#barca x reader

The roar of the crowd still echoed in your ears even after you stepped into the hotel room you stayed at during the World Cup and closed the door, separating you and your boyfriend from the rest of the world. Another Spain game, another step towards the win, and another stressful evening for you as you sat in the middle of the thousand fans and were mainly rooting for one particular person. 

Ferran was close behind you, his hands steady on your waist the whole time from the car, but that smile is what made your heart swell—the big, bright, and almost cocky one. He assisted the last goal, ensuring a win for the team after a long streak of missing, and now you could finally see some of the weight dropped off of his shoulders. He was supposed to be with the team now, probably resting and recovering after the match. Hell, he even might get in trouble for sneaking out and following you to your own hotel room instead of following the schedule, but he truly didn’t care about any of it.

“You were incredible out there.” You smiled, looking back at him while you kicked off your shoes, finally alone and away from anyone who could disturb you. Ferran’s hair was still damp from the shower, thick and dark strands of hair curling wildly and looking perfectly fluffy for you to run your fingers through it. He flashed a smile back at you, brown eyes briefly darting towards your, or his, jersey that you were wearing. 

His name. His number. On his girl. After you were rooting for him and then hugging and kissing him after the game as if he scored a damn hat trick. Could it be any more perfect? 

“And you’re incredible right now.” He mumbled, following you instantly, pulling you flush against his chest while his lips found the side of your neck. Ferran nipped at your skin, then kissed the same spot softly, while his hands sneaked under your jersey impatiently. He didn’t care that his body felt a bit sore after the game or that you barely even got inside of your hotel suite—he wanted you now. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me when you’re wearing my kit.”

You laughed softly, the sound bubbling up as he nuzzled into your neck, kissing and nipping playfully again. “You’re so happy tonight.”

“I am happy.” He grinned against your skin, cocky and bright all at once, pushing his hips forward and nudging you to walk. “I wanted to win for you. My lucky charm.” He suddenly turned you around, not letting you move even an inch away from his body, catching your lips in a kiss. Your hands wrapped round his neck instantly, melting under so much affection and attention.

You giggled as he walked you both towards the bedroom, both of you struggling a little, way too consumed by the messy and smiling kisses, hands wandering over each other’s bodies. Ferran kept one hand under your jersey, brushing the side of your bra with his thumb, while the other one cupped your face softly while his lips moved hungrily against yours. When you finally felt the side of the bed with your legs, he pulled back, looking as hot as ever—lips puffy, cheeks boyishly flushed, and eyes sparkling with emotions and pure hunger. 

“I’m so proud of you.” You whispered, reaching for his lips again, finally threading your fingers through his hair and softly tugging at the roots. 

“Yeah?” His voice dropped, playful but now sounding a bit deeper with undeniable heat and intensity. “Then show me, princesa. Keep the jersey on.”

Ferran spun you around gently again, slightly pushing you forward until you bent over, palms flat against the bed. He pulled down your jeans along with your underwear, leaving you bare and heated in front of him, his warm hands greedily palming your ass as if he had been impatient this whole time.

You looked back at him over your shoulder, taking in the disheveled look, his slightly open mouth—everything that never failed to turn you on even more. You pushed your ass back at him, arching your back and falling forward and face down on the bed as if presenting yourself for him. Ferran groaned loudly, adjusting your position with firm yet gentle hands, while the prominent bulge visible through the blue tracksuit bottoms was already pressing against your bare thighs. 

“Joder… look at you.” He breathed with a laugh, brushing his hair back in that signature gesture, then not wasting any more time to pull down his sweats and boxers. 

His hard and leaking cock pressed against your entrance impatiently, you both groaning at the familiar feeling. You couldn’t help but moan when he rubbed the thick head along your slick folds, fingers digging deeper into the plush of your ass. 

“Ferran…” You whispered, pushing back again, ready and aching to take him in. 

“Sì, princesa, I've got you.” The accent alone made you clench helplessly, but when he finally, fucking finally, guided his cock with one hand, your eyes instantly rolled back in pleasure, your mouth open in a silent moan. 

The stretch and fullness felt delicious. He steadied you with one hand on your lower back, another one gripping your hip when he started moving slowly but steadily. His hips met your ass with each deep and slow thrust, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling your bedroom. Ferran’s eyes were glued to your back, to the way you were wearing his name so proudly—the sign that you were his and with him no matter the shit he was going through. 

“Te sientes tan bien.” He murmured, the Spanish slipping out naturally in his pleasure. 

Every thrust made his name in bold red letters bounce on your back, the oversized jersey rolling up your spine to reveal more of your already damp and warm skin. Ferran slid one hand to your chest, blindly tugging at the cups of your bra and palming your tits in his large hands, thumbs softly circling hardened peaks.  

You couldn’t stop moaning, couldn’t stop saying his name, and a smile spread on your face every time he said some sweet or dirty nonsense in Spanish. He leaned slightly forward, now close enough for him to bend forward and kiss your neck, changing angle and fucking you deeper, pushing your body further into the mattress, while all you could do was take it. 

“P-please, Ferran—“ You gasped, gripping the sheets tighter, moving yourself back on him as much as you could under the weight. 

“You like taking me like this?” He sounded so proud, so cocky—just exactly like you liked him, but the soft and affectionate touches and feather-light kisses against your neck made your stomach flutter. “Te quiero tanto, fuck—“

Ferran straightened up again, gripping your hips with both hands now, fucking you harder, faster, getting a weird fix again from the moment his eyes landed on the jersey you wore to all of his games. The angle had you seeing stars, every thrust of his cock hitting the exact spot you needed to come undone under him. Your legs started shaking from the position, knees slightly sliding down the silky sheets, while pleasure kept coiling in your belly. 

“Come for me. Let me feel you.” His voice behind you sounded more like an order, even though you could tell he was holding himself back to let you finish first. Ferran kept fucking into your heat again and again, leaving you and your body no other chance to comply when your pussy started spasming around him. 

“Ferran!” You whined his name again, face down into the bed to muffle how desperately you sounded, tugging at the sheets harder and wishing it was his back you could scratch and mark. He cursed again, you felt the way his cock twitched inside of you as he came with a deep groan, spilling inside of you. The soft and rocking thrusts still shook your body while he prolonged your orgasm, not ready to let you go or leave the warmth of you wrapped around him. 

Only when he was finally spent, satisfied enough to let you go for a second, did he pull out, letting your fluids leak down your thighs in a complete mess. You fell on your side, and not even a second later he followed you. Ferran was facing you on the bed, wrapping his hands around your waist to pull you even closer.

Your eyes met again, and you both grinned at each other. 

“Best celebration I’ve ever had.” He whispered, voice almost sappy, while his eyes twinkled with warmth and leftover joy. 

You arched a brow playfully. “Yeah? I’m sure we’ve already had plenty of those?” You reached for his face, running your fingers over the slight stubble. Ferran’s lips found your wrist to leave there a soft kiss, not answering back to your comment because you both knew you were right, and you took a deep, contented breath. “I love you.”

 “I love you.” He replied back simply. “Thank you for being here. For wearing this… for everything.”

You smiled, still a little dazed, and pulled him forward into a slow, sweet kiss. “You earned it, my shark.”

you had been dating lamine yamal for a few months now.

he was always so sweet with you, stealing moments after training to pull you into quiet corners for soft kisses, sending you silly voice notes when he was away with the national team and showing up at your door with your favorite snacks after long days.

everyone around him assumed he was this experienced guy.

the way girls used to throw themselves at him and how the media painted him as a young heartthrob with a list of exes.

you never pushed. you loved the way he blushed when things got a little heated.

one quiet evening after a big win, you were both in his apartment, curled up on the huge couch watching a movie.

lamine kept glancing at you instead of the screen, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your thigh under the blanket.

you turned to him smiling and kissed him softly.

the kiss deepened quickly, his breath hitching as you climbed into his lap, straddling him. his hands settled on your waist, gripping a little tighter as your tongues met.

“i want you,” you whispered against his lips, feeling the heat building between you.

lamine nodded and carried you to his bedroom like you weighed nothing.

clothes came off slowly. he was so gentle, worshipping every inch of your skin with his mouth.

you could feel how hard he was against your thigh, his body trembling slightly with anticipation.

when you finally guided him between your legs and he pushed inside you for the first time, you both moaned at the feeling.

he was thick and warm, stretching you perfectly, but something felt off.

his movements were hesitant, a little clumsy, like he was concentrating too hard not to hurt you.

you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and noticed the way his hips stuttered, the slight wince on his face mixed with pure bliss.

that was when you tilted.

you cupped his cheeks, slowing him down gently as you looked into his eyes.

“lamine… baby, have you done this before?” you asked softly.

he froze for a second, burying his face in your neck, embarrassed.

“no...” his voice came out quiet and shy.

your heart melted at his confession. you kissed him deeply, running your fingers through his hair.

“it’s okay, we’ll go slow,” you smiled.

lamine relaxed against you, nodding as he started moving again, this time with more confidence guided by your praises.

you showed him how to roll his hips, how to find the rhythm that made you gasp his name.

it turned into something hotter, sweat-slicked skin sliding together, his moans growing louder and more desperate every time you clenched around him.

he was a quick learner, soon thrusting deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside you while his thumb found your clit, circling it shyly at first then firmer when he heard how much you loved it.

you smiled through your moans, pulling him closer so your bodies were completely flush.

the room filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

lamine lasted longer than you expected for his first time, focused entirely on making you cum first.

when you finally tightened around him, shaking with pleasure, he followed right after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a broken groan of your name.

afterwards, he didn’t pull out right away.

he stayed on top of you, catching his breath, pressing soft kisses all over your face and neck.

“thank you for being patient with me. next time i’ll be even better, i promise.”

you laughed softly and held him tight, running your fingers down his back.

“you were perfect, lamine.”

the two of you stayed tangled together under the sheets for hours, talking quietly, laughing about the rumors and how wrong everyone had been, sharing gentle touches and more kisses until sleep took you both.

he was inexperienced but so full of love and eagerness to learn everything with you.

The bar wasn't somewhere you usually came alone, yet here you were. A long week had finally ended, and the thought of going straight home to your empty apartment had somehow sounded worse than sitting in a crowded bar with strangers.

At least here there was noise, a bit of life, something to distract you.

You sat at the bar, nursing a drink you were in no rush to finish, occasionally glancing towards the television mounted above the bottles behind the counter.

The place was busy, people squeezed around tables, couples laughed in corners, groups of friends shouted over the music.

Nobody paid much attention to anyone else which was why it took you a second to realise someone was looking at you.

You felt it before you saw it, a pair of eyes lingering. You glanced up and froze.

Across the room sat a woman you'd never seen before, brunette hair, sharp features. The sort of confidence that seemed to radiate from her without any effort. The second your eyes met, she smiled, not politely or accidentally a smile meant entirely for you.

Your stomach immediately betrayed you, the sensible thing would've been to look away. Instead, you held her gaze, the smile transformed into a smirk, and you watched her lift her glass almost like a silent greeting.

Before you could stop yourself, you mirrored the gesture, something flashed in her eyes, amusement, maybe victory. You weren't sure, but suddenly your drink wasn't nearly as interesting anymore.

A few minutes passed or maybe only seconds, you couldn't tell, but every time you looked away, your eyes found their way back to he and every single time she was already looking.

The ridiculous thing was that neither of you seemed embarrassed about it, most people would've looked away eventually. She never did. Then, without warning, she stood.

Your pulse jumped, no, surely not you thought to yourself, but she was already moving through the crowd walking directly towards you, each step seemed impossibly confident as if she already knew exactly how this conversation was going to go.

She stopped beside your stool close enough now that you could see the tiny flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, close enough that she somehow became even more attractive.

"Hi." Her voice was smooth, warm and dangerously charming.

You cleared your throat, "Hi."

A grin immediately tugged at her lips, "Nervous?"

You laughed, "Confident, aren't you?"

"Usually." She tilted her head, "Although I have spent the last ten minutes wondering if you're going to tell me to go away."

"You walked across the entire bar without knowing"

Alexia shrugged, "Worth the risk."

Your heart did something deeply unhelpful, "That's a lot of confidence for someone approaching a stranger."

"It's a lot of staring for someone who wasn't interested."

You couldn't even argue, because she was right, Alexia's eyes dropped briefly to your drink, then back to you.

"I'm Alexia."

The way she said it made it sound important, not because she expected you to know who she was. Just because she knew exactly who she was. You smiled, "I'm—"

"Beautiful."

You blinked, "What?"

"I was going to let you tell me your name." Alexia looked completely unapologetic, "But then I got distracted."

Heat immediately rushed into your face, the smile she gave you in response was downright smug.

"See." She pointed at you, "That."

"That what?"

"The blush."

"There is no blush."

"There absolutely is."

You laughed, the sound seemed to make her soften slightly. For the first time since she'd walked over, something gentler appeared beneath all the confidence, something genuine.

She looked at you for a second longer than necessary, then said quietly, "I've been trying not to come over here all night."

Your eyebrows lifted, "Oh?"

Alexia nodded, "Thought I'd make a fool of myself."

That surprised you, because nothing about this woman suggested uncertainty, "And yet here you are."

Her gaze met yours steady and unwavering, "Yeah."

The smile that followed was smaller now, more honest, "Turns out the thought of not talking to you felt worse."

For a moment the noise of the bar seemed to disappear, the music, conversations, the glasses clinking together. None of it mattered, because suddenly all you could focus on was the woman standing in front of you.

The woman who had looked at you from across a crowded room and somehow made everyone else disappear.

Alexia glanced at the empty stool beside you, then back at you, "So." She rested an arm against the bar, "Are you going to let me buy you another drink?"

You smiled, "Depends."

Her eyes sparkled, "On what?"

You leaned slightly closer, close enough to see her own confidence falter for the first time all evening, "Whether you're planning on flirting with me all night."

Alexia's grin was immediate hopelessly pleased, "Oh." She pulled the stool out and sat down beside you, "I was planning on doing a lot worse than that."

The words settled between you dangerously. The kind of comment that could be interpreted a hundred different ways.

The kind that made your pulse immediately pick up whilst Alexia looked entirely too pleased with herself.

You shook your head, trying and failing not to smile, "Does that line usually work?"

"Line?"

"The one where you pretend to be charming."

"Pretend?" she repeated, placing a hand dramatically over her chest.

You laughed, Alexia's eyes lingered on you for a moment a second too long. Something shifted, the teasing was still there, but now there was something else underneath it.

The bartender appeared and Alexia ordered another round without taking her eyes off you, "You're very confident."

"So I've been told."

"You don't seem worried I might reject you."

Alexia considered that, then shrugged, "I don't think you will."

The certainty should have annoyed you, instead, it made your stomach flutter, "And if you're wrong?"

Her expression softened not by much, just enough to notice, "Then I'd thank you for the conversation and spend the next week being embarrassed." The honesty caught you off guard, Alexia noticed immediately, "You didn't expect that answer."

"No."

She smiled into her drink, "People assume confidence means fear doesn't exist."

"And does it?"

Her gaze lifted to yours, "All the time."

The admission hung there suddenly the conversation felt different, more personal, less like a game.

You found yourself studying her, the way she held herself, the way she watched you while pretending not to, the way she seemed completely present in every moment.

It was unsettling, most conversations drifted, this one didn't, Alexia's attention never wandered, not once.

A group squeezed past behind her, and she shifted her stool closer without thinking. The movement left her shoulder brushing yours, neither of you moved away and neither of you acknowledged it.

You became painfully aware of every point of contact, the warmth of her arm, the scent of her perfume, the tiny smile threatening at the corner of her mouth.

She knew exactly what she was doing, "You're staring again."

You rolled your eyes, "You started it."

"I know."

"You admit that awfully easily."

Alexia laughed, "Why would I deny it?" The answer came so naturally that it stole your next response, "You have really expressive eyes, you know."

"Do I?"

"Very." You looked away,which only made her grin wider, "There. You did it again."

"Did what?"

"Got shy."

You immediately scoffed, "I am not shy."

"You're blushing again."

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

The look she gave you made it impossible to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds.

Every time you met her gaze, the air seemed to tighten as though the rest of the room had disappeared and the only thing that mattered was the space between the two of you.

Alexia leaned forward slightly, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you noticed, enough that your attention dropped briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes.

A mistake, because the second you looked back up, you knew she'd seen it her smile became almost unbearably smug. “What?”

Alexia took a sip of her drink, slowly, deliberately, then she set the glass down, "Nothing."

The liar.

You both knew exactly what had happened and judging by the look in her eyes, she was enjoying it far too much.

The conversation continued. One drink became two then three.

Neither of you seemed interested in leaving, every topic somehow turned into flirting. Every joke became an excuse to lean a little closer. Every glance lasted a little longer than it should have. Eventually there was a pause, not an awkward one, the opposite, the kind where neither person feels the need to fill the silence.

Alexia was the first to break it, her fingers drumming against the condensation on her glass, then, with a kind of lazy certainty, she let her hand fall to your knee. Not an accident, not a conversational pat. Her palm pressed warm and steady just above your kneecap, the pressure light but deliberate. You felt a slow, electric ripple climb your thigh, radiating outward from that single point of contact. Your breath caught in your throat.

She didn’t look at her hand or at your lap. Instead, she watched your face carefully, waited for the microexpression that would tell her how to proceed. You tried to keep your face neutral, but it was impossible. Alexia’s thumb drifted, slow, tracing a circle on bare skin just below the hem of your dress.

“Is this okay?” she asked quietly. The question was so uncharacteristically gentle, it almost broke your focus.

You blinked, then nodded, hoping you didn’t look as desperate as you felt.

Her smile deepened, eyes glinting. “You can tell me to stop,” she murmured.

The implication, she wanted you to say don’t was devastating. You managed, “I don’t want you to.”

She squeezed your knee, her hand moving fractionally higher, pinky brushing the inside of your thigh. You suppressed a shiver, acutely aware of every molecule of space between you and her and every molecule she was now invading.

The bartender dropped off your new drinks, misreading the intimacy as a casual touch. You reached for your glass a little too quickly, almost knocking it over. Alexia grinned, leaning in, her voice pitched for only you to hear. “You seem nervous.”

You took a sip, swallowing against the heat in your cheeks. “You keep saying that.”

“Maybe I like it.”

You tried for an eye roll, but your voice was softer than you meant it to be, “You’re a menace.”

“I’m very well behaved,” she said, the words landing somewhere between truth and open dare.

You glanced at her, weighing it, and found yourself thinking about what well behaved could possibly mean to someone like Alexia. Her hand had not moved from your thigh. If anything, she’d gotten bolder, her palm sliding by literal centimetres higher each time you answered a question, until now it was only the thickness of your dress between her skin and the rest of your leg.

Alexia leaned closer still, her temple nearly touching yours, the air around her glittering with the sharp notes of her perfume. “Tell me something true,” she said.

You pulled in a breath, felt your pulse hammer inside your wrist, “Something true?”

She nodded, watching your lips. Her pupils were blown wide, dark, a little dangerous.

You thought about lying, about saying something clever, but the truth snuck out. “I haven’t done this before.”

Alexia stilled, her hand pausing mid-motion. “Done what?”

“This,” you gestured vaguely at the two of you, the not-quite-touch, the careful choreography. “Let a stranger pick me up at a bar.”

She grinned, slow and predatory. “I’m hardly impersonal,” she said. “I’d like to think we’re both somewhat invested at this point.”

“Somewhat,” she conceded, though she could barely remember the last time she’d felt this alive and fidgety in her own skin.

Alexia’s hand, still at your thigh, moved with slow intent now, her knuckles grazing the delicate skin above your knee, then wandering upward, fingers splayed, as if claiming territory. Your breath came shallow, and you crossed your legs, trapping her hand between them. She didn’t seem bothered by the escalation if anything, she seemed to approve. Her lips curved upward, like she’d just watched a dog perform a new trick. She looked at you in a way that made your whole body feel like the center of a searchlight beam.

“Tell me another thing,” Alexia murmured, voice pitched for your ear alone. “Something only I get to know.”

You considered, momentarily at a loss. “That feels unfair,” you said, “since you already know how to make my heart beat faster.”

Alexia’s thumb drew a lazy semicircle along the inside of your thigh. “Then I’ll trade,” she said. “I’ll tell you something first.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you nodded.

“When I walked over here, I was so nervous I nearly forgot how to speak English,” Alexia said, her eyes darting to yours to see if you’d buy it.

“I don’t believe you,” you said.

“You’re right.” Her grin flashed. “I was only nervous for about five seconds, but they were very intense seconds.”

You snorted, and Alexia’s hand squeezed your thigh, anchoring you to the moment. “Are you always like this?” you asked, without looking away.

Alexia tilted her head as though considering. “Not always.” Her expression gentled, suddenly earnest. “Usually only when I actually like someone.”

You blinked, trying to process the cliché and sincerity in one breath, “I don’t believe you,” you said again, but there wasn’t any heat behind it.

Alexia shrugged, as if to say, take it or leave it. “Truth or dare, then?”

“Are we twelve?”

“Would you prefer spin the bottle?” She laughed at her own joke, and the sound did something strange to your nervous system. You found yourself grinning despite the tension, despite her hand, despite the fact that your skin was now abuzz with anticipation.

“Truth,” you said, because you genuinely wanted to know what she’d ask.

Alexia’s eyes went soft for a moment, like she saw something she liked. “What do you want to happen next?”

The question stole your breath. You’d been bracing for innuendo, for some predictable escalation, but this was much riskier. It required an answer, a real one.

You took a sip of your drink, stalling, the ice clinked against your teeth.

You met Alexia’s gaze and said, “I want you to keep touching me.”

If she was surprised, she didn’t show it, if anything, her satisfaction sharpened. “Permission granted, then.”

You expected her to move her hand immediately, to go for the dramatic show, but instead she left her hand exactly where it was palm firm, fingers spread, thumb still tracing that single path, up and up, until your whole leg felt like a live wire. There was no hurry, she seemed to know exactly how long you could stand to be touched and how long you could stand not to be.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. All the words in your body seemed to have gathered somewhere behind your ribcage, hiding. Alexia’s thumb edged beneath the hem of your dress, just a centimeter, maybe two. The contact was delicate, almost accidental, but the intent behind it was not. It was a dare, pure and simple.

You forgot how to breathe.

Alexia leaned her face against her palm, elbow on the bar. She looked at you, eyebrows high and lazy. “You’re very easy to read, you know that?”

You wished you were better at lying, wished you could pull off even a little of her composure. “Not my fault,” you said, voice embarrassingly hoarse.

Alexia smiled, pleased as a cat, and then said, “I’d invite you to get out of here with me, but I don’t want to be rude.”

You almost laughed, but all that came out was a small, open-mouthed sound. “Is that why you’ve been doing this the whole time?” you asked, gesturing at your thigh, your face, the space between you.

Alexia shrugged, not even pretending. “Maybe I just like making you blush.”

“This is a lot for a first conversation,” you said, though you weren’t pushing her away. Every ounce of you wanted her closer.

“I’m not in the habit of apologising for knowing what I want.” Her fingers played a restless tattoo on your leg. “But if it’s too much—”

“It’s not,” you cut in, surprising yourself with the urgency in your voice. “It’s not too much.”

The look she gave you was so direct, so unwavering, it made you wonder if you’d ever actually been seen before tonight.

“Okay,” Alexia said, soft and steady. “So let’s go.”

You felt for your purse, hands a little clumsy, aware of how sharply the world had contracted to the two of you. The rest of the bar was background noise, lights smeared by alcohol and adrenaline. Alexia watched you reach for your coat, then she stood, not offering a hand because she seemed to know you wouldn’t want that. Instead, she waited, gaze never leaving you.

Outside, the Barcelona night air hit you like a splash of cold water. It should have helped, it didn't. If anything, stepping away from the noise of the bar only made you more aware of Alexia walking beside you.

The city buzzed around you, cars drifted past, distant laughter echoed down the street. Yet somehow all of your attention remained fixed on the woman at your side.

You had barely taken three steps onto the pavement when Alexia glanced towards the darkness beyond the entrance, "Get the car."

The words were calm, matter of fact, as though she'd done this a thousand times before.

Your eyebrows furrowed, a figure emerged from the shadows, a woman. A little taller than Alexia, professional, completely unsurprised, "Yes, boss."

Boss? Before you could process the exchange, she was already moving away.

You stared after her, then slowly turned back towards Alexia.

Alexia, meanwhile, looked entirely unbothered, almost amused by your expression, "What?"

You narrowed your eyes, "Nothing." Her smile suggested she knew you were lying.

The questions immediately started piling up in your head. Who was that? Why had she called Alexia boss? Why was there apparently a woman waiting in the shadows for instructions? And perhaps most importantly, what exactly did Alexia do?

The sensible part of your brain told you to ask, the other part was currently too distracted by the way she was looking at you.

So instead you said nothing, Alexia's smile widened, "You're thinking very loudly."

"I'm trying to decide whether you're secretly running a criminal empire."

She laughed, the sound warm and genuine, "I can neither confirm nor deny that."

"That's exactly what someone running a criminal empire would say."

"Good point."

You were still trying to work out whether she was joking when headlights appeared at the curb, a sleek black Rolls Royce glided to a stop in front of you.

You blinked, once, twice.

The same woman stepped out from the driver's seat and without hesitation she walked around the vehicle and opened the rear door for you.

Your brain completely short circuited, Alexia seemed far more interested in your reaction than the car itself, "You look concerned."

"I'm standing outside a bar with a stranger whilst another opens the door of a Rolls Royce for me."

"Fair."

The woman remained waiting patiently as though this was all perfectly normal, which somehow made it stranger.

Alexia stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that the warmth of her presence settled beside you again. Then her hand found the small of your back, the touch wasn't possessive it was reassuring.

You looked up at her, the city lights reflected in her eyes, "Trust me?" she asked quietly.

The question should have been difficult, it wasn't not really, because despite the mystery, the unanswered questions and despite her being a complete stranger you met an hour ago you found yourself nodding.

Alexia's smile softened, "Good girl."

You rolled your eyes immediately, "Don't make it weird."

"Too late."

The woman holding the door looked suspiciously close to smiling, you pointed at her, "See? Even she's judging you."

Alexia glanced towards the driver, the driver instantly looked away, professional once more, "I pay her to pretend I'm charming."

You laughed, the sound escaped before you could stop it, Alexia's expression immediately brightened as though she'd won something, "That joke wasn't funny."

"It was a little funny."

"It wasn't."

"It was." Still smiling and despite your hesitation and better judgment, you ducked into the car. The interior was ridiculous, soft leather, ambient lighting, enough space to comfortably fit half the bar.

You slid across the seat trying very hard not to look impressed, trying and failing, a moment later Alexia climbed in beside you.

The door closed and the outside world vanished instantly, silence settled around you, it was private, comfortable and dangerously intimate.

The driver pulled away from the curb and as the city lights began sliding past the windows, you finally turned towards Alexia.

Alexia watched you for a long moment, her eyes so steady and unblinking it was impossible to decide if she was about to say something of consequence or if she was simply cataloguing which way your hair fell, whether you’d keep avoiding her gaze, how you were pressing your knees together under the hem of your dress. The car glided through the city, the silence between you both like a suspended breath.

Then, without warning, Alexia curved her hand around your jaw and kissed you.

There was no hesitation. No lean in, no shy, searching question in her eyes. One heartbeat you were staring forward at your own reflection in the privacy glass, the next you were tasting her: cold gin, salt from a half-remembered rim, something sweet you couldn’t place. She kissed the way she spoke, direct and unapologetic. Her lips were warm, soft but insistent, and her fingers splayed against the side of your neck, anchoring you in the leather-wrapped capsule of the car. It could have been rude if it hadn’t been so fast, so smooth, so exactly the right amount of pressure.

You froze, a breathless half second, not from shock, not exactly, but from the simple fact of being chosen, of being seen, and then immediately being claimed. Her mouth slid from yours to the corner of your jaw, then back again, as if she’d found the first taste promising and wanted to make absolutely sure. The confidence of it, the way Alexia didn’t bother with permission, only checked with pressure and the answering heat of your lips against hers it undid you like a single, practiced knot.

She pulled back, barely. Her forehead tipped against yours, the scent of her perfume mixing with your quickening breath. Close up, you could see the faint constellation of freckles across her nose, the near invisible scar above her left eyebrow. Her pulse beat beneath your fingertips where your hands had landed, one against her shoulder, one clutching the lapel of her blazer.

“Too much?” she murmured, not even bothering to disguise her amusement.

You were supposed to say something witty, reassert some sense of control over the situation, but all you could muster was, “No. Not enough, actually.”

Alexia laughed, and the sound vibrated through her chest to yours. She kissed you again, slower this time, a measured escalation, her tongue flicking the seam of your mouth before she deepened it. She tasted like adrenaline, like the distilled sharpness of citrus and want. Your body answered before your mind caught up, and you leaned into her, hungry, desperate to make up for every kiss you hadn’t had before this one.

It became clear within minutes that Alexia’s mouth was not the only part of her that lived on the offensive. Her hand found your thigh again, sliding up, warm and greedy, and this time it made no pretense of stopping at polite borders. She gripped, squeezed gently, fingers kneading the soft muscle under your dress hem, as if confirming that you were real and here and entirely at her disposal.

Alexia’s hand drifted with the certainty of someone who had never once been denied. She pressed higher, fingers trailing over the impossible heat where your thighs met, the only barrier a thin band of cotton. The touch wasn’t tentative nothing about Alexia seemed to be, her palm settled at the apex of your legs, fingers closing with almost lazy possession.

The whole world funneled to a single point of contact, you barely registered that the city was flying by outside, that the woman driving the car was a living, breathing witness to the slow burn undoing happening in the back seat.

Alexia’s lips moved to your neck, the pressure of her mouth making you tilt your head back against the seat. She kissed the soft skin under your jaw, then lower, slow and insistent, until your whole body was a single receptive nerve ending. You tried to bite back the noise that wanted to escape when her fingers pressed in, tracing the shape of you through the fabric, but a traitorous gasp slipped out anyway.

Your eyes flew open and landed in the rearview mirror. The driver’s gaze met yours for a heartbeat, cool, unreadable, with the faintest ghost of a smile before she looked away. A flush of something shamed and thrilling ran through you.

“Alexia,” you whispered, meaning it as a warning, a plea, something. She paused, her lips at your ear, her hand unmoving but present, holding you hostage against your own body.

She followed your gaze to the mirror, her lips quirked up. “Cata,” she called, voice just loud enough to be heard over the car’s hush. Like she shouldn’t have had to ask.

“Yes, boss,” the woman replied, sliding a pair of earbuds into place, a low, thrumming music started, insistent, and a moment later, the privacy partition slid up, transforming the rear cabin into a cocoon.

Now it was only you and Alexia, and the velvet black of the car, and the hum of terrible possibility.

Alexia’s hand moved again, this time with no witnesses. She gathered the hem of your dress in her fist and slid her palm beneath, skin to skin. Her touch was purposeful, a slow, winding trail up your thigh until her fingers brushed the edge of your underwear. She lingered there, just barely touching, reading your whole body through the trembling in your legs.

She kissed you again, deeper now, her tongue a soft demand. One of her hands tangled in your hair, the other pressed into your cunt through the thin layer of fabric, fingers moving in an excruciating, perfect rhythm.

You arched into her, breath coming short and fast. She nipped at your bottom lip. “Is this what you wanted?” she asked, not as a tease but a genuine question, her voice ragged around the edges.

You nodded, probably too eagerly.

Her mouth traced a slow line from your throat to your collarbone, then back up to the soft skin behind your ear. "Lift," she murmured against it, barely louder than the hum of the car.

You obeyed without thinking, hips rising, and she drew your underwear down in one unhurried motion, leaving it somewhere forgotten around your calves.

The air hit you first, then her hand, her thumb found your clit with the same faultless confidence she brought to everything else, pressing once, firmly, before beginning slow, deliberate circles that made your breath stutter and your fingers curl against the leather seat.

Your head tipped back against the headrest as her fingers pressed in, slow and deliberate, two knuckles deep before pausing there, letting you feel the stretch of it, the unbearable fullness of almost. Her thumb kept its own time, unhurried, entirely indifferent to the stillness of her fingers and then, without withdrawing, they began to move, curling upward on each slow stroke, finding the soft spot of you from the inside. 

The pace of it. The way her fingers explored with such calm, with such patient violence. It undid every prepared defence, all the quick answers you thought you’d have for this moment. Your hands went to her wrist, not to stop her but to anchor yourself, to make her real, the hard lines of her hand pressed so warm between your thighs.

The car blurred by city lights you barely registered the route, but the only place that mattered was here, in the tight private world of the backseat and the mess Alexia was making of your body. Her mouth returned to yours, rough this time, her tongue a slow demand, her breathing totally unlike the cool, precise woman she’d been at the bar.

You’d meant to perform better at this. You’d meant to be the kind of person who played hard to get, who made her work, made her wait. Instead, you were unraveling all over her hand, hips pressing up, head tipped back so you barely even saw her anymore, only felt the relentless, exacting motion of her fingers.

“Good?” she asked, voice a hoarse promise, lips brushing against your ear.

You couldn’t speak. You had to search for words, any words at all, but all that came out was a whimper. You clung to her shoulder, the soft wool of her jacket, as if something about the fabric could stabilise you. It didn’t.

Alexia withdrew her fingers, and you nearly whimpered at the loss until she brought her hand, glistening, to her own lips and sucked her fore and middle fingers into her mouth. Her eyes never left yours as she tasted you, and she smiled, a lazy, wicked thing, before she pressed her damp thumb to your lips and said, “Try.”

You did. You licked it, and her whole expression softened, she bit her own lip as if surprised.

“Jesus,” she said, and you felt every syllable like a bruise on your chest.

Alexia crowded closer, lips still parted from the last kiss. She tugged at your knee, insisting it fall open for her. You let it. She moved down the seat, somehow graceful in the confined space, until she knelt on the floor between your legs. There was a reverence to the way she looked at you then, a beat of assessment, the hot, clinical attention of someone memorising every square centimetre of bare skin and shiver.

The world was a dark blur outside the windows, the car eating the city block by block. Inside, only Alexia’s hands, her mouth, and the feverish heat pooling at the base of your spine.

She reached up, fingers spanning your thigh, and leaned in, lips grazing the sensitive skin just above your knee, a single deliberate brush that made every hair stand at attention. She trailed upward, slow as torture, kissing your inner thigh, then biting, just enough to leave a mark. You felt the indentation of her teeth long after she moved higher.

You didn’t dare look out the windows, certain the city would be watching, even though you both knew the glass was blacked out. All you could see was Alexia, her head haloed by the car’s ambient light, her eyes locked on yours as she kissed, licked, nipped her way toward the heat between your legs.

She hovered, a breath away from where you ached for her, and you could feel her exhale, warm and humid, her mouth finally, finally pressing in and up. The first pass of her tongue nearly made you convulse, a shock of sensation that stole your breath. She licked you slowly, methodically, hands holding your thighs apart, steady even as they trembled under her grip.

There was nothing gentle in the way she worked you open. She sucked, then licked, then sucked again, and when you gasped or moaned she’d smile, the vibration of it sending you higher. She was thorough, insistent, the kind of lover who wanted proof of her own effect, who liked to leave you shaky and overwhelmed and a little ruined.

You dug your hands into her hair, the silky strands fisting between your fingers, and she responded by moaning into you, the sound so raw and animal it short circuited your brain. Her tongue circled your clit, then pressed, then flicked so fast and so relentless that you lost track of time, of the world, of everything except the wet, obscene sounds and the mounting, unbearable pressure.

She slipped two fingers into you, the same ones that had made you fall apart already, and curled them just right, just as her mouth closed around you and sucked you hard enough to tear a cry from your chest.

Her tongue slid lower, firm and slow as a prayer, flattening along your clit until your vision shimmered at the edges. Then, a slick tease, she pressed the tip just inside you. She drew lazy, savouring circles with her tongue, working you open in increments so small it was almost agony, and when you dug your heel into the seat edge for leverage, she moaned as if you’d given her a gift.

You wanted to say something clever, something cutting, anything to keep this from feeling like pure, animal surrender, but Alexia stole every syllable from you, translating want into sensation, pleasure into pressure, until all you could do was gasp and cling. The world outside the car ceased to exist. There was only the rough texture of the leather beneath your hips, the velvet slide of her tongue, and the steady, unrelenting rhythm she set with her fingers.

She alternated between licking you and fucking you with her tongue, one moment teasing the rim, the next thrusting deep enough you felt your whole pelvis lift off the seat. Her hands, palms broad and sure, held you open, anchored you so tight it was impossible to run, though your entire body wanted to arch away and into her at once. Each time you came close to shattering, she’d back off, tongue circling languidly, a slow drag that made you sob with frustration, then she’d return, hungry and insistent, as if she was intent on mapping you molecule by molecule.

You barely recognised the sounds coming out of your mouth, didn’t believe yourself capable of the high, desperate noises echoing off the car’s plush interior. Alexia ate you like she was starving, like the world had ended and all that was left was this, your body, her mouth, the heat and salt and slick of you. You felt the build start low, a gathering storm, your thighs trembling so hard you worried you’d break her grip.

She must have felt it, the way your pulse skyrocketed, because her tongue redoubled, fast and relentless over your clit, and when she pressed inside you again, it was with her whole mouth, her face buried so deep she could have been breathing you. You came so hard you saw a burst of white behind your eyelids, your hips jackknifing off the seat as you lost all sense of yourself, of her, of the car or the city or even your own name.

When it passed, you were boneless, melting back into the seat with a sound that was half laugh, half staggered sob. Alexia surfaced, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes dark and almost tender.

"Lift," Alexia said, and you surfaced slowly, hands still trailing absently along your own calves, the word arriving a beat late. She was sliding your knickers back up your legs, matter of fact, almost tender. "What's your address? I'll have Cata drop you home."

You almost laughed. You had let this woman pull you into a blacked out car and come apart in her mouth, and yet something in you toyed at giving her your postcode. "Just drop me back at the bar." Alexia almost smiled, as if she’d expected that answer, maybe she had. Maybe this was the kind of thing she did on Fridays, collect women from dim bars, corral them into luxury vehicles, and see what they’d let her get away with before midnight, you only half cared. Your whole body still pulsed with spent energy, core tight and legs jelly weak, and you didn’t trust yourself to speak.

Alexia’s hands were smooth, methodical as she helped you gather yourself, dress tugged discreetly back into position, wrists steadied together momentarily. Not possessive, but careful, as if she knew exactly how fragile a person could be when they’d just let go of a lifetime’s worth of control in the span of a half hour. For a second you almost expected her to light you a cigarette.

“Cata?” Alexia called out after pressing a button near your head, as the divider slid down and the muted thrum of the city returned through her open window. “Back to Calle del Bruc, please.”

No one asked for clarification, Cata’s tone was even, automatic, “Yes, boss.”

Alexia looked at you sidelong, one corner of her mouth quirking in a private joke. “Don’t worry, there’s a shop at the corner if you need a tactical recovery snack.”

It hit you, belatedly, that you might actually be starving, “Don’t suppose you’d let me walk it off?”

“In those shoes?” Alexia made an exaggerated show of glancing at your feet. “You’d make it one block.”

She had a point. Your heels dug into the thick carpet, ankles wobbling, and there was something indecent about offering the stranger in a tailored suit this much leverage over your literal ability to stand, but you didn’t hate it. Instead, a laugh tumbled out, unguarded and light, and Alexia softened to it, slow, genuine, the sort of smile that only happened when she wasn’t trying for effect.

“Okay,” you said, “I’ll take the ride.”

Alexia stayed angled toward you, every line of her posture open, the pants of her suit stretched tight over muscled thighs, her fingers steepled together like someone interviewing for a position only you had no doubt who was being sized up for potential.

“Is this where I’m supposed to say something clever?” you asked.

She shrugged, not breaking eye contact, “Only if you want to.”

You could feel the blush return, but you didn’t try to hide it this time. “I don’t know if I can outdo you.”

“Maybe that’s not the point.” Alexia’s tone was different, now, less tease, more invitation. “Maybe you just enjoy the ride.”

The car settled into a red light outside a late night panadería. Neon flickered against the window, painting the interior in pinks and blues. Alexia tilted her head, as if waiting for you to look away. You didn’t.

Soon the club the night started in came back into view, your hand reached for the handle before you could the door was open Cata standing tall above you in your seat.

You got out from the car, legs unsteady on the pavement, almost forgetting the state of your own body, the way heat still flickered up your thighs with every movement. Cata gave you a single nod, bored or respectful, you couldn’t tell, then ducked back inside, returning to whatever in cabin playlist she’d engineered for herself.

The street seemed too bright, the laughter spilling from the bar at double volume, the world now in high contrast after the hush and luxury of the car. Alexia moved over into the seat you had been in, she looked as immaculate as she had hours ago, utterly untouchable, except for the smear of pink at the corner of her mouth, nearly the same colour as your lipstick.

You wanted to say something, anything to break the spell of the night, but the words were stuck behind your tongue. You were suddenly aware of what it meant to be seen together this way, to be half dressed and full of teeth marks, to have been made open so thoroughly and so quickly you barely remembered your own rules for how moments like this should play out.

“I didn’t get your name,” Alexia said, into the silence between you.

The breeze hit first. You folded your arms against it, against her, against the whole unbearable composure of her still sitting there. “I don’t think that matters much now, does it.” Not a question, you held her gaze one beat longer than was wise. “Bye... Boss.”

She smiled at your quip, you saw it fall the moment you turned away.

The bar door was loud and bright and full of strangers. Behind you, a car door closed, and the engine pulled away down the street as you stepped back into the place it all started.

The Rolls Royce merged silently back into the late night traffic, for the first few minutes, nobody spoke.

Cata's hands rested confidently on the steering wheel, eyes scanning mirrors as much as the road ahead. Years of driving for Alexia had taught her that silence was rarely uncomfortable.

Tonight, however, it felt... different, she caught Alexia's reflection in the rearview mirror still looking out of the window, watching the bar disappear into the distance.

"You want me to turn around?" Cata asked eventually.

Alexia didn't answer immediately, "No." A beat passed, "...Keep driving."

Cata's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly.

Interesting.

💪🏼

The wrought iron gates rolled open before the car reached them.

The estate beyond was more fortress than home, hidden behind centuries old stone walls and towering cypress trees. Cameras tracked the Rolls Royce as it wound up the long drive before stopping beneath the portico.

Before Cata could step out to open the door, the front door swung open.

"About time." Patri bounded down the front steps wearing an oversized hoodie, a packet of crisps tucked under one arm, "We were taking bets."

Cata sighed, "I told you not to say any-"

"You also bet." Patri grinned, "And I won."

Alexia climbed from the car, smoothing invisible creases from her jacket, "What exactly did you win?"

Patri held up a handful of notes triumphantly, "Mapi said you'd be back in an hour."

"I said two," Ingrid called from the doorway, drying her hands on a tea towel.

"I guessed you'd bring someone home." Patri looked dramatically offended, "Which, for the record, would've won if you hadn't decided to be mysterious for once."

Alexia shot her an unimpressed look, "You're all exhausting."

"We know," Mapi replied, appearing beside Ingrid with a mug of coffee in hand, "That's why you keep us."

Inside, the house smelled unmistakably of fresh bread, garlic and slow cooked tomatoes, Ingrid smiled warmly as Alexia stepped through the doorway, "I kept your dinner warm."

Alexia loosened the top button of her suit jacket, "You always do, thank you"

That finally earned a small smile, the kitchen was already occupied, Misa sat at the island cleaning one of the training pistols they used in the private range beneath the house.

She glanced up briefly, "No bullet holes?"

"No."

"No stab wounds?"

"No."

"Disappointing."

Alexia rolled her eyes, "It was a quiet evening."

From the corner of the room came a snort, everyone turned, Pina was leaning against the counter, methodically sharpening a knife with the kind of concentration most people reserved for crossword puzzles.

Without looking up she asked, "So. Was she worth being late for the meeting you called?"

Silence, even Patri stopped eating, Mapi slowly lowered her coffee, Ingrid looked between them all, Alexia reached into the fridge, retrieving a bottle of water."I don't know what you're talking about."

Six voices answered simultaneously, "Boss."

Alexia unscrewed the cap, "I met someone."

Patri slammed both palms onto the counter,"I KNEW IT!"

"You owe me fifty euros," Jana said without missing a beat.

Patri groaned dramatically before fishing money from her pocket, "Worst night ever."

"You literally won the first bet."

"I've now lost the important one."

Mapi folded her arms, "So you met someone..." Alexia nodded, "...and?"

"There isn't an 'and.'"

"There is always an 'and,'" Misa replied.

Alexia took a long drink of water, hoping it would somehow delay the interrogation, but it didn't.

Pina finally looked up from the knife she'd been sharpening for Ingrid after complaining none of the knives she used for cooking was sharp enough, "What was her name?"

Alexia froze just for a fraction of a second, "...I don't know."

The room fell silent, Patri blinked, "You..."

Mapi blinked, "...don't know?" Mapi finished for Patri

Even Cata turned around, "You didn't ask?"

Alexia rested the bottle on the counter, "I did."

"And?"

"She didn't tell me."

Patri stared, then burst into hysterical laughter, "Oh, this is priceless."

Mapi joined in, "The great Alexia. The woman who has politicians returning missed calls. The woman whose enemies cross continents to avoid her...got rejected by a woman whose name she doesn't even know."

"I wasn't rejected."

"No?" Mapi grinned, "Then what's her name?"

Alexia's silence answered for her, Patri was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes, "I love her already."

Ingrid hid a smile behind her mug.

Cata folded her arms, "So what did she call you? If you didn’t find the time to get names"

Alexia couldn't stop the smallest smile from tugging at her lips, "'Boss.'"

That only made everyone laugh harder, Pina slid the newly sharpened knife onto the counter and, for the first time all evening, smiled, "Interesting."

Alexia looked over, "What?"

Pina shrugged, "You've spent years making people fear you." She tilted her head thoughtfully, "And tonight..." A knowing smile spread across her face, "...someone walked away."

The laughter around the kitchen faded, Alexia found herself looking toward the dark windows overlooking the grounds.

She could still picture you disappearing through the door without looking back, without giving your name, or asking who Alexia really was.

For perhaps the first time in years, Alexia realised she wanted something she couldn't simply command, buy, or intimidate into her life.

She wanted another chance encounter, that prospect was far more unsettling than any rival family waiting in the shadows.

💪🏼

The marina shimmered beneath the last of the evening sun, rows of yachts bobbed gently against their moorings, each one more extravagant than the last, but they all paled in comparison to the one looming at the end of the dock.

You stopped walking., "...That's a yacht?"

Lily looked over her shoulder, grinning, "What?"

"That's not a yacht." You pointed towards the floating palace”, "That's a small country."

She laughed, "I know." The thing was absurd, multiple decks, floor to ceiling windows reflecting the orange sky, crew moving efficiently across polished teak decks.

You'd never seen anything like it outside of films, "Remind me," you said, tearing your eyes away for a second, "how exactly do you know someone with a yacht this size?"

"I don't."

You frowned, "You don't?"

Lily shook her head as if that was the least surprising part of the evening, "You know Jana? The one who comes into the coffee shop every morning?"

You hummed, "The one you think I don't know you're sleeping with... that Jana?"

Lily shot you a look, "I'm not sleeping with Jana."

"Her car is outside at the end of your shift four nights a week."

"Coincidence."

"There’s an extra toothbrush at your flat."

"Allegedly."

"You accidentally called her 'babe' while steaming milk."

"I was tired."

You snorted, "So... definitely that Jana."

Lily sighed dramatically, "Fine." A beat, "Maybe."

You bumped her shoulder, "I knew it."

She rolled her eyes, "Anyway, Jana invited me and told me to bring a friend, so I assume she knows whoever owns this ridiculous thing."

"Comforting."

"It'll be fine." You weren't entirely convinced.

The closer you got, the bigger the yacht seemed, people in expensive clothes laughed on the upper deck, champagne catching the fading light, staff moved with quiet precision. Everything about it screamed money, old money, the sort that never had to tell anyone it existed.

Lily was already digging through her handbag, "Found it."

She held up a sleek black invitation with gold lettering before presenting it to a member of staff stationed at the bottom of the boarding ramp.

The woman scanned it, smiled politely and stepped aside, "Enjoy your evening."

Lily flashed you an excited grin, "See? Easy." She bounded halfway up the ramp before realising you hadn't followed, "Y/N?"

You had turned, distracted by movement beside the entrance, your stomach dropped. No...

Standing a few feet away, dressed in a tailored black suit with an earpiece tucked discreetly behind one ear, was a woman you recognised instantly.

Cata. She recognised you at exactly the same moment, there wasn't the slightest flicker of surprise on her face however. Just that same unreadable expression she'd worn outside the Rolls Royce.

Your heartbeat picked up, she walked towards you with measured steps, professional and controlled.

When she stopped in front of you, neither of you spoke, not at first, "Can I check your bag?" Her tone was courteous, almost gentle.

You swallowed, "Yeah... of course."

You slipped the strap from your shoulder and unzipped the bag, holding it open.

Cata's inspection was quick and methodical, she barely disturbed anything inside before stepping back.

For one impossible second, your eyes met again. Did she actually remember you?

Of course she remembered you. She remembered everything.

She gave a single nod, "Enjoy your night."

You managed a small smile, "Thanks."

She stepped aside and you started walking, one foot in front of the other trying very hard to appear completely normal.

Your thoughts, however, had other ideas, Cata, not someone who merely resembled her, the same woman, the same driver, the same bodyguard, the same quiet, observant presence who had watched you climb out of a blacked out Rolls Royce only a few weeks earlier.

Your pulse refused to settle, there were only two possibilities.

Either Cata worked security for multiple wealthy people...or this yacht belonged to Alexia.

You weren't entirely sure which possibility made you more nervous.

"Y/N!" Lily called from further up the gangway, "You coming or what?"

You blinked yourself back to the present, "Yeah."

You forced your legs to keep moving, each step carried you further onto the yacht. Further toward answers you weren't sure you actually wanted and despite every sensible instinct telling you to turn around a small, traitorous part of you hoped with embarrassing intensity that Alexia was somewhere on board.

💪🏼

The upper deck hummed with effortless luxury, music drifted from hidden speakers, low enough that conversations never had to compete with it. Crystal glasses caught the evening sun, laughter rolled across the decking as guests wandered between the bar, the plunge pool and the shaded seating areas.

At the centre of it all sat Alexia, one ankle rested across the opposite knee, an untouched glass of whiskey balanced loosely in her hand.

She looked exactly as she always did perfectly composed and perfectly in control. It didn't seem to matter that half the yacht revolved around her, women drifted in and out of conversation with her, each one impossibly beautiful.

One leaned against the arm of her chair, laughing at something Alexia had said that wasn’t even funny.

Another perched on the edge of the sunbed beside her, making no secret of the fact she was trying to catch Alexia's eye.

Someone else appeared with two fresh drinks, offering one with a hopeful smile. Alexia thanked her politely, nothing more, it hadn't gone unnoticed.

Patri watched another failed attempt and leaned towards Mapi, "That makes..." She counted under her breath, "...eight."

Mapi didn't even look up from her beer, "Nine."

"The blonde by the pool doesn't count."

Across from them, Ingrid laughed quietly, shaking her head, "They'll keep trying."

"They always do," Misa muttered.

Alexia, blissfully ignoring the commentary surrounding her love life, took another sip of her drink.

She wasn't listening to the women competing for her attention, she was listening to the sea, the engines, the rhythm of the yacht beneath her feet.

Then something changed, not the music or the conversation, the atmosphere, someone approaching quickly.

Alexia lifted her head, Cata, she rarely hurried, which meant something had happened. Without waiting to be acknowledged, Cata crossed the deck, weaving effortlessly between guests until she reached Alexia's chair.

"Boss."

Alexia set her glass down, Cata leaned in, speaking quietly into her ear, the words lasted barely three seconds.

Alexia's expression changed instantly not dramatically, anyone who didn't know her would have missed it, but the people around her knew every tiny shift in expression she'd ever made.

"Bring her to me." Alexia picked her whiskey back up, settling into her chair as though the conversation were already over.

Cata didn't move. "I anticipated that. So I went to find her first." A pause, just long enough to be uncomfortable. "I can’t find her"

Alexia turned her head slowly, the glass pausing at her lips, "Then keep looking."

Cata stepped back with a single nod, "Yes, boss," and was gone, threading back through the crowd with the same quiet efficiency she'd arrived with. Alexia brought the whiskey to her mouth, and whatever had just crossed her face crossed it no longer. Across the seating area, Patri, Mapi, Ingrid, and Misa exchanged a glance. Not one of them said a word. They knew better to.

💪🏼

You were grateful for the relative anonymity of the bar that was built into the main deck, a sunken space filled with expensive people who all seemed to know, or want to know, each other. Lily had already vanished into a small knot of women near the bowling alley, because, of course, there was a bowling alley on this ship and you could see her holding court, basking in the attention of anyone who mistook her accent for novelty.

You hovered, uncertain. You tried to make yourself small, blending into the pale curve of the banquette near the glass doors, but every so often you'd catch eyes on you, some tracing the line of your outfit, some evaluating you for a social transaction you didn’t understand.

When you realised you’d been staring at the same drink for ten minutes, you made yourself get up and cross to the rail. The air was spiced with salt and ozone, the city’s skyline had already begun to blue out in the dusk, and the lights on the next yacht over blinked like landlocked constellations.

You felt aimless, suddenly, remembering the rush in the car, the way your own body had become unfamiliar, a stranger’s for a little while. You wondered if Alexia was here, if she ever thought about you, even as a punchline. If she was the kind of person who remembered or the kind who always needed newness.

You tried to picture her among these people, she wouldn’t be laughing in the way you saw the women laughing here. She wouldn’t be smiling for the camera or parading a new girl on her arm. She would probably be quiet, watching, drinking something brown and expensive while running a thousand unspoken calculations.

The thought made you smile, which was, mercifully, the exact moment someone cleared their throat beside you.

“You need to come with me” a low, familiar voice spoke.

You froze, then turned, Cata stood there in her suit, hands clasped behind her back, expression unreadable. "Took her longer than I expected," you said and something shifted at the corner of Cata's mouth, gone before it fully arrived.

"Follow me." She turned and walked, not waiting.

The upper deck was quieter, the music from below reduced to a low pulse through the floor. Fewer people up here, and the ones who were watched you the way people watch someone walk into the wrong room. You stayed close behind Cata.

"Boss." Cata announced you without ceremony.

"Kiss arse," you muttered thinking she wouldn’t hear you, evidently her hear was better than you gave her credit for.

Cata looked over her shoulder, “Speak when spoken to"

You held her gaze, "Yes, boss," you said, borrowing her own phrase back, and watched something that might have been respect flicker across her face before she turned fully toward you, close enough that you felt the shift in air.

"You have quite the smart mouth."

You let yourself smirk, "Thank you."

"Cata." Alexia's voice came from somewhere behind her, low and unhurried, and you felt it move through you before you even found her face. "Let her be." Cata held your eyes a moment longer, then stepped aside with a single nod, and the space she left open framed Alexia exactly as though it had always been arranged that way.

Alexia's eyes moved down your body and back up. You became aware, suddenly, of your shorts and tank top and the way you'd heard boat party and dressed for the weather instead of whatever this was.

“Come sit” Your feet didn't move, "Do I have to?" The words were out before you could stop them, and the silence that followed had a texture to it. Across the deck, four heads turned in unison, Patri, Mapi, Ingrid, Misa each of them suddenly very interested in you for the first time all evening.

“No” Alexia sipped her drink, you're guess of expensive brown liquid correct, “I’d like it if you did though”

You moved, then. What else could you do? You crossed the deck, conscious of every pair of eyes some curious, some dismissive, some openly assessing. Your body felt a half step behind you, as if your limbs needed reminders to carry out the simplest commands.

You reached Alexia, and even sitting she radiated a tethered energy, a gravity that made the upholstered benches and overfull glasses and even the Mediterranean itself seem like a backdrop for her benefit.

You took the seat she gestured to, two places down from her rather than the empty one directly at her side. It felt less like keeping your distance and more like making a point, though what that point was you couldn’t have explained. For a moment she didn’t look at you, her profile cut a sharp line against the glow of the city behind her, hair slicked back, lashes heavy. You took a breath, then another, and tried to remember how talking worked.

Alexia broke the silence first, “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, as if this were her own birthday party and you were the surprise.

“I wasn’t really given the option,” you replied glancing to Cata, and watched a hint of pleasure arc across Alexia’s mouth.

“I run a tight ship,” she said, though you gathered from the yacht, the suits, the entire performance, that ‘ship’ was a flexible concept for her.

Someone behind you snorted, you glanced back. The four women at the other end of the seating area each with a drink, each angled for maximum eavesdrop were practically vibrating. One said something under her breath Alexia’s gaze flicked her direction and the group fell silent, as if their boss had snapped a leash taut.

You turned back to her, heart pinwheeling, but your hands were steady. “So what’s this?” you asked, gesturing at the yacht, the party, the entire orchestration, “Just another Friday for you?”

“Yes,” she said, as if finding the question quaint, “But not for you?” Her eyes didn’t blink as she asked it.

You shook your head, made yourself relax into the plush seat, “Where I come from, the closest thing to a boat party is watching old men play dominoes on the beach.”

She considered that, head tilted, as if calibrating how much of it was a joke. Then she smiled not the predatory smile from the car, but something private, almost delighted, “I would like to see that,” she said.

You almost said, “You wouldn’t,” but stopped yourself. Alexia already knew what she liked and what she didn’t, she didn’t need anyone to tell her.

A server appeared from nowhere, placing a drink in front of you gin, your favourite, garnished with a literal flower. You raised an eyebrow, “You have people following me?”

Alexia’s face resembled perfect innocence, “We have a good bar staff,” she said.

You sipped, it was, of course, the best thing you’d ever tasted and not what you had been served earlier. You allowed yourself a second sip before returning to the conversation at hand. “Do you always get what you want?”

Alexia didn’t answer right away. She looked at you for a while, fingers tracing a lazy orbit around the lip of her glass “Statistically,” she said, “more often than not.”

You scoffed, “I bet you hate losing.”

She grinned, small and sharp, “I prefer not to waste time on impossible things.” You liked that, or maybe you hated it. Either way, your blood ran a little faster, the gin burning a path down your throat.

“Why did you want me here?” The question surprised even you, the boldness of it, the edge, but Alexia seemed to enjoy it.

She set her glass down, leaned back in her chair, “Curiosity,” she said. “I think better in company.”

You looked around, “You seem to have plenty of company.”

She followed your gaze, the three women at the bar, the servers and silent security detail, the handful of guests now half watching the two of you from the pool, “Most people,” she said, voice dropping a little, “never say anything interesting to me.” She watched you, as if to see what you would do with that. “I like that you do.”

You felt the flush rising again, but met her eyes until she blinked firs, “That’s not a high bar.”

She laughed, and the tension in her posture eased a notch. Behind her, Patri leaned closer to Mapi, whispering “Wait, is she flirting with her?” and both burst into silent laughter.

Alexia ignored them, but you did not miss the flicker of annoyance that crossed her brow before it smoothed flat again. 

“So what do you talk about,” you asked, “when you’re not being entertained by strangers?”

She looked out at the water, considered, “Business, usually. Or Tv shows. Or why Catalan food is objectively superior to all other food and nobody wants to admit it.”

“I’ll admit it,” you said, “as long as you never make me eat a snail.”

It was meant as a joke, but Alexia’s face lit up as if you’d just offered a secret handshake. “Deal,” she said. “We’ll start with something easy. Croquetas.”

“Croquetas are not easy,” you said, remembering the last time you’d tried to make them, oil splattering across your forearms, half the batch dissolving into a kind of béchamel soup.

Alexia raised her glass in a small salute, “They are if you know the trick.”

“I bet you know a lot of tricks,” you said, before you could stop yourself. She looked at you with a look that could turn concrete to steam, and you felt a jolt of adrenaline, as if you’d taken a dare you never meant to accept.

“I do,” she said, very quietly, her voice dissolving the space between you. “Would you like to learn one?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. The urge to say yes was so loud it drowned out every other sound on the deck, but that was not what you said. You said, “Show me.”

She stood, unhurried, glass in hand. “Take a walk with me.” You followed, aware of every person watching, of Cata’s silent shadow two steps behind, and of the way your heart pounded against your ribs, trying to keep pace.

She led you to the prow of the yacht, past the glass walled gym and the helipad, out onto a private viewing deck where the rest of the party was a distant rumour. There was no one else up here, the wind caught your hair and the edges of Alexia’s shirt, untucking it slightly, exposing a bare inch of stomach that glowed under the lighting.

She leaned against the rail, folded her arms loosely, and looked at you as if waiting for the next move. For the first time, you realised she was maybe as uncertain as you were about how the rest of this would go.

You cleared your throat, “So, what do you want to know?”

She gestured to the empty air between you, as if the night itself was the question, “Start with something true.”

You swallowed, tried not to think of her mouth or the hum of the car, or the fact that you’d spent weeks replaying her name in your head until it made almost no sense. “I’m terrible at parties,” you said, surprising yourself with the confession.

She smiled, not in the predatory way, but with a slow warmth that made her eyes crinkle at the corners, “You’re doing better than most.”

You shrugged, suddenly shy, “That’s only because I don’t care what these people think.”

“Is that so?” she stepped closer, angling her body to block the wind, “Does it matter what I think?”

You considered it for a second, then, “Yes.”

She nodded as if she’d known it already, stepped forward until you were pinned by the intensity of her, the hush between your bodies as taut as cello wire. “I’ve been trying not to think about you,” she said, as if reading the lines of your own private screenplay. “It hasn’t worked.”

A laugh caught in your throat, unsteady, “I figured you would have plenty of distractions.”

She didn’t smile. Instead, she extended her hand, palm up, inviting, and after a moment’s hesitation you took it. She squeezed, her grip warm and dry, and drew you closer until your hips touched the railing and the heat of her arm pressed yours.

“I lied, before,” Alexia said, voice pitched low. “I did want you to tell me your name. I still do.” You stared at her, the way the city lights painted bars of gold and blue along her jaw, the sincerity unguarded in her eyes. Her thumb traced the line of your wrist, patient, “You don’t have to.”

For a moment you were six years old, hiding under the kitchen table from your mother’s temper, unheard and unseen until you wanted to be. The urge to withhold was a muscle, one you’d trained since girlhood. But here, in the wind and the hush and the unyielding steadiness of Alexia’s hand, you wanted the opposite.

You told her your name. It came out quieter than you meant, small, like you had to try it out for both of you at once.

She repeated it, tried its weight on her tongue, then, “It suits you,” like it was something valuable, a keepsake she’d been hoping for.

Her thumb lingered, the movement slowing as she watched your reaction, then she leaned in, brushed your cheek with the side of her knuckle. For a second, you thought she might kiss you again, and you weren’t sure if you were ready for it, or the kind of night spent in the blast radius of Alexia’s attention.

Instead, she let the moment stretch, the two of you suspended in the hush of approaching midnight, city lights flickering, the yacht’s gentle sway pulling you both out to sea, metaphorically or otherwise.

You said it again, your own name, like maybe this time it would count more.

She smiled, wider now, the kind of smile that could build bridges or break ribs, and for a moment you saw the edges of the woman you’d met in the car, the one with a whole private world hidden behind calculated calm and jokes that always landed halfway between tease and dare.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and you didn’t know if she was talking about the name or simply standing here beside her without stepping away.

Behind you, the city was already a collection of distant lights. Up here, you didn’t feel watched, or judged, or anything except anchored to the spot. You’d forgotten what that was like, to be in a place and not want to be anywhere else.

You leaned on the railing. Alexia joined you, her shoulder pressed to yours in a way you didn’t hate. She looked at the water, then at you, something thoughtful shading her face. “What do you want, really?” she asked, and for a split second you didn’t know if she meant here, now, on this deck, or in the cosmic sense.

You thought of your answer, surprised at how easy it was, “I want to do something that isn’t about what anyone else wants.”

Alexia’s gaze flickered, as if she’d been waiting for that, “And what would that look like?” Her voice was softer, the competitive edge blunted by something that felt damn close to hope.

You considered the question. There was a time you would’ve answered with the first clever thing to come to mind, but now, wind in your face, her gaze locked on yours, you went for honesty. “I don’t know yet,” you said, “But I think I’d like to find out.”

She nodded, as if this was the best answer she’d ever heard.

You looked at her, really looked, and realised that for all her show and sharpness she was just as curious about the next step as you were. “Show me a trick, then,” you said, and her face split wide, delighted.

“I was making an innuendo”

“What makes you think i didn’t know that?” She was closer now, her face a question. For a long moment all you heard was the wind rushing past the railing and the hollow thump of your heart under your ribs.

She leaned in, her lips finding yours as if the answer to every riddle was hidden in your mouth. This time the kiss was the opposite of the car, no performance, no urgency, a long slow hush that pulled at your bones. She kissed you like she wanted to remember every detail, taste every secret, build the anticipation to a point so bright it burned through all the layers you hid yourself under.

When it broke, she kept her face close to yours, breathing in the same inch of air. "You going to leave just as quick this time," she said, and you had to laugh, because you recognised your own pattern even as she named it.

"Maybe I like the chase," you said, and she traced her fingertip along your jaw, not quite smiling.

"Me too."

The world fell away, the city, the yacht, the crowd, until it was just you and her and the pressure of her hand against your lower back. Alexia drew you in until your hips rested together, her body angled around yours like a shield. You felt something unclench in your chest. The wind lashed at your hair, and she smoothed it behind your ear with unnecessary care.

You could see now that nothing about her was casual, not really. Every gesture, from the careless way she drank to the way she held you, was a tic of discipline learned so early it became invisible. She was always running a calculation, how much to reveal, how much to risk, how close to get before she startled herself into retreat.

You didn't pull away. Instead, you asked, "What now.. Boss?"

She smirked, let her hands drift down your arms, fingers trailing heat, "Sometimes," she said, "the trick is there isn't one."

You felt her smile against your cheek, the slow, coiling satisfaction of a plan coming together. Then her hands were at the backs of your thighs, and in one smooth motion, she scooped you up, your legs reflexively circling her hips. You laughed, startled and delighted, but the sound dissolved when she pressed you into the wall of a stairwell, her mouth capturing yours, hard and slick with intent.

You clung to her, fingers threaded in the fine hair at her nape, only distantly aware of the world beyond her, the city a smear of colour in the porthole window, the thudding bass of the party below now just a private drumline for the two of you. She kissed you with a kind of greedy discipline, her mouth coaxing yours open, teeth gentle but insistent, tongue sliding hot against yours until you forgot to breathe.

She carried you down, footfalls muffled by expensive carpeting, the darkness pressing in close and intimate. At the bottom of the stairs, she manoeuvred you through a heavy door before letting it swing shut behind you. The click of the lock was a perfect, surgical sound. You were alone, the hush of the room thick and absolute.

She set you down your back thudding softly onto a mattress that could have slept four. She loomed over you, all dress shirt and precision lines, the heat of her body radiating over your own. You reached for her, and she let you, gathering your wrists in one hand and pinning them above your head on the bed, her mouth returning to yours, then to your neck, then lower, each kiss a claim.

You arched into her, thighs falling open, and she slid between them, grinding in slow, deliberate pulses that made you whimper. She was all pressure and rhythm, the fabric of her trousers rough against the thin fabric of your shorts, each movement a study in controlled violence.

She never let up, never released your wrists, just moved her mouth lower, teeth scraping lightly at your collarbone, then the edge of your breast peaking out the side of your tank top. She shifted, stripping you carefully, exposing you to the cool air and to her.

She took her time then, as if mapping your body for later use, hands and mouth and tongue leaving a trail of heat from your ribs to your hips to the inside of your knee. She was patient, so patient, the kind of patience that only made you want her more, until you were writhing beneath her, pleading wordlessly for her to close the final distance.

She did, eventually. She knelt between your legs and slid her hands up, thumbs tracing the sharp lines of your pelvic bone before pressing your knees wider. Her mouth was a question, and your answer was in the way your back arched, the way your hands found her hair and pulled. She licked slow at first, almost lazy, but when you gasped, she smiled into you, then licked again, harder, faster, tongue and fingers working in unison until your vision went white and the only thing you felt was her mouth, her tongue, the burning pleasure that built and broke, built and broke, until you unravelled so violently you nearly sobbed her name.

Alexia gave you no room to recover. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes gone almost black, hair a mess from your grip. She slid off the bed to her feet, unhurried, pulling you to the edge with one hand under your arm.

She then paused to look at you really look, as though you were something rare she’d found washed up on the sand. You lay there, breathless, skin prickling with the rush of exposure, and for a second you wondered if she’d make you wait for it, if she’d force you to beg. But she only smiled, a crooked, open hunger, and slowly began to work open the buttons of her shirt from top to bottom slowly.

She wore nothing underneath, the sight was enough to make your mouth go dry, the lines of her body sharp and golden under the room’s dim light. She was sculpted, almost severe, the kind of body that came from discipline and war with herself. She stood at the edge of the bed, letting you stare, and when you reached for her, she didn’t slap your hand away, but caught it, kissed your wrist, and pressed your palm to her toned stomach.

“Good?” she asked.

You nodded, unable to manage a syllable.

“Want more?”

Your voice was ragged, “Yes.”

She bent to kiss you, slow and exploratory, her whole weight pressing you into the mattress. She tasted of whiskey and salt, and her hands roamed your body as if memorising every detail for later. When she broke the kiss, she nipped your bottom lip, then traced her tongue along the seam of your mouth, teasing until you were shaking with want.

“I have a strap,” she murmured, voice rough with intent. You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you nodded, throat tight. Your gaze locked onto her as she turned toward the dresser, the drawer slid open with a whisper, and her fingers brushed against the leather, the buckles, the polished metal. She lifted it out like it was something sacred, something dangerous.

You watched, breath shallow, as she stepped out of her trousers, the fabric pooling at her ankles before she kicked them aside. Her underwear followed, black lace discarded without ceremony. The strap was already in her hands, the harness fitting snug against her hips with the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. The way she adjusted the straps, fingers skillful, movements precise made your pulse hammer in your throat. There was no hesitation, no fumbling. Just the quiet authority of someone who knew exactly what she wanted.

Your lungs locked when she turned, when the mattress dipped under her weight, when her knees bracketed your skull like the jaws of something beautiful and inevitable. The words came low, scraped raw, “I want your tongue.” You obeyed without thought, extending it flat, exposed, a living offering.

Then her hips began their movement, deliberate, her pressing the tip on your tongue. Each roll of her body drew a slow, wet path from the tip of your tongue to the roof of your mouth, her breath hitching when you flicked instinctively against her, a betrayal of control neither of you acknowledged.

You watched her hips move, the liquid confidence there, the way she didn’t treat you like a prop but like an accomplice, an equal participant in whatever this was between the two of you. She made a small, approving sound as you adjusted angle, depth, pressure, all of it on instinct, as if your own body ran algorithms to anticipate what she’d like most.

She kept her hand in your hair, not to force or dominate, but to feel each trembling, hungry movement you made. The slick, silicone weight of her slid over your tongue, filled your mouth, and each time your lips dove deeper, the muscles of her legs tensed around your head, thighs caging you in the dark. Her breath came ragged, every inhale a shudder that vibrated through her skin to yours, her composure cracked and light poured through the seams.

She looked down at you, hair falling across one cheek, brows knit in focus, an expression you’d never seen on her before. It was completely unguarded, almost raw. The knowledge that you had done this unravelled the perfect Alexia, lit you up from the inside. You doubled down, hollowing your cheeks, flattening your tongue, letting her fuck the softness of your mouth at her own pace.

She started slow, a testing roll of her hips, but soon she found the rhythm she liked, thrust, grind, retreat each stroke making her breath catch at the top, mouth slack and beautiful. You gripped her ass, pulled her closer, and Alexia let her head tip back, a perfect, silent moan written across her throat, the line of her jaw sharp under the pressure.

"Jesus," she muttered, the word both a warning and a surrender. You took her deeper, feeling the fullness in your mouth, the slight burn at the corners of your jaw. She liked that, liked it even more when your breath came short and needy. Every time you tried for air, she’d slow, let you catch it, then start again, showing you that patience you’d already learned from her hands and her tongue.

The world narrowed to the taste and the weight of her, the shuddering in her thighs, the salty sweat on your tongue, the quiet, desperate noises that slipped out of her despite every attempt to restrain them. You lived for those noises, for the messy, unprofessional honesty of them.

Her hands cradled your head gentle, then rough, then gentle again. At one point she cupped your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge, and you nearly broke from how careful she was, even when fucking your mouth. Every inch of her screamed confidence, but the way she held your face, the way she watched you, none of it was cruel. You realised then, in the dark, that you wanted her to break, to lose every scrap of composure with you.

You forced your eyes open, met her gaze, and watched the exact moment her control snapped. She swore, a soft Catalan curse, and pumped into your mouth with a rhythm that was almost punishing, almost needy. You let her, relaxed your jaw, took her as deep as you could and then further. The base of the harness kissed your lips, the heavy drag of it forcing your tongue flat and your eyes watering, but you didn’t stop. You gagged, for real this time, an involuntary spasm that made her flinch like she might pull away, but you gripped her hips tighter, pushed back, let the embarrassment burn through every inch of you and transform into something shameless.

She watched you, transfixed. You knew it wasn’t about dominance or humiliation, Alexia was too careful, too precise for that. It was about proof, about seeing how much of her you’d take, how much you wanted, how much you could stand to bear for the taste and feel of her. You blinked tears from your lashes, swallowed around her, and when the next wave hit, you welcomed it, the fullness and the ache, the sweet stretch of being bruised open for her.

She rocked her hips, short and sharp, a rhythm you felt all the way to your core, and with each pass she said your name, sometimes a whisper, sometimes a growl. You lost yourself in the sound of it, in the heat, in the pure intent of her body moving with yours, for you, because of you.

Eventually her pace faltered, hips slowing, and she dragged herself out, slow and slick. The silicone glistened, your spit threading in lines between you and the tip, and she wiped it on your tongue, a final, deliberate press. You licked your lips, Alexia smirked down at you, “Atta girl”

Your hands found her thighs, the muscle there dense and unyielding under your palms. You traced upward, over the curve of her ass, the harness straps cutting neat lines across it, then up and over her hip bones, then the chiseled marble of her abdomen, each ridge rising to meet your fingertips as they climbed.

Her breasts were softer than the rest of her, a contrast that made you pause, palming her breasts, and you flicked your thumb across a nipple. It hardened instantly, and the noise she made was almost a laugh, almost a threat. You rolled it, pinched, rolled again, and caught the way her jaw clenched, the way her hips rocked forward in reflex.

The cock bobbed just inches from your mouth, shining, and you licked it again, slow, letting the tip bump your lower lip, then your cheek, then your tongue. You looked up to see Alexia watching you really watching, pupils huge, face flushed with the kind of hunger you’d never had directed at you before.

You grinned up at her, hands sliding down her thighs to brace yourself and guide her backwards until, you sat up, chest to chest with her, and held her gaze as you wrapped a hand around the length of her with the other you encouraged her to lay back. You put your leg over her hips and guided it between your legs. You were still shaking, still slick, still wide open from before, but the pressure of the harness against you sent a fresh bolt of heat through your entire body. You lined the cock up, rolled your hips down, and took the whole length in one, trembling motion.

Alexia groaned, and you felt her hands grip your waist, holding you steady as you started to move. The first few strokes were slow, measured, you both watching the way her cock disappeared inside you, the way your bodies slotted together. 

She let you set the pace, her hands resting on the small of your back, just above the swell of your ass, anchoring you in place. You started to ride her, slow at first, then faster, watching her face for every twitch, as you bounced on her lap.

Your hands found her shoulders, and you braced yourself, using her body as leverage. Every time you dropped down, you could feel her fill you, the thickness of the cock stretching you out perfectly, and the soft rub of the harness against your clit.

It was better than any other strap you’d ever taken, because Alexia made it feel like an extension of her will, her control, her desire for you. She didn’t just fuck you, she orchestrated your pleasure, built it up with every roll of her hips and every hungry sound from her throat.

You started to perform for her, grinding down harder, circling your hips at the bottom of each stroke, letting your head tip back so your hair fell in a wild curtain, your breasts bouncing with every movement. You moaned, loud and shameless, and her hands clenched tighter at your waist. You could feel her watching, totally focused, as you rode her, faster and harder, the slap of your skin against her thighs echoing through the room.

“Fuck,” she hissed, a wild, broken sound, and you rode her even harder, chasing sensation, chasing that next impossible edge. She sat suddenly and twisted a nipple with her mouth, teeth scraping, and you nearly lost it, your whole body lighting up with pleasure and pain, the sensations blurring until you were nothing but nerve endings and hunger.

You pulled her in for a kiss, biting her lower lip, still rolling your hips against her in a slow grind, when the ceiling above you thumped. You both stilled, a beat of silence, then voices, sharp and overlapping, somewhere high on the yacht. Alexia's eyes cut to the door.

A single gunshot. Two screams, then nothing.

She was off the bed before the echo died, the harness hitting the floor with a heavy buckle clank. She dressed fast, the efficient movements of someone who had done this before. She was pulling open a drawer, rummaging, when she said, without looking at you, "When I leave, lock the door. Don't open it until I tell you." She found what she was looking for. You didn't see what it was. The door clicked shut behind her, and you were still sitting there, flushed and breathless and completely alone.

The lock clicked, then silence, not true silence.

The engines still hummed beneath the yacht, but inside the cabin the quiet felt oppressive.

You stared at the door, your pulse was still racing, only now for an entirely different reason.

Another shout echoed from somewhere above, closer this time.

You slid off the bed, hastily pulling your clothes back into place with hands that suddenly refused to cooperate. Your fingers fumbled with buttons you'd managed perfectly well only minutes earlier.

Another dull thud reverberated through the ceiling, not another gunshot, footsteps lots of them heavy and running.

You crossed the room before stopping yourself, Alexia had been very clear. Lock the door. You checked it anyway, locked.

Your eyes drifted around the cabin for the first time, it wasn't just a guest suite.

The shelves held books in three different languages. A chess board sat half finished on a side table. One wall displayed framed photographs of coastlines and mountains instead of people.

Nothing about the room felt temporary this was hers, another voice barked somewhere outside, firm and controlled.

You couldn't make out the words, then "CLEAR!"

It was Misa, you recognised her voice from earlier.

Another answered almost immediately, "Port side secure!" that was Patri.

You frowned, they sounded calm not frightened and certainly trained. Your stomach tightened, Alexia hadn't been exaggerating about her world. This wasn't some glamorous fantasy she'd built around herself. It was real, every bit of it.

The sound of footsteps approached your door, you instinctively stepped backwards as someone stopped outside. A shadow crossed beneath the gap, your breathing slowed to almost nothing.

A single knock, three short taps, not Alexia, you didn't move, the was handle tested once, then whoever it was walked away.

Only after the footsteps disappeared did you realise you'd been holding your breath. Minutes crawled by or maybe only seconds time had become impossible to judge.

Then voices again, this time much closer.

"...one in custody."

"...sweep the lower deck."

"...check every cabin."

You caught Alexia's voice among them, steady and completely unshaken.

"No unnecessary casualties." A pause. "I want answers before sunrise."

You closed your eyes, she sounded exactly the same as she had ordering a drink earlier that evening, that frightened you more than the gunshot had.

Eventually, the voices faded, a key turned in the lock, your entire body tensed. The door opened and Alexia stepped inside, her white shirt sleeve was rolled to the elbow now, and there was a faint smear of blood across one cuff you couldn't tell if it was hers.

She closed the door quietly behind her, for the first time since you'd met her she looked tired, not physically, just heavy.

Her eyes found yours immediately, "You listened."

"I wasn't exactly tempted to ignore you."

The corner of her mouth twitched, "Good."

You looked at the stain on her sleeve, "What happened?"

Alexia followed your gaze, she glanced down at the blood almost absently, "Someone made a very poor decision."

"Is everyone okay?"

There was a brief pause, "My people are."

The wording wasn't lost on you, you took a careful step closer, "Alexia..."

She looked at you, really looked at you, the composed facade she'd worn all evening had cracked just enough for you to glimpse the woman underneath.

"I told you," she said quietly. “My world is... complicated."

You thought back to the party, it had looked almost normal, and now you understood why they all watched the exits.

Why Cata searched every bag herself.

Why Alexia always seemed to know exactly where everyone was.

"This happens often?"

Alexia was honest, "Often enough that everyone knows what to do." The answer settled heavily between you, she reached for a clean shirt folded over a chair, unbuttoning the stained one with practiced movements. Then she stopped, "You should leave."

You blinked, "What?"

"Cata will take you ashore."

"And you?"

"I'll be busy."

There it was again, the invisible wall she'd built around herself, the one that separated her life from everyone else's.

You studied her for a long moment before asking quietly, "Are you trying to protect me...or push me away?"

Alexia opened the door. Cata was already there, hands clasped behind her back, expression unreadable.

"Cata will take you home."

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“Models of the pitch: 10 most handsome faces in the 2026 World Cup.” A playful smile spreads across your face as you read the Instagram post. This is the… fifth or sixth one to appear in your feed in just the few minutes you’ve spent scrolling on your phone to distract yourself.

Your finger involuntarily swipes through the carousel; you aren't the least bit surprised when a photo of Ferrán appears—this time, in the third spot. Ever since World Cup fever took hold, it’s been impossible to escape those posts—a constant reminder of just how sought-after he had become.

“This one or this one?” Ferrán’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

You look up to see Ferrán holding two shirts out in front of you.

“The white one”, you say, before turning your attention back to your phone.

“You’re supposed to be helping me pack”, Ferrán points out as he puts the shirt into his suitcase.

“And I am. My opinion on your fashion sense counts as help. Besides, I deserve a little break after helping you with your pants”.

Ferrán’s laughter draws your attention back to him. He moves aside the stacks of athletic shorts neatly piled at the edge of the bed to join you. His arms wrap around your waist as his nose tickles your neck.

“You’re right, we should rest for a while”, he exhales, settling back against the pillow while keeping his grip firm.

With him close by, you notice his expression is easier to read: the tension in his jaw, his lips slightly pursed, and a look where worry spills from the corners of his eyes.

“You’re going to be fine, I’m sure of it”.

Ferrán gave a half-smile. “Although, come to think of it, I think the break should be for lunch. Pizza?” he asked, sitting down and reaching for his phone.

“Yes, thanks”, you replied, masking the disappointment of having been pushed away by him —yet again.

You watch him order the food, following him with your gaze as he leaves the room, excusing himself by saying he needs to enter his new card details into the app.

In the solitude of his room, a sense of frustration washes over you once again. You tried to connect with him on a deeper level, only to run up against an emotional wall.

You had met Ferrán four months earlier when you modeled with him in an Under Armour shoot. After texting casually for a few days, he had asked you out.

That’s how the weeks went by—moving from casual dates to spending the night at his apartment, meeting his friends and family, and eventually watching him play in the final matches of Barcelona’s season.

Yet, just when you thought Ferrán was finally going to let you into his life in a more serious way, he would pull back. Just when you thought he was finally going to let his guard down with you, he would put his walls back up to keep his distance.

And yet, there were those little gestures: a surprise visit to your apartment with your favorite dessert, his hand holding yours while you were out with friends, the way his eyes followed you whenever you stepped away until you returned to his side.

Burying your face in the pillow, you try to make sense of it all. Especially since your feelings for him are clear—you cared for him, and deeply. Yet you don't know how much longer you could put up with this nameless dynamic. Especially when he is about to leave for the World Cup, with an ocean between you and thousands of girls ready to try their luck.

The bed dips beside you; you lift your head to find Ferrán sitting next to you. You slowly sit up and easily read his expression again: he is nervous.

“There’s… there’s something I want to ask you. Well, I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time, but first I had to check your schedule with your agent so it would be a surprise”, he stammered, under your confused gaze. “I’d like you to come with me; it would mean a lot to me”.

Ferrán holds out a plane ticket and a ticket for the match between Spain and Saudi Arabia, which was to be played in Atlanta.

Your eyes widen in surprise. A warm feeling spreads through your entire body as you take them between your fingers. Ferrán wraps his hands around yours, his nervousness giving way to a look of determination.

“What a surprise!” you smiled excitedly, your heart racing.

“I would have liked you to be there from the start, but your agent told me you were working. Still, the important thing is that you’ll be there”.

You throw yourself at him, wrapping him in a hug; his hands quickly catching and pulling your body close. “Of course, I’ll be there. Thank you so much”.

“Your hotel reservation is all set, too, so you don’t have to worry about anything”.

Once again, confusion slowly crept through your system. One moment he was shying away from you, and the next he was asking you to be there for one of the most important moments of his career.

Ferrán kisses you sweetly, momentarily pushing that feeling aside.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ 

People could be cruel—you knew that for a fact. That was one of the reasons you had decided to keep your situation with Ferrán 100% private. Not a single photo together, not a mention, not a comment that could link the two of you.

After the draw against Cape Verde, social media had turned its vitriol on the players; while some managed to dodge the criticism, Ferrán hadn't been so lucky. The usual—and, honestly, by now tiresome—jokes about his struggle to score were flooding social media.

You knew it had affected him when he went completely silent for two days after the match, returning to your messages without replying to the earlier ones in which you’d asked how he was doing and encouraged him to keep going.

Now you see him come on in the second half, and you stand up to applaud him. Spain had already won the match, but you wouldn't be fully satisfied until Ferrán scored his goal, he deserved it.

It’s the erratic way he hunts for every pass and chases the ball with the conviction of someone who has something to prove.

The chance comes in stoppage time. You rise to celebrate his long-awaited and well-deserved goal, only to notice a hint of hesitation in the celebration. The referee heads to the VAR monitor to check for a possible offside.

You cross your fingers, wishing with all your might for it to be a goal—for him to have that moment. The decision echoes throughout the stadium, and disappointment tightens your chest as the goal is disallowed.

You kept clapping, though, because that didn't change the fact that Ferrán was giving it his all, just as always.

The final whistle blew a few minutes later, and despite the victory, Ferrán’s shoulders were slumped. He shuffled toward the tunnel and disappeared from sight.

Laura signals for you to follow her to greet the players. Ferrán’s family stays in the stands, chatting among themselves.

Dani walks over to say hello to Laura. You smile as you catch Ferrán’s eye, but he abruptly looks away and walks right past you. Your smile freezes on your face, then slowly fades.

Embarrassed, you take a step back and lower your gaze, trying to regain your composure. Maybe he didn’t see you, or didn’t recognize you.

“He… maybe he was too lost in thought to say hello”, Laura asserted. “Right, babe?” she asked Dani.

“Yeah”, he replied awkwardly. Laura gave him a nudge in the ribs. “So, I’ll talk to him and find out what’s going on, but I’m sure it wasn’t intentional”.

You nod, sensing the awkwardness in the air. Laura puts her arm around your shoulders as Dani runs off toward the locker room.

“Let’s wait for them outside, shall we? Some fresh air would do us good”.

Questions pile up in your mind as the minutes tick by. The players begin to emerge to join their loved ones. You spot Dani heading toward you, wearing a look that spells bad news.

“Ferrán isn’t feeling well and is heading straight to the hotel”, he announces as he catches up to you.

“What—? He’s not—he’s not coming?” you ask, confused.

Your stomach sinks the moment Dani shakes his head apologetically.

“What’s wrong with Ferrán? That’s not like him; there has to be an explanation”, Laura interjects, fixing her boyfriend with a piercing stare to get more information.

Dani shrugs, avoiding her gaze. “Don’t shoot the messenger”.

“It’s okay, Dani. Thanks for letting me know”, you say, offering a small, forced smile.

“I’ll accompany you to the hotel—”

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. Enjoy your night”, you say, cutting Laura off.

You say goodbye to the couple, hugging each of them. You run into Ferrán’s family making dinner plans with Pedri’s family, but you decline the invitation, using the excuse of an “unexpected meeting with your agent”.

The trip back to the hotel feels endless; the tears start flowing the moment you step into the room.

With blurred vision, you start looking for the next flight back to Barcelona. Frustrated at not finding an option for the following day, you toss your phone to the other side of the bed.

To others, the situation might seem insignificant—he simply didn't say hello. But the way your blood ran cold at feeling intentionally ignored made you realize you had reached your limit.

You open your suitcase and, without thinking, start packing a few clothes to distract yourself. Yet, your mind refuses to quiet down.

It’s not just ignoring you; it’s having sent Dani to let you know he wasn’t going to speak to you. It’s, once again, building those stupid walls to keep you out. And perhaps it’s your fault for developing feelings for what was likely always meant to be a casual relationship—just a fling.

A knock at the door interrupts the torrent of thoughts in your mind. You wipe away your tears before looking through the peephole. Your blood boils when you see Ferrán standing on the other side. You consider not opening the door—giving him a taste of his own medicine. No, that would be immature and would only put off a conversation that is inevitable.

You slowly open the door, biting your inner cheek, your eyes full of hesitation.

“Hey”, Ferrán murmurs, not meeting your gaze.

You cross your arms over your chest, waiting for something more.

“Can I come in?” He gestures toward your room.

You step aside and let him enter. Whatever was about to happen, you didn’t want to make a scene in the hotel hallway.

You close the door and lean back against it, still waiting for an explanation.

“I think there was a bit of a misunderstanding…” he begins.

He had looked up, though his gaze was fixed just to the side of where you stood. You could sense it—that holding back in his demeanor, as if he didn’t want to open up to you completely.

“I made a mistake by inviting you here”.

His words hit you like a ton of bricks. Of all the things you expected to hear, that was the last one.

You bite down harder on the inside of your cheek, hoping to hold back the tears threatening to spill.

“Is that what you think?” you manage to say. Ferrán nods, lowering his gaze. “Then look at me when you say it”.

A stifled laugh escapes your throat as you see that Ferrán won’t lift his eyes from the floor.

“It would be best if you went back to Spain; I’ve already taken up too much of your time”.

“Bullshit,” you interrupt. “What are you trying to do? Why do you always abruptly pull me away when things get tough?”

“You wouldn’t understand”.

“Right—if you don’t talk to me, I’m not going to understand. I really… I really thought this could turn into something real”, you say, shaking your head. “I’m so stupid”.

“No… God. You’re not stupid, I…” Ferrán hesitated before continuing. “I just don’t want…”

“Don’t want what, Ferrán?”

“I don’t want you to be with a fucking loser like me”.

Ferrán finally looked you in the face; uncertainty and fear danced in his eyes. He had finally let his guard down, and you found yourself looking at a frightened young man.

Everything makes sense in an instant. The distance, his reserved attitude, the way he acted as if he had something to prove.

“You’re not a loser”, you soothe him, approaching cautiously.

“Yes, I am. Everyone always has something to say about my performance at Barcelona—always. In every match, I try to be better. I thought this World Cup would be my chance to prove I’m worth it, that I deserve you. I invited you here to prove that, but what did you see? A damn goal disallowed for offside”, he admitted dejectedly.

Sighing his name, you moved a little closer until you managed to take his hand. This time he didn't pull away. Instead, he intertwined his fingers with yours and pulled you into a needy embrace.

"I want you to succeed because that makes you happy, not because it makes you worth it. You're already worth everything," you comforted him, stroking his hair. “I care because you care, not because it makes me want you more or less”. 

“Really?” he murmured. “It’s just that I’ve seen those posts where they call me nothing but a pretty face, rather than a good footballer”.

“I know, but the World Cup is just getting started; you still have plenty of time ahead of you. Besides”, you say, positioning yourself in front of him to see him better, “you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. As long as you know how important and vital you are, no one else’s opinion matters”.

The words seem to sink in for Ferrán; his furrowed brow relaxes, and he slowly exhales.

“It’s hard. You’re incredibly beautiful and talented, and you make it look easy”.

A small smile escapes your lips as you feel your cheeks warm up. “I know it’s hard—that’s why you have us for. The people who care for you for being you, regardless of performance. And for what it's worth, you're a very good player, as well as a quite attractive one”.

Ferrán laughs and lightly caresses your cheek.

“I was a jerk; I’m so sorry. I was really embarrassed about today’s game and… and I acted immaturely. I don’t want you to leave”, he sighes, tightening his grip on your waist. “I want you to be with me for the rest of the way. And not just as a friend, but as my girlfriend”.

Your heart leapt several times in your chest; Ferrán had finally spoken the word you had so longed to hear.

“Really?” you stammer, knees trembling.

“Of course. I wanted to ask you once I’d finally proven I was worthy of you, but I don’t want to risk losing you in the meantime”.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Ferrán—just that you want me the way I do”.

“That’ll be easy”.

Ferrán kisses you, and despite having done so hundreds of times over the past few months, this kiss feels different. More intentional, with the lightness of someone finally freed from the chains that had been holding him back.