no games now. No jokes. Just your name on his lips and his name on yours.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t rough. It was maddeningly slow... the kind of slow that burned. He kissed you through every stroke, whispered things against your neck, touched you like he was making a memory out of every second.

And when you came again, it was with his name in your mouth and your nails dragging down his back. He followed soon after, collapsing onto you, both of you breathless, sticky, warm.

You lay there in silence. His head rested on your chest, and your fingers absentmindedly traced circles along his shoulder.

“Tell me this wasn’t a one-time thing,” he murmured.

You looked down at him. “I thought we weren’t doing serious.”

He looked up, smirk tugging at his lips. “We’re not.”

“So what are we doing?”

Franco shifted until he was eye level with you again. He kissed your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

“Something in between.”

You smiled, letting your hand cup his face. “Then maybe we see what happens next.”