#papasito

Joaquin.

Papasito in every sense of the word—sun-warm skin, cocky little smirk, and those arms that could toss her over his shoulder like nada.

She didn’t say a word. A spanish track hit—and she started to dance. Slow, teasing. Each sway of her hips said: Pay attention, Torres. Eyes locked, she rolled her body to the rhythm, dragging her fingers up her thighs, twirling once as the beat dropped. Every man on that sofa went quiet.

Joaquín sat up.

“Should I look away? I definitely should…” Sam muttered.

Tony raised a brow. “That’s… definitely not for us.”

Bucky just whistled.

Steve almost spit out his beer as he was drinking it and just looked away.

She turned her back to Joaquín and backed it up—a challenge, a dare, an invitation.

He was on his feet in seconds, eyes dark, pulse racing. He didn’t ask. Just walked over like he owned the floor, hands landing right on her love handles with a grip that made her gasp.

“¿Así te gusta, nena?” he growled low in her ear, and holy hell, her knees almost gave out.

(Do you like it like this, baby?)

And then—they were dancing.

Chest to chest, hips swaying in sync, bodies brushing with every roll and grind. His hands slid to her waist, fingers resting right on her love handles like he already knew she liked it. He pulled her close, so close she could feel every inch of him through the thin fabric between them.

He leaned in, lips grazing the shell of her ear.

“¿Tú querías esto, verdad?” he murmured.

(“This is what you wanted, right?”)

She nodded, breathless.

Then—he dropped to one knee behind her.

Right there, in the middle of the dance floor.

With the song climbing in heat, he pressed closer, his palms guiding her hips with reverence and filth. Her ass was practically in his face as he moved her, slow, grinding her into every beat. His grip was firm, fingers digging into her waist like he never wanted to let go. His head dipped just enough for his breath to kiss her lower back, and she felt his lips skim along the line of her spine.

The world blurred.

It was just them now—him kneeling behind her like a sinner at the altar, and her, his goddess in motion.

She arched back, hand reaching behind to tangle in his curls. He looked up at her, cheeks flushed, lips parted, hungry.

“Papasito..” she panted, barely audible over the music. “You keep touching me like that and we’re gonna cause a scandal.”

He smirked, biting his lip. “Then let ‘em watch, mami.”

And when he stood, spinning her into his arms like they’d done this dance a thousand times, her body melted into his.

Because if this was the kind of fire they sparked just dancing…

The afterparty?

Was gonna be straight-up inferno.