This Is The Way

We didn't move from our spots by the pit. The fire had settled into a steady, low hum, its smoke hanging heavy in the space between us. Scattered bottles littered the ground, the lingering wreckage of a good night built on loud laughter and the familiar chaos of old friends.

Now, it’s quieter, the silence stretching tight like it’s waiting to snap. Santi is sitting in his chair, one arm draped lazily on the armrest, the other loosely holding the bottle in his lap. Yet nothing about him feels relaxed. He’s studying me, steady and unreadable, like he’s trying to figure me out while waiting for me to be the first one to give.

I keep my gaze fixed on the center of the pit, watching a piece of oak split open and spill fresh glowing embers into the ash. I think I’m hiding it well, the hollow ache in my chest, the humiliation, the exhaustion of trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

But Santi knows how to read me.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he finally speaks, his voice barely carrying over the steady hum of crickets.

I offer a simple shrug in response, looking down and wiping away the condensation on my drink with my thumb. “Just thinking.”

He exhales, disbelieving, before he shifts, easing out of his sluggish sprawl and into a more focused stance, elbows settling onto his knees.

“You’ve been staring a hole into that log for thirty minutes,” he says. “And I know you. When you get this deep in your head, it’s never about anything good.”

He sets his drink down between us with a quiet click.

“Talk to me,” he urges, his voice softening.

The fire pops, sending a brief scatter of sparks up into the night. I follow them instead of looking at him.

“Come on. I’m starting to think the fire’s better company than me. My ego can’t take that kind of hit.”

A tiny, reluctant smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “I’m sure your ego will do just fine, Santiago.”

I finally glance at him, a weak challenge slipping through.

“Keep looking at me like that and it might actually survive the night,” he responds, a faint, teasing glint in his eyes easing some of the weight in my chest.

I press my lips together, fighting a smile. “If your ego gets any bigger, it’s going to need its own chair.”

Santi lets out a low, huffed laugh, the sound rumbling deep in his chest and breaking clean through the quiet. A smile traces his mouth as he settles back, easing into his seat like the tension has drained out of him. One elbow hangs off loosely as he folds his hands, lazy confidence returning to his posture.

“There she is,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling. “My little smartass.”

Something in my chest twists at how easily he says it.

But the humor quickly fades, and what’s left between us turns heavier again.

Santi knows about the breakup. He knows I’ve been drowning in the aftermath, moving around our group like I’m afraid I’ll crack if anyone looks too closely. He hasn’t pushed, and I haven’t offered much, but he’s been there anyway, in the small ways that don’t feel small at all. In the way he kept handing me drinks without asking. The way he stepped in before anyone else could crowd me. How he just let me exist without making it a thing.

The awareness of it sits heavy in my throat.

“It’s embarrassing,” I admit quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

“What is?” he prods, quick but quiet.

“That I’m still upset over somebody who clearly didn’t care about me that much.”

My ex-boyfriend hangs between us in the silence that follows, his name unspoken but still somehow taking up space in the air.

Santi’s expression settles differently. The joking version of him is gone in an instant, like it never quite belonged in this part of the conversation anyway.

“He cheated on you,” he says flatly. “You’re allowed to be upset.”

I let out a small breath, too quick to mean anything.

“I mean... yeah,” I mutter, trying to shrug it off like it’s nothing. “It’s just one of those things. It happens.”

I swallow, thumb picking at the edge of the label of my drink.

“Or maybe it doesn’t just happen,” I add quieter, the words turning on me before I can stop them. “Maybe I made it easy to do it. I don’t know. People don’t usually just…do that unless something’s missing.”

“You really think that’s why he cheated?” he asks, brows drawn tight in a way that makes the question sound less like curiosity and more like disbelief.

Heat creeps up my neck. I squirm in my chair, suddenly aware of my hands, my face, the way I’m sitting like I’ve said things I shouldn’t have out loud.

“That’s not how that works,” he says firmly. “And you know it.”

“Do I?” I try, like I can deflect my way out of the truth.

“Yes.”

There’s no hesitation in the word. It lands hard between us.

“You were not the problem,” he adds. “Not even close.”

A quiet, disbelieving huff slips through my nose, like I don’t quite know what to make of that.

“He cheated on you,” he repeats matter-of-factly. “That’s on him.” He pauses, his jaw tightening like he’s holding back more words than he needs. “Not you.”

I look down at my bottle, turning it slowly in my hands like the motion can give me somewhere to put this. Heat crawls up the back of my neck again, slower this time, heavier, like I’ve been caught doing something I didn’t realize was visible.

“He blew it because of his own shit. Not because you were lacking.”

My fingers tighten around the glass. I hate how immediate the instinct is to argue, to find a crack in it, to make it somehow less absolute.

“And I’m not going to sit here and watch you carry that,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You don’t get to take the blame for his mess.”

My eyes flick away from him again, like I can physically avoid the point if I don’t look straight at it.

“I know you're hurting, but you're too smart for this,” he adds. “You're sharp, you're funny without trying, and you usually see right through bullshit.”

My throat tightens a little, but I keep my face still, giving him nothing except my attention.

“And, hermosa…” His voice drops lower. “You’re fucking beautiful. Stupidly so.”

I force a dry, awkward chuckle, shaking my head because I don't know what else to do with a compliment like that. It feels completely misplaced. But he doesn't laugh with me. He shakes his head once, his expression shifting like he knows he shouldn’t be saying what he’s about to say.

“Seriously. Half the time you walk into a room, I forget what the hell I was saying.”

My breath catches slightly, and I hate that it does.

“And yeah, most people wouldn’t know what to do with you,” he continues, voice tightening. “Because you don’t fit into whatever easy little box they’re looking for. But that’s their problem, not yours.”

A strange, uneasy warmth flickers through me.

“If you were with me…”

He exhales through his nose, like he almost doesn’t want to finish the thought, but does anyway.

“You wouldn’t be sitting here talking about yourself like this. Because I’d make damn sure you felt like you’re enough.”

The words land differently. He seems to realize it too. His jaw flexes, like he’s irritated by how honest it came out.

“All I’m saying is… Don't start letting his mistakes make you doubt who you are. You are more than enough.”

For a second, I don’t know what to do with the feeling that follows. It’s too warm, too sudden, like my body reacts before I can decide what I’m supposed to make of it. My heartbeat stumbles, then picks up again in a way I absolutely refuse to examine too closely.

So, I default to the only thing I trust in moments like this.

A small, shaky breath of laughter slips out of me. “You sound like a damn motivational poster.”

His mouth quirks. “Yeah?” He leans back a fraction, still watching on me. “Want me to put it on a sunset background for you? I could print it out. Frame it. Hang it on a wall so every time you walk past it you get a little boost.”

That does it.

A real laugh breaks through this time. It’s small, reluctant, but honest. It cuts the tension clean in half, like a thread finally snapping.

I shake my head, still smiling. “Please don’t.”

“I’m thinking bold font,” he continues. “Maybe cursive if I’m feeling dramatic. ‘You are more than enough.’” He gestures vaguely like he’s already hanging it up. “Right above the TV. Or your bed. Somewhere you can’t escape it. Maybe then it’ll sink into that pretty little head of yours how completely, undeniably enough you are.”

I laugh again, sharper this time.

“You are so drunk,” I say, pointing lightly at him. “You are absolutely not allowed to be in charge of decorating my house while you’re drunk.”

He looks offended in the most performative way possible. “What? I’m still sober.”

“Mhm,” I hum, still smiling. “Sober people don’t design inspirational poster walls for their emotionally damaged friends. So, please, for the love of God, leave the interior designing to the experts.”

“I wouldn't say I'm drunk enough for interior design,” he argues, pausing to take a slow sip of his beer. “But for this? Yeah. I’m at the perfect level.”

Shaking my head, I tilt my face up toward the stars, searching for a distraction in the dark sky. Anywhere that isn’t him. Because with Santi, it always feels like everything is one breath away from tipping into something else neither of us is pretending to control.

“Promise me something.”

“Hm?” I look in his direction out of the corner of my eye.

“You’re never going to let anyone make you feel small ever again,” he says, his voice dropping into a rough whisper. “You hear me? You like this, with your guard down, it looks too damn good on you.”

His words settle in me in a way I don’t immediately have words for. I don’t let myself react to how much I feel them.

“That could absolutely go on a poster,” I say, pointing at him lightly. “‘Never let anyone make you feel small.’ Maybe you should run some of these by Will.”

That earns a quiet exhale of laughter from him.

“I’m serious,” he says, like my deflection didn’t even register.

“So am I,” I counter back. “Can you imagine Will rolling up to a recruitment assembly with motivational posters like that? He’d make it maybe two minutes before someone dragged him off stage. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to see that.”

Santi shakes his head. He’s watching me like he means it in a way that isn’t just playful anymore.

“It’s kind of unfair, you know.”

“What is?” I ask, my laughter dying.

“How you sit there like you don’t know what you do to people,” he replies. “Like you don’t realize what you do when you walk into a room. Everything changes a little.”

My stomach flips. I go still without meaning to and force my gaze down to the bottle still in my hand, trying to focus on anything but him. Because I can feel it, this thin, dangerous edge beneath the moment, the sense that if either of us leans too far into this, we won’t just be talking anymore.

“Oh, stop,” I say teasingly, reaching for distance. “That’s how you flirt with everyone.”

“Not everyone,” he replies immediately.

I give him a slow, exaggerated look of disbelief. “Please. I’ve seen girls line up for your attention.”

“They’re interested,” he says flatly. “I’m not.”

I tilt my head. “Sure.”

The word comes out slow and skeptical, dragged out by the alcohol buzzing warmly through my system.

His eyes narrow a little. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shrug, taking another sip. “Nothing. Just figured if you keep taking girls home, there must be a thing or two you like about them.”

Santi huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“They’re easy,” he replies. “No pressure. No expectations. Everybody knows what it is.”

“Mm.” I glance at him over the rim of my beer. “Because God forbid anything be serious.”

His face goes still in a different way.

“You think I can’t do serious?” he asks quietly.

I hesitate just a second too long. In that empty beat, the truth catches up to me. I know Santi too well to doubt him. His loyalty is a heavy, fierce thing. He can keep promises. But he already means too damn much to me. Taking a risk on anyone else is one thing, but with Santi, the stakes are too high. If I were to ever let myself believe him and it somehow falls apart, it’ll ruin me.

“I can do serious,” he assures me after a beat, voice lower now, steadier in that way that means he’s actually thinking before he speaks. “I just don’t want to waste it.”

“Right,” I say lightly.

“I just… I’m waiting,” he finally reiterates, quieter. “That’s all.”

I blink at him, caught a little off guard by how serious he sounds. “Waiting for what?”

His attention holds mine a second too long, the firelight cutting sharp lines across his face, his stubble, mouth, the steady set of his jaw all softened and deepened by the glow, like he’s not in any rush to look away.

“The right girl.”

My stomach flips, a dizzying reaction to the beer and the sheer weight of his attention. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing left in the entire world, a focus so intense it leaves nowhere to hide. I force a rough laugh, trying to shake the feeling before it takes root.

“Oh my God,” I snort softly, sinking back into my chair. “Who are you and what have you done with Santiago Garcia?”

A slow grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “He’s around here somewhere.”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “And what exactly are you looking for in this right girl?”

The question comes out lighter than I mean for it to, teasing almost, but there’s a tightness curled underneath it. Because part of me wants to hear his answer more than I should, and the other part is already bracing for it. Afraid he’ll describe someone I could never be. Afraid he won’t.

He sinks back into the chair, loose-limbed and quiet, but his dark eyes remain pinned to mine.

“Someone who doesn’t take shit from anyone. And definitely not from me.”

I huff out a laugh. “Well, that already eliminates at least eighty percent of the population.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his mouth.

“She’d call me on my bullshit the second I earned it,” he says.

Another laugh. “So, you're looking for someone to keep you in line.”

His mouth twitches. “That's not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you said.”

“Pretty sure it's not.”

“All of you assholes need someone to keep you in line. Otherwise, things quickly become a total shitshow. And frankly, I’m tired of bailing all of you out of trouble.”

He holds my gaze for a second, his expression deadpan, before the tough-guy act cracks. A low laugh rumbles out of him. “Fair.”

I lean back, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “What else?”

“Probably a bit of a spitfire,” he says. “Smart mouth. Doesn’t back down. And doesn’t fall apart when things get hard.”

He pauses, like he’s deciding how honest he wants to be.

“Okay, sometimes she does,” he says, his voice dropping low, a trace of rough amusement in his chest. “But not for long. She’s too damn proud to let anyone think they broke her, or that she can’t handle her own shit.”

“Tough girl,” I murmur, the corner of my mouth tugging upward. “Sounds like she’d be a pain in the ass. You sure you can handle that?”

A quiet laugh slips out of him. “Yeah. I think I could.”

My gaze holds his a beat too long before I look away. “We’ll see about that.”

“I hope we do,” he replies, voice lower, the words lingering between us.

“Is that all?”

A faint breath of a laugh slips out of him, like he’s trying to keep it light and failing a little.

“She’s beautiful,” he says, the admission coming out quiet and rough, like he couldn't have held it back if he tried. He looks down at his beer for a split second, then right back up.

“But she’s completely blind to it,” he continues, his tone absolute. “It’s the kind of beautiful where she’s just going about her day, totally oblivious, until someone actually says it out loud. And then she just looks at you like you're speaking a different language.”

“Right. A gorgeous girl to make gorgeous babies,” I say, tossing him a dry smile. “Classic. I should have known that was on the checklist.”

Santi blinks once, then lets out a short, surprised laugh, more air than sound.

“Wait,” he says, leaning back a fraction like he’s recalibrating. “Are you saying that I’m gorgeous?”

There’s a flicker in his expression, something quick and unguarded before he reins it back in.

My eyes widen slightly when I realize what I just fed him.

“Slow your roll, Santiago,” I say immediately, cutting my eyes toward the fire to break the connection. “The kid's only hope is getting her genetics.”

“Damn,” he swears, shaking his head a little like he’s trying to shake the comment off. “Maybe my ego won’t survive tonight after all.”

I take a long, slow sip of my beer, letting the cold glass press against my bottom lip while I try to ignore the heat crawling up my neck.

“Well, whoever she is, she sounds exhausting.”

“She’s worth it,” he says, the words rough and certain in the quiet yard. “Trust me.”

The answer comes too fast. Too honest. Naturally, I deflect.

“You know,” I say, pointing at him, “most normal people would’ve just said ‘blonde’ or ‘brunette’ by now.”

His mouth curves slowly, eyes warm with amusement.

“Yeah, probably,” he replies. “But I don’t think the right person can be narrowed down to hair color.”

I release a small, skeptical hum. “That’s a very philosophical answer for a casual conversation.”

A quiet laugh slips out of him. “You asked.”

I exhale through my nose, lifting my bottle like I can toast the sentiment away.

“Well, I hope you find her. And I hope she’s prepared. Sounds like she’s got a whole lot to live up to.”

My words are meant to steer us back, but it doesn’t work.

Santi just watches me, his head tilted slightly, the firelight carving shadows under his cheekbones that make him look older, wearier, and more intense than usual. He lets the awkward silence hang there for a beat, letting my attempt to defuse the moment drift away like smoke, before he finally speaks.

“That’s the problem,” he murmurs, his dark eyes locking onto mine so intensely it almost makes my breath catch. “She doesn't get that she's been enough since day one.” He holds the silence, his voice falling to a rough whisper. “You really don't see it, do you?”

The fire pops, a sharp crack that sounds like a gunshot in the sudden, suffocating stillness. I freeze, my hand halfway to my mouth, the beer forgotten as the words settle over us.

I wait for the punchline, for the grin, the wink, the smooth deflection that turns this back into a joke, a tease between friends who have known each other for too long. But it doesn’t come.

Santi just stays there, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that feels almost physical. The lazy, charming facade he usually wears has completely vanished.

"Santi," I breathe out, the word barely more than a whisper. My heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Don't."

"Don't what?" he asks, seeming as though he isn’t going to back down. "Don't say it out loud? We've been dancing around this for years, and tonight you’re sitting here wondering why you weren't enough for some asshole who never deserved to breathe the same air as you. I'm done watching you do that to yourself."

I swallow hard, my grip tightening around the neck of my beer bottle until my knuckles turn white. "We're friends, Santi. The group-"

"I don't give a damn about the group," he interrupts, his tone fierce but steady. He sets his own bottle down on the table between us, entirely focused on me now. "And I haven't looked at you like just a friend in a very long time. You know that. Deep down, you do. And don't lie to me—I know you feel it, too."

The honesty of it feels like a physical blow. The safety net of our banter is completely gone, stripped away by a few words spoken in the quiet of the night. I look down at my lap, unable to hold his gaze any longer because it feels too exposing, like he's looking right into the bruised, aching parts of my soul.

"I can't do this right now," I utter, my voice trembling slightly. "My head is a mess, Santi. I'm still... I'm still trying to fix what he broke."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him move. He abandons his chair and crouches in front of me instead, closing the space between us. He doesn’t touch me, he knows better than to push that boundary, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him, steady and unavoidable.

“Then let me help you carry it,” he murmurs. “I’m not asking you to jump into anything. I’m not asking you to just… get over it. I’m just telling you where I am. Where I’ve been. So, when you finally look up, you don’t have to wonder who’s still here.”

I finally lift my head, my eyes searching his face. The shadows do nothing to hide the absolute sincerity in his expression. There’s no game here. No clever lines designed to get a girl into bed. Just Santi, completely raw and uncovered.

"Why haven’t you ever said anything before?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

A faint, wry smile touches his lips, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Because you were always with someone else. Then you were with him. And as much as it killed me to watch, you were trying to make it work. I wasn't going to mess up your life just because I wanted you. But he threw you away. And I'll be damned before I let anyone else make you feel like you're the one who failed."

A single tear slips free, hot against my cold cheek. I wipe it away quickly, annoyed by my own vulnerability.

Santi’s hand twitches on the armrest of my chair, a clear instinct to reach out and brush the dampness from my skin, but he restrains himself, keeping his unspoken promise not to crowd me. The self-control itself speaks volumes. It shows a level of care that I haven't experienced in a very long time.

The silence returns, but it’s entirely different now, moving from the suffocating weight of my own misery to the electric, terrifying hum of a line that has just been permanently crossed.

Santi watches me, waiting out my shock.

"You're lying," I whisper, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I shake my head, backing my shoulders deeper into the wooden chair, trying to create distance that doesn't exist. "You’re just... you’re being nice. You see me drowning and you’re trying to throw me a lifeline, but this isn't funny, Santi."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" His voice is dead serious, devoid of the usual easy cadence that makes everyone draw toward him. "I don't lie to you. I never have.”

"Everyone lies," I snap, a sudden flash of defense mechanism flaring up to protect the raw, bruised parts of my chest. "He said he loved me. He promised he’d never hurt me. He swore up and down that I was the only one, and look where that got me. Sitting by a dying fire, feeling like a ghost in my own life."

"I am not him," Santi says, each word a deliberate strike. "I don't make promises I can't keep. If I tell you you're the only thing I'm looking at, I mean it. If I tell you I'm going to be here, I'm not going anywhere. I promise you, if you give me a chance-"

"Stop. Just stop with the promises." I cut him off, a sharp, ragged breath leaving me. I look away, staring blindly at the edge of the brick firepit because looking at the sincerity in his eyes hurts too much. "I don't care about promises. I don't believe them anymore. They're just sentences people say to get what they want in the moment."

I squeeze my eyes shut, my throat tight and burning.

"I'm sorry, but I’m tired of words, Santi. I am so damn tired of them."

The confession hangs in the cool night air. I expect him to defend himself, to give me another speech, or to pull back into his usual protective layer of sarcasm. Instead, the yard goes completely still.

When I finally open my eyes and risk a glance back at him, the frustration on his face has cracked open, revealing something desperate. He’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s dying to solve, like he’d tear his own chest open if it meant giving me a reason to trust him.

"Then tell me what to do," he begs, his deep voice carrying a rare, vulnerable edge. He reaches out, his hand hovering in the space between us for a heartbeat before he lets his fingers rest lightly against the edge of my knee, just a fraction of contact, but it feels like lightning. “How can I make you believe me?”

I swallow, trying to find the version of myself that knows how to joke this off, but it’s inconveniently missing.

“Santi,” I start, but it comes out quieter than I mean it to.

His thumb moves slightly, not pushing, not pulling, just there, waiting.

“Look. If you need space,” he says, voice gone rough around the edges now, “I’ll give it to you. You want me gone? Fine. You want to act like this was a mistake? I’ll play along.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, bitter and tired all at once, dragging a hand over his mouth before looking at me again.

“But if you’re asking me what I want…” His gaze lifts to mine, steady and unflinching. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Another pause, smaller this time, like he’s deciding whether to cross a line he can’t uncross.

“You want me to prove it?” he asks, his voice dropping into a rough, low growl that makes my chest ache. He looks at me like he wants to shake me, or kiss me, or both. “Fine. Tell me what you need, and I’m there. You want me to follow you anywhere? Done. You want me on my knees? Just say the damn word. I will do whatever it takes to make you believe me.”

His hand doesn’t move away. It stays there, warm and grounding on the denim of my jeans.

An aching sob catches in my throat, and I swallow it down, my eyes swimming as I finally look straight at him. I want to believe him. Every broken, exhausted piece of me wants to lean into the warmth he’s offering and stop fighting the current. I want to believe that someone could look at me and see everything he just described.

Because beneath all my panic, a stubborn voice in the back of my mind refuses to let me lie to myself. I’m afraid of the risk, yes, but I am not afraid of him. For all his massive size and lethal capability, Santi is the only person alive who makes me feel entirely safe. I know with absolute certainty that he would burn the world down before he ever let a single scratch come to me.

"No more words,” I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of it. I look down at his hand on my knee, then back up to his gaze.

Santi freezes.

“Don't talk about it anymore. Just show me.”

For a long, agonizing beat, he doesn’t move. The easy confidence, the absolute certainty that usually radiates from him, falters. His jaw works, a muscle twitching violently under his stubble as he looks at me. He searches my eyes, his own dark and swirling with a sudden conflict. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Santiago Garcia hesitate, and the sheer weight of it makes my breath hitch.

Finally, he swallows.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his hand tightening just a fraction against my knee. “Because you need to understand something. If I cross this line with you, that’s it for me. No going back to how it was. I’m not playing games with you, cariño, so don’t try to play with me.”

“I’m sure,” I reply, and I mean it down to my bones. I slide my hand over his where it rests on my knee, feeling the rough warmth of his skin. “I want to believe you, Santi. I do. I'm tired of running from it. I'm tired of pretending I don't want this.”

I reach down, my fingers wrapping around his wrist, feeling the heavy, unsteady thrum of his pulse under my palm. For a second, he just looks at me like he’s trying to figure out if I really mean it, or if I’m about to pull away again the second it gets too real.

When I tug his hand upward, he lets me. He just follows, slow, like he’s giving me the space to set the terms myself. My grip tightens a fraction, not letting him slip out of it.

“So, if I’m really the one you’re waiting for…,” I whisper, turning his hand over in mine and pressing his palm flat against my chest. My heart is hammering against his skin, frantic and uneven, but I hold his hand there anyway. “No more pretty words. I've heard them all before. If you want me to believe you, Santi... Prove it.”

It’s then that I finally look at him.

“Show me I’m all that you need.”

The hesitation snaps.

Santi reaches out, his large hands anchoring against the sides of my face. His palms are warm, rough, and completely steady against my burning skin. He gently tilts my head and brushes his thumb over my cheekbone, catching a stray tear before it can fall.

He doesn't have to say a word. The fierce, consuming focus in his eyes tells me everything.

Then, he leans in, and the space between us vanishes.

When his mouth finds mine, it’s a crash of heat and absolute certainty, a silent vow pressed against my lips that completely takes the air from my lungs. It’s fierce, hungry, and so deeply possessive it makes my head spin.

My hands act on their own, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer because the sudden rush of warmth is the only thing keeping me anchored.

Santi groans into the kiss, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates straight through my chest. One of his hands slides down from my face, his fingers tangling in my hair to hold me steady, while his other hand moves to the back of my neck, his thumb anchoring my jaw. He kisses me like he’s trying to rewrite every lie I’ve ever been told, tracing the seam of my lips with a desperation that leaves no room for doubt.

Every defense mechanism I’ve spent weeks building up simply disintegrates.

And then, as abruptly as it began, he pulls back just an inch. The breath leaves him in a ragged, uneven rush against my lips.

The dark, heated look in his eyes takes over completely, swallowing any trace of hesitation. The tough, unyielding soldier vanished, replaced by a raw, single-minded focus that zeroes in on me like he’s been waiting for this exact command his entire life. The transformation is terrifying and absolute. It’s the look of a man who would burn the world down if I asked him to or kneel in the ashes to worship me if that’s what I needed.

The movement is fluid, controlled, his knees hitting the ground. He doesn't break eye contact for a second, his gaze locked on mine as he settles there, a supplicant at my altar.

He is massive, a wall of muscle and coiled power, and yet he looks completely disarmed like this. Stripped of his defenses, he's looking up at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the entire world.

He places his hands on my knees, his palms warm and rough through the denim. The heat of them sinks into my skin, branding me. He rests them there, waiting.

For a moment, I only stare at him, stunned by the sight of Santi on his knees before me. This is a man who commands rooms, who leads teams into hell and back, and here he is, kneeling in the dirt at my feet. The power rush is heady, dizzying, making the blood pound in my ears.

He waits, letting me take this in, letting me see him like this.

Slowly, his hands begin to move. They slide up my thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight up my spine. He's taking his time, exploring the terrain like he's memorizing it, his touch reverent but demanding.

"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked, vibrating against my skin.

"Worship me," I breathe, the command barely a whisper.

Santi’s eyes darken further, the pupils swallowing the iris until there’s almost nothing left. A low, ragged sound tears from his throat, something halfway between a groan and a growl, and he surges forward.

His hands slide from my knees to my hips, fingers hooking into the belt loops of my jeans to drag me to the very edge of the chair. I gasp at the sudden movement, my back arching as he pulls me flush against him, his face burying itself in the space between my legs.

He inhales deeply, like he’s trying to breathe me in, memorize my scent, and the sheer intimacy of the action makes my head spin.

"Fuck," he grits out, the word muffled against the denim. "You smell so fucking good.”

His hands move to the button of my jeans with practiced ease, popping it open and dragging the zipper down with agonizing slowness. The sound of the teeth parting is deafening in the quiet night. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my jeans and panties both, pulling them down my legs in one rough tug.

I lift my hips to help him, unable to look away from the sight of him, on his knees, doing exactly what I asked. The cool night air hits my heated skin, raising goosebumps, but his hands are there a second later, warm and grounding on my bare thighs.

He doesn’t give me a moment to feel exposed. He leans in immediately, his broad shoulders spreading my knees wider, forcing me open to the night air and his gaze. The firelight catches the sharp planes of his face as he dips his head, his breath hot against my inner thigh.

“Santi,” I gasp, my fingers flying to his hair, threading through the thick, dark curls.

He hums against my skin, a low, vibrating sound that sends a shockwave of electricity straight to my core. He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, then higher, his lips tracing a slow, torturous path up the sensitive skin of my thigh. He isn’t rushing. Every press of his mouth feels like a brand, staking a claim in the most tender way possible.

He works his way higher, his mouth leaving a trail of fire against my inner thighs. The scrape of his day-old stubble is a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips, sending shivers racing up my spine that have nothing to do with the chill in the air. He takes his time, mapping the terrain with a reverence that makes my chest ache, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of skin he’s been denied for so long.

When he finally reaches the apex of my thighs, he pauses. He pulls back just enough to look up at me, his eyes burning with a dark, fierce intensity. The sight of him, strong and unshakeable Santi, kneeling between my legs, looking at me like I’m the only holy thing left in the world, is almost enough to undo me right there.

“Look at you.”

The air between us is electric, charged with the weight of the moment. His eyes are pools of molten heat, filled with a raw, undisguised hunger that makes my breath hitch. He doesn't look away, his stare pinning me in place as he leans in, his breath ghosting over my exposed, aching flesh.

"You’re a fucking goddess," he murmurs, the words a dark rasp against my skin.

He seals his mouth over me with a desperate, hungry groan that vibrates through my entire body, his tongue flattening against my clit with a firm, pressured stroke.

My back bows off the chair, a broken cry tearing from my throat as my fingers tighten in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, but he doesn’t flinch. If anything, the pain seems to spur him on. He growls low against me, the sound rough and possessive, his hands gripping my thighs with bruising force to hold me open for him.

He eats me like he’s starving.

His tongue moves with a devastating precision, curling and flicking in ways that make my vision blur. There is no hesitation, no tentative exploration, only a relentless, consuming rhythm. He alternates between broad, flat strokes that cover every inch of me and sharp, targeted flicks of his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves that sends shockwaves racing up my spine.

I can’t think. I can’t breathe. The only thing that exists is the heat of his mouth, the rough grip of his hands on my thighs, and the desperate, embarrassing sounds escaping my own throat.

He changes his angle, dragging his lower lip through my folds before suctioning his mouth around my clit, sucking hard. My hips jerk instinctively, chasing the friction, but his grip tightens, iron-clad, holding me exactly where he wants me. He hums against me, the vibration radiating through my pelvis, down my thighs, settling deep in my bones.

The pressure builds, a tight, coiling knot low in my belly that threatens to snap. His name falls from my lips like a chant, a broken prayer. He doubles down, sliding one hand from my thigh, his fingers teasing my entrance before thrusting inside, curling upward to find that spot that makes me see stars.

The dual sensation is too much. The fullness of his fingers, the ruthless suction of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble. It’s a sensory overload that shatters me.

"Santi, I-," I gasp, my thighs trembling violently around his ears.

He doesn't let up. If anything, he presses harder, his tongue flicking rapidly while his fingers curl inside me, hitting that perfect, devastating spot over and over again. The coil in my belly snaps, white-hot and blinding.

My orgasm tears through me with the force of a freight train. I cry out, my back arching violently off the chair as the pleasure overwhelms my senses, wiping out everything but the feel of his mouth and hands. My entire body shakes, the tension releasing in a rush that leaves me gasping for air, my vision spotting with black and white.

He works me through it, drawing out every aftershock until I’m a trembling, oversensitive mess, completely boneless against the chair. The relentless rhythm of his tongue finally slows, turning into soft, languid laps that soothe rather than consume, gently bringing me down from the high.

I sag back, my chest heaving, staring up at the starless sky as my heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I feel wrecked, utterly spent.

Santi presses one last, lingering kiss to the inside of my thigh, a tender contrast to the bruising grip of his hands just moments ago. Then, he pulls back slightly, but he doesn't stand. He rests his forehead against my knee, his own breathing ragged and uneven, the heat of it seeping into my sweat-slicked skin.

The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the ragged sound of our breathing. For a long moment, he stays there, forehead resting against my knee, grounding us both. The rough stubble of his jaw scrapes against my skin, a tangible reminder of the intensity of what just happened.

He pulls back to look up at me, his eyes tracing the lines of my face as if he’s committing this moment to memory. The look in his eyes is fierce, a dark, possessive glint that says I’m his, and he’s not letting me go.

Slowly, he rises to his feet. The movement is effortless, a display of raw power that steals the breath I’m still trying to catch. He looms over me, his silhouette blocking out the firelight, a giant in the darkness. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to.

He reaches down, his hands sliding under my arms, and lifts. He scoops me up against his chest like I weigh nothing at all, one arm hooked behind my knees and the other braced firmly against my back. My head lolls against his shoulder, my face burying in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him.

The transition from the cool night air to the house is instantaneous, the warmth of the interior wrapping around us as he kicks the door shut behind him. He moves through the hallway with a predatory grace, his steps sure and silent on the floorboards.

I’m loose-limbed and floating, my body still humming with the aftershocks, my face pressed against the steady thrum of his heartbeat. I don't look up to see where we're going. I just let him carry me, trusting him completely to take me where I need to be.

He kicks the door to his bedroom open and carries me inside. He deposits me on the bed with a controlled drop, the mattress dipping under my weight.

I look up at him, breathless, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across his frame. He stands at the edge of the bed, staring down at me with a hunger that makes my throat go dry.

Santi stands there, chest heaving, his eyes dragging over me with a slow perusal that feels like a physical touch. He’s taking me in, and the look on his face is pure, unfiltered sin. He reaches back, gripping the hem of his shirt, and peels it off in one fluid motion, tossing it aside without looking.

The moonlight catches the hard planes of his chest, the definition of his abs, the scars that map his history. He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost violent, all coiled strength and restrained power.

“Come here,” I breathe, reaching for him.

He just stands there, letting his eyes trace the line of my body like he’s memorizing a map he intends to conquer. The silence stretches until the weight of his stare becomes a physical thing, pressing me into the mattress.

“Patience,” he chides, though the rough edge to his voice betrays him. His hands go to his belt, the metal clinking in the quiet room as he undoes it, then the button of his jeans. “I’m not rushing this. Not now.”

Santi’s dark eyes never leave mine as his hands hook into the waist of his jeans, pushing the denim down over his hips. The fabric bunches around his thighs before he steps out of them completely, kicking them aside with a careless movement that underscores his absolute focus on me.

He stands completely bare before me. He is magnificent, all long, powerful lines, the muscle of his thighs and the sharp, tensed V-cut of his lower stomach leading down to the undeniable, rigid proof of how badly he wants me. There is nothing hidden anymore. The vulnerability of his nakedness is entirely eclipsed by the raw, dominant presence he commands just by standing there.

A low, involuntary gasp slips from my throat at the sheer sight of him.

A slow, dark smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it disappears just as quickly, replaced by that heavy-lidded, consuming lust that has been burning in his eyes. He steps toward the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking deeply under his weight as he settles a knee on the mattress, looming over me once more.

"You like what you see?" he murmurs, his deep voice scraping low in his chest as he crawls forward, positioning himself over my body. "Because it's all yours. Every single inch."

He braces himself on his forearms, caging me in, his weight settling heavily on top of me in a way that feels like an anchor. The friction of his skin against mine sends a fresh shockwave of heat through my system, waking up nerves that are already raw and oversensitive.

I arch my neck back into the pillow, my hands coming up to wrap around his biceps, feeling the hard, tensed muscle beneath my palms. . I look up into his eyes, dark and steady, weighted with something unreadable, the kind that feel like they see too much and say too little. I’m completely helpless against the pull of him, unable to look away.

"I've never seen anything more perfect," I whisper, my voice trembling but entirely honest. I slide my hands up to his shoulders, pulling him down just that fraction closer until his breath mixes with mine. "

"God, you are so beautiful," he growls, the words raspy and unpolished as he stares down at me. His gaze roves over my face like he’s trying to memorize every line, every flush of my skin in the dim light. "I've been going out of my mind wanting you like this. It’s always been you."

He doesn't wait for me to answer, his mouth dropping down to claim mine again.

This time, the kiss is deeper, slower, filled with a quiet reverence that leaves me entirely breathless. He parts my lips with a possessive assurance, tasting me fully, while his fingers tangle into my hair to tilt my head just right. The sheer warmth of him floods through me, drowning out the lingering cold of everything that came before, until there is nothing left but the weight of his body and the absolute certainty of his mouth against mine.

He shifts, his mouth trailing a path of burning heat down the line of my jaw, finding the sensitive spot just beneath my ear. A low, ragged breath escapes him before he buries his lips against my throat. He kisses me there, deep and possessive, his tongue tracing the frantic, erratic beat of my pulse until my entire body arches into his touch.

The contrast of his heavy, solid weight against me and the deliberate, torturous precision of his mouth sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to my core.

“Santi, please,” I gasp, my hips lifting off the mattress in a desperate, silent plea. I need him to fill the ache, to stop the trembling that hasn't ceased since he put his mouth on me.

He hovers over me, bracing his weight on one arm while the other slides between us. He grips himself and runs the length of his cock through my folds, coating himself in the wet heat he left there. The friction is maddening, a slow, deliberate drag that makes my hips jerk off the mattress, chasing the contact.

“Eyes on me,” he orders, his voice a rough scrape against the quiet.

I force my eyes open, meeting that dark, consuming gaze. He’s watching me with an unblinking intensity, tracking every flutter of my eyelashes, every ragged breath that tears through my lips.

He doesn't ask again. He lines himself up and pushes forward, sinking into me with a slow, deliberate thrust. The stretch is intense, a burning, full pressure that borders on too much, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't give me a chance to adjust to the invasion. He just keeps coming, burying himself deep until his hips are flush against mine and there is nowhere left to go.

A ragged sound tears from my throat, half-gasp, half-moan. My body bows off the mattress, instinctively trying to accommodate the sheer size of him, my hands flying to his shoulders to hold on.

He holds himself there, deep and impossibly still, letting my body adjust to the invasion, letting me feel every thick inch of him stretching me wide. His breath is hot against my neck, ragged and uneven, the only sign that the iron control he’s famous for is hanging by a thread.

“Breathe,” he raps against my skin, his hand coming up to cup the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive spot behind my ear. “Just breathe, cariño. I got you.”

I try to obey, forcing air into lungs that feel seized, my internal muscles fluttering around him as they try to accommodate his size. He groans low in his throat, a dark, broken sound, his hips jerking involuntarily against me.

Then, he begins to move. A steady, punishingly deep rhythm that feels designed to completely dismantle me from the inside out. It’s a takeover. He refuses to let me look away, his dark eyes locked onto mine in the dim light filtering through the window, forcing me to witness every hitch in his breath, every tightening of his jaw, as if he's carving his name into my skin.

He leans down, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his teeth grazing my collarbone as his pace quickens, the friction and heat spiraling out of control.

“You’re it for me,” he confesses brokenly, his voice cracking against my ear as he drives us both over the edge. “But you get to decide if I stay yours the same way you’re mine.”

The admission hangs in the air, heavier than the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. It’s a detonation in the quiet room, shattering whatever fragile walls we’ve been hiding behind. The raw honesty in his voice, the way it cracks on the words, undoes me completely.

My heart lurches, a jagged, painful beat that matches the rhythm of his hips. I dig my heels into the mattress, lifting to meet him, my hands threading into his hair to pull him closer, needing him to merge with me, to erase the line where he ends and I begin. The coil in my belly tightens to the breaking point, white-hot and desperate, pulled by the drag of his body and the gravity of his confession.

“I’m yours, Santi,” I gasp, his name a prayer on my lips. “I’m yours…and you’re mine.”

He lets out a shuddering breath against my neck, as if my words have physically disarmed him, stripping away the last of his composure. But instead of driving into me harder, as his coiled muscles suggest he might, he slows. He pulls back to look at me, his expression fierce, reverent, almost pained in its intensity.

He brings a hand between us, his calloused palm tracing the line of my jaw, his thumb dragging over my lower lip until I part for him. He leans down, pressing his lips to my forehead, then the tip of my nose, then my cheeks, scattering kisses like he’s trying to memorize my features by braille.

“Mine,” he repeats, agreeing with my declaration, making it a vow. He shifts his weight, sliding one arm under my waist to tilt my hips up, changing the angle so he brushes against a spot that makes me see stars. “I’m going to take such good fucking care of you.”

He starts to move again, but the rhythm has changed. The punishing pace is gone, replaced by a deliberate, devastating slowness. He’s worshiping me with his body, using every inch of himself to show me what he can’t say with words alone.

He presses his lips to my temple, then down to the hollow of my throat, his tongue darting out to taste the salt on my skin.

“Fuck,” he exhales quietly, like the words aren’t enough for what he means. “You’re so beautiful it’s not even fair.”

His hips roll in a shallow, grinding wave, hitting that deep, tender spot inside me over and over until I’m a writhing mess beneath him. He’s taking his time, dragging out every sensation, forcing me to feel every ridge, every vein, every thick inch of him as he strokes the fire higher. His hands roam my body, gripping my thighs, tracing the curve of my waist, tangling in my hair, holding me steady for his possession.

He shifts slightly, bringing one hand between us where we are joined, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves with unerring precision. The dual sensation of him filling me and the tight, circling pressure of his thumb is devastating. My back arches off the bed, a broken cry spilling from my lips as the pleasure spikes sharp and blinding.

“Let go for me,” he commands softly, his voice dark and rough against my ear. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

He doesn’t stop. He works me with a relentless, focused dedication, watching my face with that piercing gaze as the tension in my belly winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap. The pleasure builds to a crescendo, a white-hot wave that crashes over me, pulling me under. I cry out his name, my body clamping down around him as the orgasm rips through me, leaving me gasping and shaking in its wake.

The aftershocks are still rippling through me, turning my bones to liquid, when Santi withdraws. The sudden emptiness is a jarring loss, a cold void where he just was, but he doesn’t give me time to mourn the absence. His hands are on me instantly, gripping my hips with a firm, undeniable pressure.

“Turn over,” he rasps, the command rough but laced with that same dark reverence.

I’m too wrecked to do anything but obey. I roll onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow to muffle a sound that’s half-sob, half-moan. My body is humming, oversensitive, every nerve ending exposed. I feel the mattress dip as he moves behind me, the heat of his skin radiating against mine even before he touches me.

His hands grip my waist, rough and demanding, pulling me up until I’m on my hands and knees. The position leaves me vulnerable, my back arched and exposed to him, but the vulnerability only serves to heighten the anticipation. I feel the mattress shift as he moves in behind me, the heat of his thighs brushing against the backs of mine. He’s a furnace at my back, a wall of solid muscle and restrained aggression.

He doesn’t enter me immediately. He takes a moment to appreciate the view, his calloused palms running over the curve of my spine, tracing the dip of my lower back before gripping my ass firmly. His touch is possessive, kneading the flesh, branding me as his own.

“God, look at you,” he groans, the sound rough and low, vibrating against my skin. “Perfect like this. All for me.”

He leans down, the heat of his chest pressing against my back, molding us together. The hair on his chest tickles my skin, a sharp contrast to the steel-hard muscles beneath. He doesn't rush; he takes a moment to bracket my body with his, caging me in. One arm slides under my chest, pulling me back against him until my shoulder blades are flush with his pecs, while his other hand grips my hip, anchoring me in place.

I can feel the thud of his heart against my spine, a frantic rhythm that matches my own. His breath is hot against the sensitive shell of my ear, sending shivers down my neck even as the rest of me burns.

“Santi,” I whimper, my head falling back onto his shoulder, exposing my throat to him in a gesture of total surrender. “Please.”

He doesn't make me wait any longer. He lines himself up and sinks into me in one deep, fluid stroke, a possessive invasion that forces a broken cry from my lips. The angle is deeper this way, devastatingly so, and I grip the bedsheets, knuckles white, as he seats himself fully inside.

“I got you,” he growls against the sensitive skin of my neck, his voice vibrating through my chest.

He pulls back then enters me again in one smooth stroke, and this time the angle is deeper, devastatingly so. I cry out, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on the sheets, but he has me locked down. There is no escaping the intensity of him, the way he fills every inch of space, physical and otherwise.

The friction is maddening, a slow drag that pulls against every nerve ending. He’s more than fucking me. He’s imprinting himself on me, ensuring that every inch of my body remembers the shape of him. The arm across my chest is a steel band, his hand splayed wide over my sternum, feeling the frantic race of my heart.

He shifts his hips, changing the angle just enough to hit that spot that makes spots dance behind my eyelids, and a high, thin sound tears from my throat. His response is a low, dark chuckle that he presses directly into the sweat-slicked skin of my shoulder.

“You feel that?” he rasps, his teeth grazing the tendon where my neck meets my shoulder. “That’s where I belong. Deep inside you.”

He buries his face in the curve of my neck, inhaling me like I’m the only source of oxygen left in a burning room. The intimacy of this position is overwhelming. I can’t hide from him like this. I’m completely spread open, trapped against the hard wall of his chest, forced to feel every ragged breath he takes, every twitch of the muscles that are caging me in.

“Santi, please,” I sob, the sound broken and breathless. “It’s too much. I can’t-”

“You can,” he cuts me off fiercely, his hand sliding up from my chest to wrap around my throat, tilting my head back further. His grip is firm, possessive, anchoring me to him. “You were made for this. Made for me. Do you trust me?”

“I trust you.”

“Good,” he groans, the words breaking on a thrust that feels like a prayer. “I want to show you what you do to me, how completely you have me on my knees. Fuck, I’d do anything for you.” The words are punched out of him with every thrust, raw and desperate and terrifyingly loud in the quiet room. "I need you. I need you in a way I don’t really know what to do with.”

His grip on my throat tightens just enough to make my pulse hammer against his palm, a possessive, grounding pressure that sends a fresh shockwave of heat straight to my core. The vulnerability of the position, the sheer weight of him surrounding me, is intoxicating. I feel claimed, not just in my body but in the very air I breathe.

“Please,” I gasp, my voice breaking as he hits a spot that makes the room tilt on its axis.

“Please what?” He doesn't let up. If anything, the angle sharpens, grinding deep until I’m arching off the mattress, a broken moan tearing from my throat. “Tell me what you need, cariño.”

“I… I…” The words dissolve into a breathless whine, completely broken. My mind is a white void of pure sensation, wiped entirely clean of everything but the agonizingly perfect drag of his skin against mine. I let out a desperate whimper, helpless against the relentless rhythm that’s pushing me straight toward another precipice.

“Shh,” he breathes, the words a ragged promise against my neck. He seems to understand my incoherence better than I do. “I know.”

He slides his hand between our bodies. When his hand finds the swollen, aching heat between my legs, the slick friction of his touch is absolute electricity. A violent shockwave ripples through me, bucking my hips helplessly against him.

He shifts his hips, hitting a spot that makes my vision blur, and the sheer precision of it, the fact that he knows my body better than I know myself right now, makes my head spin. He's attuning himself to me, reading every tremor, every gasp like a map he’s memorized.

His lips graze the sensitive skin just below my ear, placing a kiss there that is tender, a stark contrast to the relentless rhythm of his hips. It’s a benediction, a silent vow spoken in the language of touch.

“I’m giving it to you,” he breathes, the words rough, pouring out of him like he’s been holding them back for a lifetime. “Everything you could ever want, it’s yours. Just say the word.”

"Give it to me, Santi," I gasp out, my voice raw and completely undone against his lips. "I'm yours. I believe you."

That breaks him. The rhythm shifts from that devastatingly slow torture to a desperate, driving cadence, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room, raw and rhythmic. He’s not holding anything back, pouring everything he is, every secret, every fear, every ounce of that desperate devotion he confessed, into the way he moves inside me. It’s frantic, almost violent in its intensity, a man running out of time trying to etch his soul into mine.

He keeps talking, a stream of praise and devotion that mixes with the ragged sounds of our exertion. He tells me I'm beautiful, that I'm his, that he's never felt anything like this in his life. Each word acts as a catalyst, wringing spasm after spasm from my exhausted body until I'm sobbing, completely undone by the sheer force of his devotion and the overwhelming, blinding pleasure of him.

A raw, ragged sob tears from my throat as the third climax crashes into me, harder and sharper than the first two. It blindsides me, a white-hot supernova that obliterates every thought, every doubt, every memory of the months spent feeling invisible. My body locks up, shaking violently beneath him, my inner muscles clamping around him like a vice.

I scream his name, my voice breaking as the pleasure turns almost painful in its intensity.

He growls low in his throat, a sound of pure satisfaction, and rides me through it. He doesn't stop the ruthless motion of his hips, doesn't stop the devastating circles of his fingers until I’m completely spent, collapsed and twitching against the mattress.

He follows me over the edge with a guttural groan that sounds like it’s been wrenched out of him, his rhythm finally stuttering and breaking. He buries himself to the hilt, holding there as his body bows, his hand blindly seeking mine on the mattress, pinning our fingers together and squeezing tight. He holds me with a reverence that borders on the divine, anchoring me through the intensity, ensuring that even in the midst of his own unraveling, I am cherished, safe, and held.

For a long, suspended moment, the world narrows down to the sound of our breathing, ragged, uneven, deafening in the quiet room. The air smells of sex and sweat and him, a scent that seems to imprint itself directly into my bloodstream.

He collapses over me, a sweat-slicked weight that presses me into the mattress, but he doesn't crush me. He catches himself on his elbows at the last second, burying his face in the crook of my neck as his body continues to shudder with the aftershocks.

His heart hammers against my spine, a heavy, frantic rhythm that matches the thumping in my own chest. We are a tangle of limbs, skin sticking to skin, the air around us thick and stifling in the best possible way.

For a long time, neither of us moves. The only sounds are the ragged intake of breath and the distant, muffled crackle of the fire pit dying outside the window. It’s like the world has stopped spinning, just for us, leaving us suspended in this bubble.

Eventually, he shifts his weight, rolling us onto our sides so he doesn't crush me, but he doesn't let go. He pulls me back into his chest, spooning me, his face buried in my hair. His arm is a possessive weight across my waist, his hand splayed flat against my stomach, holding me together.

I can feel his breath against the back of my neck, warm and uneven, slowly syncing with my own. The dim room feels smaller now, the shadows pressing in, but it doesn't feel claustrophobic. It feels like a bunker. Like the only safe place left on earth.

He presses a kiss to my shoulder, lingering there like he’s memorizing the taste of my skin. "You okay?”

I hum, turning my head just enough to catch his eye. The intensity from before is still there, but it’s softened now, melted into an unguarded warmth. It’s a look he rarely shows the world, reserved only for these quiet moments when the armor comes off.

"Yeah," I whisper, my throat feeling raw and used. "I'm more than okay."

The corner of his mouth kicks up, that familiar, crooked thing that used to make my stomach flip years ago and still manages to do a number on me now. He lifts his hand from my stomach, tracing the line of my jaw with a thumb that's rough and calloused, but gentle enough to make my eyes sting.

“I know you’re tired of words,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough vibration against my skin. “But I meant every fucking one of them. I’m not letting you go. I don’t care what it takes. I’m making sure you believe me.”

He pulls back just enough to search my eyes, his gaze dark and unwavering, daring me to look away. But I don't. A slow, challenging smirk tugs at my lips as a familiar heat begins to build all over again.

We didn't move from our spots by the pit. The fire had settled into a steady, low hum, its smoke hanging heavy in the space between us. Scattered bottles littered the ground, the lingering wreckage of a good night built on loud laughter and the familiar chaos of old friends.

Now, it’s quieter, the silence stretching tight like it’s waiting to snap. Santi is sitting in his chair, one arm draped lazily on the armrest, the other loosely holding the bottle in his lap. Yet nothing about him feels relaxed. He’s studying me, steady and unreadable, like he’s trying to figure me out while waiting for me to be the first one to give.

I keep my gaze fixed on the center of the pit, watching a piece of oak split open and spill fresh glowing embers into the ash. I think I’m hiding it well, the hollow ache in my chest, the humiliation, the exhaustion of trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

But Santi knows how to read me.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he finally speaks, his voice barely carrying over the steady hum of crickets.

I offer a simple shrug in response, looking down and wiping away the condensation on my drink with my thumb. “Just thinking.”

He exhales, disbelieving, before he shifts, easing out of his sluggish sprawl and into a more focused stance, elbows settling onto his knees.

“You’ve been staring a hole into that log for thirty minutes,” he says. “And I know you. When you get this deep in your head, it’s never about anything good.”

He sets his drink down between us with a quiet click.

“Talk to me,” he urges, his voice softening.

The fire pops, sending a brief scatter of sparks up into the night. I follow them instead of looking at him.

“Come on. I’m starting to think the fire’s better company than me. My ego can’t take that kind of hit.”

A tiny, reluctant smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “I’m sure your ego will do just fine, Santiago.”

I finally glance at him, a weak challenge slipping through.

“Keep looking at me like that and it might actually survive the night,” he responds, a faint, teasing glint in his eyes easing some of the weight in my chest.

I press my lips together, fighting a smile. “If your ego gets any bigger, it’s going to need its own chair.”

Santi lets out a low, huffed laugh, the sound rumbling deep in his chest and breaking clean through the quiet. A smile traces his mouth as he settles back, easing into his seat like the tension has drained out of him. One elbow hangs off loosely as he folds his hands, lazy confidence returning to his posture.

“There she is,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling. “My little smartass.”

Something in my chest twists at how easily he says it.

But the humor quickly fades, and what’s left between us turns heavier again.

Santi knows about the breakup. He knows I’ve been drowning in the aftermath, moving around our group like I’m afraid I’ll crack if anyone looks too closely. He hasn’t pushed, and I haven’t offered much, but he’s been there anyway, in the small ways that don’t feel small at all. In the way he kept handing me drinks without asking. The way he stepped in before anyone else could crowd me. How he just let me exist without making it a thing.

The awareness of it sits heavy in my throat.

“It’s embarrassing,” I admit quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

“What is?” he prods, quick but quiet.

“That I’m still upset over somebody who clearly didn’t care about me that much.”

My ex-boyfriend hangs between us in the silence that follows, his name unspoken but still somehow taking up space in the air.

Santi’s expression settles differently. The joking version of him is gone in an instant, like it never quite belonged in this part of the conversation anyway.

“He cheated on you,” he says flatly. “You’re allowed to be upset.”

I let out a small breath, too quick to mean anything.

“I mean... yeah,” I mutter, trying to shrug it off like it’s nothing. “It’s just one of those things. It happens.”

I swallow, thumb picking at the edge of the label of my drink.

“Or maybe it doesn’t just happen,” I add quieter, the words turning on me before I can stop them. “Maybe I made it easy to do it. I don’t know. People don’t usually just…do that unless something’s missing.”

“You really think that’s why he cheated?” he asks, brows drawn tight in a way that makes the question sound less like curiosity and more like disbelief.

Heat creeps up my neck. I squirm in my chair, suddenly aware of my hands, my face, the way I’m sitting like I’ve said things I shouldn’t have out loud.

“That’s not how that works,” he says firmly. “And you know it.”

“Do I?” I try, like I can deflect my way out of the truth.

“Yes.”

There’s no hesitation in the word. It lands hard between us.

“You were not the problem,” he adds. “Not even close.”

A quiet, disbelieving huff slips through my nose, like I don’t quite know what to make of that.

“He cheated on you,” he repeats matter-of-factly. “That’s on him.” He pauses, his jaw tightening like he’s holding back more words than he needs. “Not you.”

I look down at my bottle, turning it slowly in my hands like the motion can give me somewhere to put this. Heat crawls up the back of my neck again, slower this time, heavier, like I’ve been caught doing something I didn’t realize was visible.

“He blew it because of his own shit. Not because you were lacking.”

My fingers tighten around the glass. I hate how immediate the instinct is to argue, to find a crack in it, to make it somehow less absolute.

“And I’m not going to sit here and watch you carry that,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You don’t get to take the blame for his mess.”

My eyes flick away from him again, like I can physically avoid the point if I don’t look straight at it.

“I know you're hurting, but you're too smart for this,” he adds. “You're sharp, you're funny without trying, and you usually see right through bullshit.”

My throat tightens a little, but I keep my face still, giving him nothing except my attention.

“And, hermosa…” His voice drops lower. “You’re fucking beautiful. Stupidly so.”

I force a dry, awkward chuckle, shaking my head because I don't know what else to do with a compliment like that. It feels completely misplaced. But he doesn't laugh with me. He shakes his head once, his expression shifting like he knows he shouldn’t be saying what he’s about to say.

“Seriously. Half the time you walk into a room, I forget what the hell I was saying.”

My breath catches slightly, and I hate that it does.

“And yeah, most people wouldn’t know what to do with you,” he continues, voice tightening. “Because you don’t fit into whatever easy little box they’re looking for. But that’s their problem, not yours.”

A strange, uneasy warmth flickers through me.

“If you were with me…”

He exhales through his nose, like he almost doesn’t want to finish the thought, but does anyway.

“You wouldn’t be sitting here talking about yourself like this. Because I’d make damn sure you felt like you’re enough.”

The words land differently. He seems to realize it too. His jaw flexes, like he’s irritated by how honest it came out.

“All I’m saying is… Don't start letting his mistakes make you doubt who you are. You are more than enough.”

For a second, I don’t know what to do with the feeling that follows. It’s too warm, too sudden, like my body reacts before I can decide what I’m supposed to make of it. My heartbeat stumbles, then picks up again in a way I absolutely refuse to examine too closely.

So, I default to the only thing I trust in moments like this.

A small, shaky breath of laughter slips out of me. “You sound like a damn motivational poster.”

His mouth quirks. “Yeah?” He leans back a fraction, still watching on me. “Want me to put it on a sunset background for you? I could print it out. Frame it. Hang it on a wall so every time you walk past it you get a little boost.”

That does it.

A real laugh breaks through this time. It’s small, reluctant, but honest. It cuts the tension clean in half, like a thread finally snapping.

I shake my head, still smiling. “Please don’t.”

“I’m thinking bold font,” he continues. “Maybe cursive if I’m feeling dramatic. ‘You are more than enough.’” He gestures vaguely like he’s already hanging it up. “Right above the TV. Or your bed. Somewhere you can’t escape it. Maybe then it’ll sink into that pretty little head of yours how completely, undeniably enough you are.”

I laugh again, sharper this time.

“You are so drunk,” I say, pointing lightly at him. “You are absolutely not allowed to be in charge of decorating my house while you’re drunk.”

He looks offended in the most performative way possible. “What? I’m still sober.”

“Mhm,” I hum, still smiling. “Sober people don’t design inspirational poster walls for their emotionally damaged friends. So, please, for the love of God, leave the interior designing to the experts.”

“I wouldn't say I'm drunk enough for interior design,” he argues, pausing to take a slow sip of his beer. “But for this? Yeah. I’m at the perfect level.”

Shaking my head, I tilt my face up toward the stars, searching for a distraction in the dark sky. Anywhere that isn’t him. Because with Santi, it always feels like everything is one breath away from tipping into something else neither of us is pretending to control.

“Promise me something.”

“Hm?” I look in his direction out of the corner of my eye.

“You’re never going to let anyone make you feel small ever again,” he says, his voice dropping into a rough whisper. “You hear me? You like this, with your guard down, it looks too damn good on you.”

His words settle in me in a way I don’t immediately have words for. I don’t let myself react to how much I feel them.

“That could absolutely go on a poster,” I say, pointing at him lightly. “‘Never let anyone make you feel small.’ Maybe you should run some of these by Will.”

That earns a quiet exhale of laughter from him.

“I’m serious,” he says, like my deflection didn’t even register.

“So am I,” I counter back. “Can you imagine Will rolling up to a recruitment assembly with motivational posters like that? He’d make it maybe two minutes before someone dragged him off stage. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to see that.”

Santi shakes his head. He’s watching me like he means it in a way that isn’t just playful anymore.

“It’s kind of unfair, you know.”

“What is?” I ask, my laughter dying.

“How you sit there like you don’t know what you do to people,” he replies. “Like you don’t realize what you do when you walk into a room. Everything changes a little.”

My stomach flips. I go still without meaning to and force my gaze down to the bottle still in my hand, trying to focus on anything but him. Because I can feel it, this thin, dangerous edge beneath the moment, the sense that if either of us leans too far into this, we won’t just be talking anymore.

“Oh, stop,” I say teasingly, reaching for distance. “That’s how you flirt with everyone.”

“Not everyone,” he replies immediately.

I give him a slow, exaggerated look of disbelief. “Please. I’ve seen girls line up for your attention.”

“They’re interested,” he says flatly. “I’m not.”

I tilt my head. “Sure.”

The word comes out slow and skeptical, dragged out by the alcohol buzzing warmly through my system.

His eyes narrow a little. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shrug, taking another sip. “Nothing. Just figured if you keep taking girls home, there must be a thing or two you like about them.”

Santi huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“They’re easy,” he replies. “No pressure. No expectations. Everybody knows what it is.”

“Mm.” I glance at him over the rim of my beer. “Because God forbid anything be serious.”

His face goes still in a different way.

“You think I can’t do serious?” he asks quietly.

I hesitate just a second too long. In that empty beat, the truth catches up to me. I know Santi too well to doubt him. His loyalty is a heavy, fierce thing. He can keep promises. But he already means too damn much to me. Taking a risk on anyone else is one thing, but with Santi, the stakes are too high. If I were to ever let myself believe him and it somehow falls apart, it’ll ruin me.

“I can do serious,” he assures me after a beat, voice lower now, steadier in that way that means he’s actually thinking before he speaks. “I just don’t want to waste it.”

“Right,” I say lightly.

“I just… I’m waiting,” he finally reiterates, quieter. “That’s all.”

I blink at him, caught a little off guard by how serious he sounds. “Waiting for what?”

His attention holds mine a second too long, the firelight cutting sharp lines across his face, his stubble, mouth, the steady set of his jaw all softened and deepened by the glow, like he’s not in any rush to look away.

“The right girl.”

My stomach flips, a dizzying reaction to the beer and the sheer weight of his attention. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing left in the entire world, a focus so intense it leaves nowhere to hide. I force a rough laugh, trying to shake the feeling before it takes root.

“Oh my God,” I snort softly, sinking back into my chair. “Who are you and what have you done with Santiago Garcia?”

A slow grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “He’s around here somewhere.”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “And what exactly are you looking for in this right girl?”

The question comes out lighter than I mean for it to, teasing almost, but there’s a tightness curled underneath it. Because part of me wants to hear his answer more than I should, and the other part is already bracing for it. Afraid he’ll describe someone I could never be. Afraid he won’t.

He sinks back into the chair, loose-limbed and quiet, but his dark eyes remain pinned to mine.

“Someone who doesn’t take shit from anyone. And definitely not from me.”

I huff out a laugh. “Well, that already eliminates at least eighty percent of the population.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his mouth.

“She’d call me on my bullshit the second I earned it,” he says.

Another laugh. “So, you're looking for someone to keep you in line.”

His mouth twitches. “That's not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you said.”

“Pretty sure it's not.”

“All of you assholes need someone to keep you in line. Otherwise, things quickly become a total shitshow. And frankly, I’m tired of bailing all of you out of trouble.”

He holds my gaze for a second, his expression deadpan, before the tough-guy act cracks. A low laugh rumbles out of him. “Fair.”

I lean back, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “What else?”

“Probably a bit of a spitfire,” he says. “Smart mouth. Doesn’t back down. And doesn’t fall apart when things get hard.”

He pauses, like he’s deciding how honest he wants to be.

“Okay, sometimes she does,” he says, his voice dropping low, a trace of rough amusement in his chest. “But not for long. She’s too damn proud to let anyone think they broke her, or that she can’t handle her own shit.”

“Tough girl,” I murmur, the corner of my mouth tugging upward. “Sounds like she’d be a pain in the ass. You sure you can handle that?”

A quiet laugh slips out of him. “Yeah. I think I could.”

My gaze holds his a beat too long before I look away. “We’ll see about that.”

“I hope we do,” he replies, voice lower, the words lingering between us.

“Is that all?”

A faint breath of a laugh slips out of him, like he’s trying to keep it light and failing a little.

“She’s beautiful,” he says, the admission coming out quiet and rough, like he couldn't have held it back if he tried. He looks down at his beer for a split second, then right back up.

“But she’s completely blind to it,” he continues, his tone absolute. “It’s the kind of beautiful where she’s just going about her day, totally oblivious, until someone actually says it out loud. And then she just looks at you like you're speaking a different language.”

“Right. A gorgeous girl to make gorgeous babies,” I say, tossing him a dry smile. “Classic. I should have known that was on the checklist.”

Santi blinks once, then lets out a short, surprised laugh, more air than sound.

“Wait,” he says, leaning back a fraction like he’s recalibrating. “Are you saying that I’m gorgeous?”

There’s a flicker in his expression, something quick and unguarded before he reins it back in.

My eyes widen slightly when I realize what I just fed him.

“Slow your roll, Santiago,” I say immediately, cutting my eyes toward the fire to break the connection. “The kid's only hope is getting her genetics.”

“Damn,” he swears, shaking his head a little like he’s trying to shake the comment off. “Maybe my ego won’t survive tonight after all.”

I take a long, slow sip of my beer, letting the cold glass press against my bottom lip while I try to ignore the heat crawling up my neck.

“Well, whoever she is, she sounds exhausting.”

“She’s worth it,” he says, the words rough and certain in the quiet yard. “Trust me.”

The answer comes too fast. Too honest. Naturally, I deflect.

“You know,” I say, pointing at him, “most normal people would’ve just said ‘blonde’ or ‘brunette’ by now.”

His mouth curves slowly, eyes warm with amusement.

“Yeah, probably,” he replies. “But I don’t think the right person can be narrowed down to hair color.”

I release a small, skeptical hum. “That’s a very philosophical answer for a casual conversation.”

A quiet laugh slips out of him. “You asked.”

I exhale through my nose, lifting my bottle like I can toast the sentiment away.

“Well, I hope you find her. And I hope she’s prepared. Sounds like she’s got a whole lot to live up to.”

My words are meant to steer us back, but it doesn’t work.

Santi just watches me, his head tilted slightly, the firelight carving shadows under his cheekbones that make him look older, wearier, and more intense than usual. He lets the awkward silence hang there for a beat, letting my attempt to defuse the moment drift away like smoke, before he finally speaks.

“That’s the problem,” he murmurs, his dark eyes locking onto mine so intensely it almost makes my breath catch. “She doesn't get that she's been enough since day one.” He holds the silence, his voice falling to a rough whisper. “You really don't see it, do you?”

The fire pops, a sharp crack that sounds like a gunshot in the sudden, suffocating stillness. I freeze, my hand halfway to my mouth, the beer forgotten as the words settle over us.

I wait for the punchline, for the grin, the wink, the smooth deflection that turns this back into a joke, a tease between friends who have known each other for too long. But it doesn’t come.

Santi just stays there, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that feels almost physical. The lazy, charming facade he usually wears has completely vanished.

"Santi," I breathe out, the word barely more than a whisper. My heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Don't."

"Don't what?" he asks, seeming as though he isn’t going to back down. "Don't say it out loud? We've been dancing around this for years, and tonight you’re sitting here wondering why you weren't enough for some asshole who never deserved to breathe the same air as you. I'm done watching you do that to yourself."

I swallow hard, my grip tightening around the neck of my beer bottle until my knuckles turn white. "We're friends, Santi. The group-"

"I don't give a damn about the group," he interrupts, his tone fierce but steady. He sets his own bottle down on the table between us, entirely focused on me now. "And I haven't looked at you like just a friend in a very long time. You know that. Deep down, you do. And don't lie to me—I know you feel it, too."

The honesty of it feels like a physical blow. The safety net of our banter is completely gone, stripped away by a few words spoken in the quiet of the night. I look down at my lap, unable to hold his gaze any longer because it feels too exposing, like he's looking right into the bruised, aching parts of my soul.

"I can't do this right now," I utter, my voice trembling slightly. "My head is a mess, Santi. I'm still... I'm still trying to fix what he broke."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him move. He abandons his chair and crouches in front of me instead, closing the space between us. He doesn’t touch me, he knows better than to push that boundary, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him, steady and unavoidable.

“Then let me help you carry it,” he murmurs. “I’m not asking you to jump into anything. I’m not asking you to just… get over it. I’m just telling you where I am. Where I’ve been. So, when you finally look up, you don’t have to wonder who’s still here.”

I finally lift my head, my eyes searching his face. The shadows do nothing to hide the absolute sincerity in his expression. There’s no game here. No clever lines designed to get a girl into bed. Just Santi, completely raw and uncovered.

"Why haven’t you ever said anything before?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

A faint, wry smile touches his lips, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Because you were always with someone else. Then you were with him. And as much as it killed me to watch, you were trying to make it work. I wasn't going to mess up your life just because I wanted you. But he threw you away. And I'll be damned before I let anyone else make you feel like you're the one who failed."

A single tear slips free, hot against my cold cheek. I wipe it away quickly, annoyed by my own vulnerability.

Santi’s hand twitches on the armrest of my chair, a clear instinct to reach out and brush the dampness from my skin, but he restrains himself, keeping his unspoken promise not to crowd me. The self-control itself speaks volumes. It shows a level of care that I haven't experienced in a very long time.

The silence returns, but it’s entirely different now, moving from the suffocating weight of my own misery to the electric, terrifying hum of a line that has just been permanently crossed.

Santi watches me, waiting out my shock.

"You're lying," I whisper, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I shake my head, backing my shoulders deeper into the wooden chair, trying to create distance that doesn't exist. "You’re just... you’re being nice. You see me drowning and you’re trying to throw me a lifeline, but this isn't funny, Santi."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" His voice is dead serious, devoid of the usual easy cadence that makes everyone draw toward him. "I don't lie to you. I never have.”

"Everyone lies," I snap, a sudden flash of defense mechanism flaring up to protect the raw, bruised parts of my chest. "He said he loved me. He promised he’d never hurt me. He swore up and down that I was the only one, and look where that got me. Sitting by a dying fire, feeling like a ghost in my own life."

"I am not him," Santi says, each word a deliberate strike. "I don't make promises I can't keep. If I tell you you're the only thing I'm looking at, I mean it. If I tell you I'm going to be here, I'm not going anywhere. I promise you, if you give me a chance-"

"Stop. Just stop with the promises." I cut him off, a sharp, ragged breath leaving me. I look away, staring blindly at the edge of the brick firepit because looking at the sincerity in his eyes hurts too much. "I don't care about promises. I don't believe them anymore. They're just sentences people say to get what they want in the moment."

I squeeze my eyes shut, my throat tight and burning.

"I'm sorry, but I’m tired of words, Santi. I am so damn tired of them."

The confession hangs in the cool night air. I expect him to defend himself, to give me another speech, or to pull back into his usual protective layer of sarcasm. Instead, the yard goes completely still.

When I finally open my eyes and risk a glance back at him, the frustration on his face has cracked open, revealing something desperate. He’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s dying to solve, like he’d tear his own chest open if it meant giving me a reason to trust him.

"Then tell me what to do," he begs, his deep voice carrying a rare, vulnerable edge. He reaches out, his hand hovering in the space between us for a heartbeat before he lets his fingers rest lightly against the edge of my knee, just a fraction of contact, but it feels like lightning. “How can I make you believe me?”

I swallow, trying to find the version of myself that knows how to joke this off, but it’s inconveniently missing.

“Santi,” I start, but it comes out quieter than I mean it to.

His thumb moves slightly, not pushing, not pulling, just there, waiting.

“Look. If you need space,” he says, voice gone rough around the edges now, “I’ll give it to you. You want me gone? Fine. You want to act like this was a mistake? I’ll play along.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, bitter and tired all at once, dragging a hand over his mouth before looking at me again.

“But if you’re asking me what I want…” His gaze lifts to mine, steady and unflinching. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Another pause, smaller this time, like he’s deciding whether to cross a line he can’t uncross.

“You want me to prove it?” he asks, his voice dropping into a rough, low growl that makes my chest ache. He looks at me like he wants to shake me, or kiss me, or both. “Fine. Tell me what you need, and I’m there. You want me to follow you anywhere? Done. You want me on my knees? Just say the damn word. I will do whatever it takes to make you believe me.”

His hand doesn’t move away. It stays there, warm and grounding on the denim of my jeans.

An aching sob catches in my throat, and I swallow it down, my eyes swimming as I finally look straight at him. I want to believe him. Every broken, exhausted piece of me wants to lean into the warmth he’s offering and stop fighting the current. I want to believe that someone could look at me and see everything he just described.

Because beneath all my panic, a stubborn voice in the back of my mind refuses to let me lie to myself. I’m afraid of the risk, yes, but I am not afraid of him. For all his massive size and lethal capability, Santi is the only person alive who makes me feel entirely safe. I know with absolute certainty that he would burn the world down before he ever let a single scratch come to me.

"No more words,” I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of it. I look down at his hand on my knee, then back up to his gaze.

Santi freezes.

“Don't talk about it anymore. Just show me.”

For a long, agonizing beat, he doesn’t move. The easy confidence, the absolute certainty that usually radiates from him, falters. His jaw works, a muscle twitching violently under his stubble as he looks at me. He searches my eyes, his own dark and swirling with a sudden conflict. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Santiago Garcia hesitate, and the sheer weight of it makes my breath hitch.

Finally, he swallows.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his hand tightening just a fraction against my knee. “Because you need to understand something. If I cross this line with you, that’s it for me. No going back to how it was. I’m not playing games with you, cariño, so don’t try to play with me.”

“I’m sure,” I reply, and I mean it down to my bones. I slide my hand over his where it rests on my knee, feeling the rough warmth of his skin. “I want to believe you, Santi. I do. I'm tired of running from it. I'm tired of pretending I don't want this.”

I reach down, my fingers wrapping around his wrist, feeling the heavy, unsteady thrum of his pulse under my palm. For a second, he just looks at me like he’s trying to figure out if I really mean it, or if I’m about to pull away again the second it gets too real.

When I tug his hand upward, he lets me. He just follows, slow, like he’s giving me the space to set the terms myself. My grip tightens a fraction, not letting him slip out of it.

“So, if I’m really the one you’re waiting for…,” I whisper, turning his hand over in mine and pressing his palm flat against my chest. My heart is hammering against his skin, frantic and uneven, but I hold his hand there anyway. “No more pretty words. I've heard them all before. If you want me to believe you, Santi... Prove it.”

It’s then that I finally look at him.

“Show me I’m all that you need.”

The hesitation snaps.

Santi reaches out, his large hands anchoring against the sides of my face. His palms are warm, rough, and completely steady against my burning skin. He gently tilts my head and brushes his thumb over my cheekbone, catching a stray tear before it can fall.

He doesn't have to say a word. The fierce, consuming focus in his eyes tells me everything.

Then, he leans in, and the space between us vanishes.

When his mouth finds mine, it’s a crash of heat and absolute certainty, a silent vow pressed against my lips that completely takes the air from my lungs. It’s fierce, hungry, and so deeply possessive it makes my head spin.

My hands act on their own, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer because the sudden rush of warmth is the only thing keeping me anchored.

Santi groans into the kiss, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates straight through my chest. One of his hands slides down from my face, his fingers tangling in my hair to hold me steady, while his other hand moves to the back of my neck, his thumb anchoring my jaw. He kisses me like he’s trying to rewrite every lie I’ve ever been told, tracing the seam of my lips with a desperation that leaves no room for doubt.

Every defense mechanism I’ve spent weeks building up simply disintegrates.

And then, as abruptly as it began, he pulls back just an inch. The breath leaves him in a ragged, uneven rush against my lips.

The dark, heated look in his eyes takes over completely, swallowing any trace of hesitation. The tough, unyielding soldier vanished, replaced by a raw, single-minded focus that zeroes in on me like he’s been waiting for this exact command his entire life. The transformation is terrifying and absolute. It’s the look of a man who would burn the world down if I asked him to or kneel in the ashes to worship me if that’s what I needed.

The movement is fluid, controlled, his knees hitting the ground. He doesn't break eye contact for a second, his gaze locked on mine as he settles there, a supplicant at my altar.

He is massive, a wall of muscle and coiled power, and yet he looks completely disarmed like this. Stripped of his defenses, he's looking up at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the entire world.

He places his hands on my knees, his palms warm and rough through the denim. The heat of them sinks into my skin, branding me. He rests them there, waiting.

For a moment, I only stare at him, stunned by the sight of Santi on his knees before me. This is a man who commands rooms, who leads teams into hell and back, and here he is, kneeling in the dirt at my feet. The power rush is heady, dizzying, making the blood pound in my ears.

He waits, letting me take this in, letting me see him like this.

Slowly, his hands begin to move. They slide up my thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight up my spine. He's taking his time, exploring the terrain like he's memorizing it, his touch reverent but demanding.

"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked, vibrating against my skin.

"Worship me," I breathe, the command barely a whisper.

Santi’s eyes darken further, the pupils swallowing the iris until there’s almost nothing left. A low, ragged sound tears from his throat, something halfway between a groan and a growl, and he surges forward.

His hands slide from my knees to my hips, fingers hooking into the belt loops of my jeans to drag me to the very edge of the chair. I gasp at the sudden movement, my back arching as he pulls me flush against him, his face burying itself in the space between my legs.

He inhales deeply, like he’s trying to breathe me in, memorize my scent, and the sheer intimacy of the action makes my head spin.

"Fuck," he grits out, the word muffled against the denim. "You smell so fucking good.”

His hands move to the button of my jeans with practiced ease, popping it open and dragging the zipper down with agonizing slowness. The sound of the teeth parting is deafening in the quiet night. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my jeans and panties both, pulling them down my legs in one rough tug.

I lift my hips to help him, unable to look away from the sight of him, on his knees, doing exactly what I asked. The cool night air hits my heated skin, raising goosebumps, but his hands are there a second later, warm and grounding on my bare thighs.

He doesn’t give me a moment to feel exposed. He leans in immediately, his broad shoulders spreading my knees wider, forcing me open to the night air and his gaze. The firelight catches the sharp planes of his face as he dips his head, his breath hot against my inner thigh.

“Santi,” I gasp, my fingers flying to his hair, threading through the thick, dark curls.

He hums against my skin, a low, vibrating sound that sends a shockwave of electricity straight to my core. He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, then higher, his lips tracing a slow, torturous path up the sensitive skin of my thigh. He isn’t rushing. Every press of his mouth feels like a brand, staking a claim in the most tender way possible.

He works his way higher, his mouth leaving a trail of fire against my inner thighs. The scrape of his day-old stubble is a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips, sending shivers racing up my spine that have nothing to do with the chill in the air. He takes his time, mapping the terrain with a reverence that makes my chest ache, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of skin he’s been denied for so long.

When he finally reaches the apex of my thighs, he pauses. He pulls back just enough to look up at me, his eyes burning with a dark, fierce intensity. The sight of him, strong and unshakeable Santi, kneeling between my legs, looking at me like I’m the only holy thing left in the world, is almost enough to undo me right there.

“Look at you.”

The air between us is electric, charged with the weight of the moment. His eyes are pools of molten heat, filled with a raw, undisguised hunger that makes my breath hitch. He doesn't look away, his stare pinning me in place as he leans in, his breath ghosting over my exposed, aching flesh.

"You’re a fucking goddess," he murmurs, the words a dark rasp against my skin.

He seals his mouth over me with a desperate, hungry groan that vibrates through my entire body, his tongue flattening against my clit with a firm, pressured stroke.

My back bows off the chair, a broken cry tearing from my throat as my fingers tighten in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, but he doesn’t flinch. If anything, the pain seems to spur him on. He growls low against me, the sound rough and possessive, his hands gripping my thighs with bruising force to hold me open for him.

He eats me like he’s starving.

His tongue moves with a devastating precision, curling and flicking in ways that make my vision blur. There is no hesitation, no tentative exploration, only a relentless, consuming rhythm. He alternates between broad, flat strokes that cover every inch of me and sharp, targeted flicks of his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves that sends shockwaves racing up my spine.

I can’t think. I can’t breathe. The only thing that exists is the heat of his mouth, the rough grip of his hands on my thighs, and the desperate, embarrassing sounds escaping my own throat.

He changes his angle, dragging his lower lip through my folds before suctioning his mouth around my clit, sucking hard. My hips jerk instinctively, chasing the friction, but his grip tightens, iron-clad, holding me exactly where he wants me. He hums against me, the vibration radiating through my pelvis, down my thighs, settling deep in my bones.

The pressure builds, a tight, coiling knot low in my belly that threatens to snap. His name falls from my lips like a chant, a broken prayer. He doubles down, sliding one hand from my thigh, his fingers teasing my entrance before thrusting inside, curling upward to find that spot that makes me see stars.

The dual sensation is too much. The fullness of his fingers, the ruthless suction of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble. It’s a sensory overload that shatters me.

"Santi, I-," I gasp, my thighs trembling violently around his ears.

He doesn't let up. If anything, he presses harder, his tongue flicking rapidly while his fingers curl inside me, hitting that perfect, devastating spot over and over again. The coil in my belly snaps, white-hot and blinding.

My orgasm tears through me with the force of a freight train. I cry out, my back arching violently off the chair as the pleasure overwhelms my senses, wiping out everything but the feel of his mouth and hands. My entire body shakes, the tension releasing in a rush that leaves me gasping for air, my vision spotting with black and white.

He works me through it, drawing out every aftershock until I’m a trembling, oversensitive mess, completely boneless against the chair. The relentless rhythm of his tongue finally slows, turning into soft, languid laps that soothe rather than consume, gently bringing me down from the high.

I sag back, my chest heaving, staring up at the starless sky as my heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I feel wrecked, utterly spent.

Santi presses one last, lingering kiss to the inside of my thigh, a tender contrast to the bruising grip of his hands just moments ago. Then, he pulls back slightly, but he doesn't stand. He rests his forehead against my knee, his own breathing ragged and uneven, the heat of it seeping into my sweat-slicked skin.

The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the ragged sound of our breathing. For a long moment, he stays there, forehead resting against my knee, grounding us both. The rough stubble of his jaw scrapes against my skin, a tangible reminder of the intensity of what just happened.

He pulls back to look up at me, his eyes tracing the lines of my face as if he’s committing this moment to memory. The look in his eyes is fierce, a dark, possessive glint that says I’m his, and he’s not letting me go.

Slowly, he rises to his feet. The movement is effortless, a display of raw power that steals the breath I’m still trying to catch. He looms over me, his silhouette blocking out the firelight, a giant in the darkness. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to.

He reaches down, his hands sliding under my arms, and lifts. He scoops me up against his chest like I weigh nothing at all, one arm hooked behind my knees and the other braced firmly against my back. My head lolls against his shoulder, my face burying in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him.

The transition from the cool night air to the house is instantaneous, the warmth of the interior wrapping around us as he kicks the door shut behind him. He moves through the hallway with a predatory grace, his steps sure and silent on the floorboards.

I’m loose-limbed and floating, my body still humming with the aftershocks, my face pressed against the steady thrum of his heartbeat. I don't look up to see where we're going. I just let him carry me, trusting him completely to take me where I need to be.

He kicks the door to his bedroom open and carries me inside. He deposits me on the bed with a controlled drop, the mattress dipping under my weight.

I look up at him, breathless, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across his frame. He stands at the edge of the bed, staring down at me with a hunger that makes my throat go dry.

Santi stands there, chest heaving, his eyes dragging over me with a slow perusal that feels like a physical touch. He’s taking me in, and the look on his face is pure, unfiltered sin. He reaches back, gripping the hem of his shirt, and peels it off in one fluid motion, tossing it aside without looking.

The moonlight catches the hard planes of his chest, the definition of his abs, the scars that map his history. He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost violent, all coiled strength and restrained power.

“Come here,” I breathe, reaching for him.

He just stands there, letting his eyes trace the line of my body like he’s memorizing a map he intends to conquer. The silence stretches until the weight of his stare becomes a physical thing, pressing me into the mattress.

“Patience,” he chides, though the rough edge to his voice betrays him. His hands go to his belt, the metal clinking in the quiet room as he undoes it, then the button of his jeans. “I’m not rushing this. Not now.”

Santi’s dark eyes never leave mine as his hands hook into the waist of his jeans, pushing the denim down over his hips. The fabric bunches around his thighs before he steps out of them completely, kicking them aside with a careless movement that underscores his absolute focus on me.

He stands completely bare before me. He is magnificent, all long, powerful lines, the muscle of his thighs and the sharp, tensed V-cut of his lower stomach leading down to the undeniable, rigid proof of how badly he wants me. There is nothing hidden anymore. The vulnerability of his nakedness is entirely eclipsed by the raw, dominant presence he commands just by standing there.

A low, involuntary gasp slips from my throat at the sheer sight of him.

A slow, dark smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it disappears just as quickly, replaced by that heavy-lidded, consuming lust that has been burning in his eyes. He steps toward the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking deeply under his weight as he settles a knee on the mattress, looming over me once more.

"You like what you see?" he murmurs, his deep voice scraping low in his chest as he crawls forward, positioning himself over my body. "Because it's all yours. Every single inch."

He braces himself on his forearms, caging me in, his weight settling heavily on top of me in a way that feels like an anchor. The friction of his skin against mine sends a fresh shockwave of heat through my system, waking up nerves that are already raw and oversensitive.

I arch my neck back into the pillow, my hands coming up to wrap around his biceps, feeling the hard, tensed muscle beneath my palms. . I look up into his eyes, dark and steady, weighted with something unreadable, the kind that feel like they see too much and say too little. I’m completely helpless against the pull of him, unable to look away.

"I've never seen anything more perfect," I whisper, my voice trembling but entirely honest. I slide my hands up to his shoulders, pulling him down just that fraction closer until his breath mixes with mine. "

"God, you are so beautiful," he growls, the words raspy and unpolished as he stares down at me. His gaze roves over my face like he’s trying to memorize every line, every flush of my skin in the dim light. "I've been going out of my mind wanting you like this. It’s always been you."

He doesn't wait for me to answer, his mouth dropping down to claim mine again.

This time, the kiss is deeper, slower, filled with a quiet reverence that leaves me entirely breathless. He parts my lips with a possessive assurance, tasting me fully, while his fingers tangle into my hair to tilt my head just right. The sheer warmth of him floods through me, drowning out the lingering cold of everything that came before, until there is nothing left but the weight of his body and the absolute certainty of his mouth against mine.

He shifts, his mouth trailing a path of burning heat down the line of my jaw, finding the sensitive spot just beneath my ear. A low, ragged breath escapes him before he buries his lips against my throat. He kisses me there, deep and possessive, his tongue tracing the frantic, erratic beat of my pulse until my entire body arches into his touch.

The contrast of his heavy, solid weight against me and the deliberate, torturous precision of his mouth sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to my core.

“Santi, please,” I gasp, my hips lifting off the mattress in a desperate, silent plea. I need him to fill the ache, to stop the trembling that hasn't ceased since he put his mouth on me.

He hovers over me, bracing his weight on one arm while the other slides between us. He grips himself and runs the length of his cock through my folds, coating himself in the wet heat he left there. The friction is maddening, a slow, deliberate drag that makes my hips jerk off the mattress, chasing the contact.

“Eyes on me,” he orders, his voice a rough scrape against the quiet.

I force my eyes open, meeting that dark, consuming gaze. He’s watching me with an unblinking intensity, tracking every flutter of my eyelashes, every ragged breath that tears through my lips.

He doesn't ask again. He lines himself up and pushes forward, sinking into me with a slow, deliberate thrust. The stretch is intense, a burning, full pressure that borders on too much, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't give me a chance to adjust to the invasion. He just keeps coming, burying himself deep until his hips are flush against mine and there is nowhere left to go.

A ragged sound tears from my throat, half-gasp, half-moan. My body bows off the mattress, instinctively trying to accommodate the sheer size of him, my hands flying to his shoulders to hold on.

He holds himself there, deep and impossibly still, letting my body adjust to the invasion, letting me feel every thick inch of him stretching me wide. His breath is hot against my neck, ragged and uneven, the only sign that the iron control he’s famous for is hanging by a thread.

“Breathe,” he raps against my skin, his hand coming up to cup the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive spot behind my ear. “Just breathe, cariño. I got you.”

I try to obey, forcing air into lungs that feel seized, my internal muscles fluttering around him as they try to accommodate his size. He groans low in his throat, a dark, broken sound, his hips jerking involuntarily against me.

Then, he begins to move. A steady, punishingly deep rhythm that feels designed to completely dismantle me from the inside out. It’s a takeover. He refuses to let me look away, his dark eyes locked onto mine in the dim light filtering through the window, forcing me to witness every hitch in his breath, every tightening of his jaw, as if he's carving his name into my skin.

He leans down, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his teeth grazing my collarbone as his pace quickens, the friction and heat spiraling out of control.

“You’re it for me,” he confesses brokenly, his voice cracking against my ear as he drives us both over the edge. “But you get to decide if I stay yours the same way you’re mine.”

The admission hangs in the air, heavier than the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. It’s a detonation in the quiet room, shattering whatever fragile walls we’ve been hiding behind. The raw honesty in his voice, the way it cracks on the words, undoes me completely.

My heart lurches, a jagged, painful beat that matches the rhythm of his hips. I dig my heels into the mattress, lifting to meet him, my hands threading into his hair to pull him closer, needing him to merge with me, to erase the line where he ends and I begin. The coil in my belly tightens to the breaking point, white-hot and desperate, pulled by the drag of his body and the gravity of his confession.

“I’m yours, Santi,” I gasp, his name a prayer on my lips. “I’m yours…and you’re mine.”

He lets out a shuddering breath against my neck, as if my words have physically disarmed him, stripping away the last of his composure. But instead of driving into me harder, as his coiled muscles suggest he might, he slows. He pulls back to look at me, his expression fierce, reverent, almost pained in its intensity.

He brings a hand between us, his calloused palm tracing the line of my jaw, his thumb dragging over my lower lip until I part for him. He leans down, pressing his lips to my forehead, then the tip of my nose, then my cheeks, scattering kisses like he’s trying to memorize my features by braille.

“Mine,” he repeats, agreeing with my declaration, making it a vow. He shifts his weight, sliding one arm under my waist to tilt my hips up, changing the angle so he brushes against a spot that makes me see stars. “I’m going to take such good fucking care of you.”

He starts to move again, but the rhythm has changed. The punishing pace is gone, replaced by a deliberate, devastating slowness. He’s worshiping me with his body, using every inch of himself to show me what he can’t say with words alone.

He presses his lips to my temple, then down to the hollow of my throat, his tongue darting out to taste the salt on my skin.

“Fuck,” he exhales quietly, like the words aren’t enough for what he means. “You’re so beautiful it’s not even fair.”

His hips roll in a shallow, grinding wave, hitting that deep, tender spot inside me over and over until I’m a writhing mess beneath him. He’s taking his time, dragging out every sensation, forcing me to feel every ridge, every vein, every thick inch of him as he strokes the fire higher. His hands roam my body, gripping my thighs, tracing the curve of my waist, tangling in my hair, holding me steady for his possession.

He shifts slightly, bringing one hand between us where we are joined, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves with unerring precision. The dual sensation of him filling me and the tight, circling pressure of his thumb is devastating. My back arches off the bed, a broken cry spilling from my lips as the pleasure spikes sharp and blinding.

“Let go for me,” he commands softly, his voice dark and rough against my ear. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

He doesn’t stop. He works me with a relentless, focused dedication, watching my face with that piercing gaze as the tension in my belly winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap. The pleasure builds to a crescendo, a white-hot wave that crashes over me, pulling me under. I cry out his name, my body clamping down around him as the orgasm rips through me, leaving me gasping and shaking in its wake.

The aftershocks are still rippling through me, turning my bones to liquid, when Santi withdraws. The sudden emptiness is a jarring loss, a cold void where he just was, but he doesn’t give me time to mourn the absence. His hands are on me instantly, gripping my hips with a firm, undeniable pressure.

“Turn over,” he rasps, the command rough but laced with that same dark reverence.

I’m too wrecked to do anything but obey. I roll onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow to muffle a sound that’s half-sob, half-moan. My body is humming, oversensitive, every nerve ending exposed. I feel the mattress dip as he moves behind me, the heat of his skin radiating against mine even before he touches me.

His hands grip my waist, rough and demanding, pulling me up until I’m on my hands and knees. The position leaves me vulnerable, my back arched and exposed to him, but the vulnerability only serves to heighten the anticipation. I feel the mattress shift as he moves in behind me, the heat of his thighs brushing against the backs of mine. He’s a furnace at my back, a wall of solid muscle and restrained aggression.

He doesn’t enter me immediately. He takes a moment to appreciate the view, his calloused palms running over the curve of my spine, tracing the dip of my lower back before gripping my ass firmly. His touch is possessive, kneading the flesh, branding me as his own.

“God, look at you,” he groans, the sound rough and low, vibrating against my skin. “Perfect like this. All for me.”

He leans down, the heat of his chest pressing against my back, molding us together. The hair on his chest tickles my skin, a sharp contrast to the steel-hard muscles beneath. He doesn't rush; he takes a moment to bracket my body with his, caging me in. One arm slides under my chest, pulling me back against him until my shoulder blades are flush with his pecs, while his other hand grips my hip, anchoring me in place.

I can feel the thud of his heart against my spine, a frantic rhythm that matches my own. His breath is hot against the sensitive shell of my ear, sending shivers down my neck even as the rest of me burns.

“Santi,” I whimper, my head falling back onto his shoulder, exposing my throat to him in a gesture of total surrender. “Please.”

He doesn't make me wait any longer. He lines himself up and sinks into me in one deep, fluid stroke, a possessive invasion that forces a broken cry from my lips. The angle is deeper this way, devastatingly so, and I grip the bedsheets, knuckles white, as he seats himself fully inside.

“I got you,” he growls against the sensitive skin of my neck, his voice vibrating through my chest.

He pulls back then enters me again in one smooth stroke, and this time the angle is deeper, devastatingly so. I cry out, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on the sheets, but he has me locked down. There is no escaping the intensity of him, the way he fills every inch of space, physical and otherwise.

The friction is maddening, a slow drag that pulls against every nerve ending. He’s more than fucking me. He’s imprinting himself on me, ensuring that every inch of my body remembers the shape of him. The arm across my chest is a steel band, his hand splayed wide over my sternum, feeling the frantic race of my heart.

He shifts his hips, changing the angle just enough to hit that spot that makes spots dance behind my eyelids, and a high, thin sound tears from my throat. His response is a low, dark chuckle that he presses directly into the sweat-slicked skin of my shoulder.

“You feel that?” he rasps, his teeth grazing the tendon where my neck meets my shoulder. “That’s where I belong. Deep inside you.”

He buries his face in the curve of my neck, inhaling me like I’m the only source of oxygen left in a burning room. The intimacy of this position is overwhelming. I can’t hide from him like this. I’m completely spread open, trapped against the hard wall of his chest, forced to feel every ragged breath he takes, every twitch of the muscles that are caging me in.

“Santi, please,” I sob, the sound broken and breathless. “It’s too much. I can’t-”

“You can,” he cuts me off fiercely, his hand sliding up from my chest to wrap around my throat, tilting my head back further. His grip is firm, possessive, anchoring me to him. “You were made for this. Made for me. Do you trust me?”

“I trust you.”

“Good,” he groans, the words breaking on a thrust that feels like a prayer. “I want to show you what you do to me, how completely you have me on my knees. Fuck, I’d do anything for you.” The words are punched out of him with every thrust, raw and desperate and terrifyingly loud in the quiet room. "I need you. I need you in a way I don’t really know what to do with.”

His grip on my throat tightens just enough to make my pulse hammer against his palm, a possessive, grounding pressure that sends a fresh shockwave of heat straight to my core. The vulnerability of the position, the sheer weight of him surrounding me, is intoxicating. I feel claimed, not just in my body but in the very air I breathe.

“Please,” I gasp, my voice breaking as he hits a spot that makes the room tilt on its axis.

“Please what?” He doesn't let up. If anything, the angle sharpens, grinding deep until I’m arching off the mattress, a broken moan tearing from my throat. “Tell me what you need, cariño.”

“I… I…” The words dissolve into a breathless whine, completely broken. My mind is a white void of pure sensation, wiped entirely clean of everything but the agonizingly perfect drag of his skin against mine. I let out a desperate whimper, helpless against the relentless rhythm that’s pushing me straight toward another precipice.

“Shh,” he breathes, the words a ragged promise against my neck. He seems to understand my incoherence better than I do. “I know.”

He slides his hand between our bodies. When his hand finds the swollen, aching heat between my legs, the slick friction of his touch is absolute electricity. A violent shockwave ripples through me, bucking my hips helplessly against him.

He shifts his hips, hitting a spot that makes my vision blur, and the sheer precision of it, the fact that he knows my body better than I know myself right now, makes my head spin. He's attuning himself to me, reading every tremor, every gasp like a map he’s memorized.

His lips graze the sensitive skin just below my ear, placing a kiss there that is tender, a stark contrast to the relentless rhythm of his hips. It’s a benediction, a silent vow spoken in the language of touch.

“I’m giving it to you,” he breathes, the words rough, pouring out of him like he’s been holding them back for a lifetime. “Everything you could ever want, it’s yours. Just say the word.”

"Give it to me, Santi," I gasp out, my voice raw and completely undone against his lips. "I'm yours. I believe you."

That breaks him. The rhythm shifts from that devastatingly slow torture to a desperate, driving cadence, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room, raw and rhythmic. He’s not holding anything back, pouring everything he is, every secret, every fear, every ounce of that desperate devotion he confessed, into the way he moves inside me. It’s frantic, almost violent in its intensity, a man running out of time trying to etch his soul into mine.

He keeps talking, a stream of praise and devotion that mixes with the ragged sounds of our exertion. He tells me I'm beautiful, that I'm his, that he's never felt anything like this in his life. Each word acts as a catalyst, wringing spasm after spasm from my exhausted body until I'm sobbing, completely undone by the sheer force of his devotion and the overwhelming, blinding pleasure of him.

A raw, ragged sob tears from my throat as the third climax crashes into me, harder and sharper than the first two. It blindsides me, a white-hot supernova that obliterates every thought, every doubt, every memory of the months spent feeling invisible. My body locks up, shaking violently beneath him, my inner muscles clamping around him like a vice.

I scream his name, my voice breaking as the pleasure turns almost painful in its intensity.

He growls low in his throat, a sound of pure satisfaction, and rides me through it. He doesn't stop the ruthless motion of his hips, doesn't stop the devastating circles of his fingers until I’m completely spent, collapsed and twitching against the mattress.

He follows me over the edge with a guttural groan that sounds like it’s been wrenched out of him, his rhythm finally stuttering and breaking. He buries himself to the hilt, holding there as his body bows, his hand blindly seeking mine on the mattress, pinning our fingers together and squeezing tight. He holds me with a reverence that borders on the divine, anchoring me through the intensity, ensuring that even in the midst of his own unraveling, I am cherished, safe, and held.

For a long, suspended moment, the world narrows down to the sound of our breathing, ragged, uneven, deafening in the quiet room. The air smells of sex and sweat and him, a scent that seems to imprint itself directly into my bloodstream.

He collapses over me, a sweat-slicked weight that presses me into the mattress, but he doesn't crush me. He catches himself on his elbows at the last second, burying his face in the crook of my neck as his body continues to shudder with the aftershocks.

His heart hammers against my spine, a heavy, frantic rhythm that matches the thumping in my own chest. We are a tangle of limbs, skin sticking to skin, the air around us thick and stifling in the best possible way.

For a long time, neither of us moves. The only sounds are the ragged intake of breath and the distant, muffled crackle of the fire pit dying outside the window. It’s like the world has stopped spinning, just for us, leaving us suspended in this bubble.

Eventually, he shifts his weight, rolling us onto our sides so he doesn't crush me, but he doesn't let go. He pulls me back into his chest, spooning me, his face buried in my hair. His arm is a possessive weight across my waist, his hand splayed flat against my stomach, holding me together.

I can feel his breath against the back of my neck, warm and uneven, slowly syncing with my own. The dim room feels smaller now, the shadows pressing in, but it doesn't feel claustrophobic. It feels like a bunker. Like the only safe place left on earth.

He presses a kiss to my shoulder, lingering there like he’s memorizing the taste of my skin. "You okay?”

I hum, turning my head just enough to catch his eye. The intensity from before is still there, but it’s softened now, melted into an unguarded warmth. It’s a look he rarely shows the world, reserved only for these quiet moments when the armor comes off.

"Yeah," I whisper, my throat feeling raw and used. "I'm more than okay."

The corner of his mouth kicks up, that familiar, crooked thing that used to make my stomach flip years ago and still manages to do a number on me now. He lifts his hand from my stomach, tracing the line of my jaw with a thumb that's rough and calloused, but gentle enough to make my eyes sting.

“I know you’re tired of words,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough vibration against my skin. “But I meant every fucking one of them. I’m not letting you go. I don’t care what it takes. I’m making sure you believe me.”

He pulls back just enough to search my eyes, his gaze dark and unwavering, daring me to look away. But I don't. A slow, challenging smirk tugs at my lips as a familiar heat begins to build all over again.

We didn't move from our spots by the pit. The fire had settled into a steady, low hum, its smoke hanging heavy in the space between us. Scattered bottles littered the ground, the lingering wreckage of a good night built on loud laughter and the familiar chaos of old friends.

Now, it’s quieter, the silence stretching tight like it’s waiting to snap. Santi is sitting in his chair, one arm draped lazily on the armrest, the other loosely holding the bottle in his lap. Yet nothing about him feels relaxed. He’s studying me, steady and unreadable, like he’s trying to figure me out while waiting for me to be the first one to give.

I keep my gaze fixed on the center of the pit, watching a piece of oak split open and spill fresh glowing embers into the ash. I think I’m hiding it well, the hollow ache in my chest, the humiliation, the exhaustion of trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

But Santi knows how to read me.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he finally speaks, his voice barely carrying over the steady hum of crickets.

I offer a simple shrug in response, looking down and wiping away the condensation on my drink with my thumb. “Just thinking.”

He exhales, disbelieving, before he shifts, easing out of his sluggish sprawl and into a more focused stance, elbows settling onto his knees.

“You’ve been staring a hole into that log for thirty minutes,” he says. “And I know you. When you get this deep in your head, it’s never about anything good.”

He sets his drink down between us with a quiet click.

“Talk to me,” he urges, his voice softening.

The fire pops, sending a brief scatter of sparks up into the night. I follow them instead of looking at him.

“Come on. I’m starting to think the fire’s better company than me. My ego can’t take that kind of hit.”

A tiny, reluctant smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “I’m sure your ego will do just fine, Santiago.”

I finally glance at him, a weak challenge slipping through.

“Keep looking at me like that and it might actually survive the night,” he responds, a faint, teasing glint in his eyes easing some of the weight in my chest.

I press my lips together, fighting a smile. “If your ego gets any bigger, it’s going to need its own chair.”

Santi lets out a low, huffed laugh, the sound rumbling deep in his chest and breaking clean through the quiet. A smile traces his mouth as he settles back, easing into his seat like the tension has drained out of him. One elbow hangs off loosely as he folds his hands, lazy confidence returning to his posture.

“There she is,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling. “My little smartass.”

Something in my chest twists at how easily he says it.

But the humor quickly fades, and what’s left between us turns heavier again.

Santi knows about the breakup. He knows I’ve been drowning in the aftermath, moving around our group like I’m afraid I’ll crack if anyone looks too closely. He hasn’t pushed, and I haven’t offered much, but he’s been there anyway, in the small ways that don’t feel small at all. In the way he kept handing me drinks without asking. The way he stepped in before anyone else could crowd me. How he just let me exist without making it a thing.

The awareness of it sits heavy in my throat.

“It’s embarrassing,” I admit quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

“What is?” he prods, quick but quiet.

“That I’m still upset over somebody who clearly didn’t care about me that much.”

My ex-boyfriend hangs between us in the silence that follows, his name unspoken but still somehow taking up space in the air.

Santi’s expression settles differently. The joking version of him is gone in an instant, like it never quite belonged in this part of the conversation anyway.

“He cheated on you,” he says flatly. “You’re allowed to be upset.”

I let out a small breath, too quick to mean anything.

“I mean... yeah,” I mutter, trying to shrug it off like it’s nothing. “It’s just one of those things. It happens.”

I swallow, thumb picking at the edge of the label of my drink.

“Or maybe it doesn’t just happen,” I add quieter, the words turning on me before I can stop them. “Maybe I made it easy to do it. I don’t know. People don’t usually just…do that unless something’s missing.”

“You really think that’s why he cheated?” he asks, brows drawn tight in a way that makes the question sound less like curiosity and more like disbelief.

Heat creeps up my neck. I squirm in my chair, suddenly aware of my hands, my face, the way I’m sitting like I’ve said things I shouldn’t have out loud.

“That’s not how that works,” he says firmly. “And you know it.”

“Do I?” I try, like I can deflect my way out of the truth.

“Yes.”

There’s no hesitation in the word. It lands hard between us.

“You were not the problem,” he adds. “Not even close.”

A quiet, disbelieving huff slips through my nose, like I don’t quite know what to make of that.

“He cheated on you,” he repeats matter-of-factly. “That’s on him.” He pauses, his jaw tightening like he’s holding back more words than he needs. “Not you.”

I look down at my bottle, turning it slowly in my hands like the motion can give me somewhere to put this. Heat crawls up the back of my neck again, slower this time, heavier, like I’ve been caught doing something I didn’t realize was visible.

“He blew it because of his own shit. Not because you were lacking.”

My fingers tighten around the glass. I hate how immediate the instinct is to argue, to find a crack in it, to make it somehow less absolute.

“And I’m not going to sit here and watch you carry that,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You don’t get to take the blame for his mess.”

My eyes flick away from him again, like I can physically avoid the point if I don’t look straight at it.

“I know you're hurting, but you're too smart for this,” he adds. “You're sharp, you're funny without trying, and you usually see right through bullshit.”

My throat tightens a little, but I keep my face still, giving him nothing except my attention.

“And, hermosa…” His voice drops lower. “You’re fucking beautiful. Stupidly so.”

I force a dry, awkward chuckle, shaking my head because I don't know what else to do with a compliment like that. It feels completely misplaced. But he doesn't laugh with me. He shakes his head once, his expression shifting like he knows he shouldn’t be saying what he’s about to say.

“Seriously. Half the time you walk into a room, I forget what the hell I was saying.”

My breath catches slightly, and I hate that it does.

“And yeah, most people wouldn’t know what to do with you,” he continues, voice tightening. “Because you don’t fit into whatever easy little box they’re looking for. But that’s their problem, not yours.”

A strange, uneasy warmth flickers through me.

“If you were with me…”

He exhales through his nose, like he almost doesn’t want to finish the thought, but does anyway.

“You wouldn’t be sitting here talking about yourself like this. Because I’d make damn sure you felt like you’re enough.”

The words land differently. He seems to realize it too. His jaw flexes, like he’s irritated by how honest it came out.

“All I’m saying is… Don't start letting his mistakes make you doubt who you are. You are more than enough.”

For a second, I don’t know what to do with the feeling that follows. It’s too warm, too sudden, like my body reacts before I can decide what I’m supposed to make of it. My heartbeat stumbles, then picks up again in a way I absolutely refuse to examine too closely.

So, I default to the only thing I trust in moments like this.

A small, shaky breath of laughter slips out of me. “You sound like a damn motivational poster.”

His mouth quirks. “Yeah?” He leans back a fraction, still watching on me. “Want me to put it on a sunset background for you? I could print it out. Frame it. Hang it on a wall so every time you walk past it you get a little boost.”

That does it.

A real laugh breaks through this time. It’s small, reluctant, but honest. It cuts the tension clean in half, like a thread finally snapping.

I shake my head, still smiling. “Please don’t.”

“I’m thinking bold font,” he continues. “Maybe cursive if I’m feeling dramatic. ‘You are more than enough.’” He gestures vaguely like he’s already hanging it up. “Right above the TV. Or your bed. Somewhere you can’t escape it. Maybe then it’ll sink into that pretty little head of yours how completely, undeniably enough you are.”

I laugh again, sharper this time.

“You are so drunk,” I say, pointing lightly at him. “You are absolutely not allowed to be in charge of decorating my house while you’re drunk.”

He looks offended in the most performative way possible. “What? I’m still sober.”

“Mhm,” I hum, still smiling. “Sober people don’t design inspirational poster walls for their emotionally damaged friends. So, please, for the love of God, leave the interior designing to the experts.”

“I wouldn't say I'm drunk enough for interior design,” he argues, pausing to take a slow sip of his beer. “But for this? Yeah. I’m at the perfect level.”

Shaking my head, I tilt my face up toward the stars, searching for a distraction in the dark sky. Anywhere that isn’t him. Because with Santi, it always feels like everything is one breath away from tipping into something else neither of us is pretending to control.

“Promise me something.”

“Hm?” I look in his direction out of the corner of my eye.

“You’re never going to let anyone make you feel small ever again,” he says, his voice dropping into a rough whisper. “You hear me? You like this, with your guard down, it looks too damn good on you.”

His words settle in me in a way I don’t immediately have words for. I don’t let myself react to how much I feel them.

“That could absolutely go on a poster,” I say, pointing at him lightly. “‘Never let anyone make you feel small.’ Maybe you should run some of these by Will.”

That earns a quiet exhale of laughter from him.

“I’m serious,” he says, like my deflection didn’t even register.

“So am I,” I counter back. “Can you imagine Will rolling up to a recruitment assembly with motivational posters like that? He’d make it maybe two minutes before someone dragged him off stage. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to see that.”

Santi shakes his head. He’s watching me like he means it in a way that isn’t just playful anymore.

“It’s kind of unfair, you know.”

“What is?” I ask, my laughter dying.

“How you sit there like you don’t know what you do to people,” he replies. “Like you don’t realize what you do when you walk into a room. Everything changes a little.”

My stomach flips. I go still without meaning to and force my gaze down to the bottle still in my hand, trying to focus on anything but him. Because I can feel it, this thin, dangerous edge beneath the moment, the sense that if either of us leans too far into this, we won’t just be talking anymore.

“Oh, stop,” I say teasingly, reaching for distance. “That’s how you flirt with everyone.”

“Not everyone,” he replies immediately.

I give him a slow, exaggerated look of disbelief. “Please. I’ve seen girls line up for your attention.”

“They’re interested,” he says flatly. “I’m not.”

I tilt my head. “Sure.”

The word comes out slow and skeptical, dragged out by the alcohol buzzing warmly through my system.

His eyes narrow a little. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shrug, taking another sip. “Nothing. Just figured if you keep taking girls home, there must be a thing or two you like about them.”

Santi huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“They’re easy,” he replies. “No pressure. No expectations. Everybody knows what it is.”

“Mm.” I glance at him over the rim of my beer. “Because God forbid anything be serious.”

His face goes still in a different way.

“You think I can’t do serious?” he asks quietly.

I hesitate just a second too long. In that empty beat, the truth catches up to me. I know Santi too well to doubt him. His loyalty is a heavy, fierce thing. He can keep promises. But he already means too damn much to me. Taking a risk on anyone else is one thing, but with Santi, the stakes are too high. If I were to ever let myself believe him and it somehow falls apart, it’ll ruin me.

“I can do serious,” he assures me after a beat, voice lower now, steadier in that way that means he’s actually thinking before he speaks. “I just don’t want to waste it.”

“Right,” I say lightly.

“I just… I’m waiting,” he finally reiterates, quieter. “That’s all.”

I blink at him, caught a little off guard by how serious he sounds. “Waiting for what?”

His attention holds mine a second too long, the firelight cutting sharp lines across his face, his stubble, mouth, the steady set of his jaw all softened and deepened by the glow, like he’s not in any rush to look away.

“The right girl.”

My stomach flips, a dizzying reaction to the beer and the sheer weight of his attention. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing left in the entire world, a focus so intense it leaves nowhere to hide. I force a rough laugh, trying to shake the feeling before it takes root.

“Oh my God,” I snort softly, sinking back into my chair. “Who are you and what have you done with Santiago Garcia?”

A slow grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “He’s around here somewhere.”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “And what exactly are you looking for in this right girl?”

The question comes out lighter than I mean for it to, teasing almost, but there’s a tightness curled underneath it. Because part of me wants to hear his answer more than I should, and the other part is already bracing for it. Afraid he’ll describe someone I could never be. Afraid he won’t.

He sinks back into the chair, loose-limbed and quiet, but his dark eyes remain pinned to mine.

“Someone who doesn’t take shit from anyone. And definitely not from me.”

I huff out a laugh. “Well, that already eliminates at least eighty percent of the population.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his mouth.

“She’d call me on my bullshit the second I earned it,” he says.

Another laugh. “So, you're looking for someone to keep you in line.”

His mouth twitches. “That's not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you said.”

“Pretty sure it's not.”

“All of you assholes need someone to keep you in line. Otherwise, things quickly become a total shitshow. And frankly, I’m tired of bailing all of you out of trouble.”

He holds my gaze for a second, his expression deadpan, before the tough-guy act cracks. A low laugh rumbles out of him. “Fair.”

I lean back, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “What else?”

“Probably a bit of a spitfire,” he says. “Smart mouth. Doesn’t back down. And doesn’t fall apart when things get hard.”

He pauses, like he’s deciding how honest he wants to be.

“Okay, sometimes she does,” he says, his voice dropping low, a trace of rough amusement in his chest. “But not for long. She’s too damn proud to let anyone think they broke her, or that she can’t handle her own shit.”

“Tough girl,” I murmur, the corner of my mouth tugging upward. “Sounds like she’d be a pain in the ass. You sure you can handle that?”

A quiet laugh slips out of him. “Yeah. I think I could.”

My gaze holds his a beat too long before I look away. “We’ll see about that.”

“I hope we do,” he replies, voice lower, the words lingering between us.

“Is that all?”

A faint breath of a laugh slips out of him, like he’s trying to keep it light and failing a little.

“She’s beautiful,” he says, the admission coming out quiet and rough, like he couldn't have held it back if he tried. He looks down at his beer for a split second, then right back up.

“But she’s completely blind to it,” he continues, his tone absolute. “It’s the kind of beautiful where she’s just going about her day, totally oblivious, until someone actually says it out loud. And then she just looks at you like you're speaking a different language.”

“Right. A gorgeous girl to make gorgeous babies,” I say, tossing him a dry smile. “Classic. I should have known that was on the checklist.”

Santi blinks once, then lets out a short, surprised laugh, more air than sound.

“Wait,” he says, leaning back a fraction like he’s recalibrating. “Are you saying that I’m gorgeous?”

There’s a flicker in his expression, something quick and unguarded before he reins it back in.

My eyes widen slightly when I realize what I just fed him.

“Slow your roll, Santiago,” I say immediately, cutting my eyes toward the fire to break the connection. “The kid's only hope is getting her genetics.”

“Damn,” he swears, shaking his head a little like he’s trying to shake the comment off. “Maybe my ego won’t survive tonight after all.”

I take a long, slow sip of my beer, letting the cold glass press against my bottom lip while I try to ignore the heat crawling up my neck.

“Well, whoever she is, she sounds exhausting.”

“She’s worth it,” he says, the words rough and certain in the quiet yard. “Trust me.”

The answer comes too fast. Too honest. Naturally, I deflect.

“You know,” I say, pointing at him, “most normal people would’ve just said ‘blonde’ or ‘brunette’ by now.”

His mouth curves slowly, eyes warm with amusement.

“Yeah, probably,” he replies. “But I don’t think the right person can be narrowed down to hair color.”

I release a small, skeptical hum. “That’s a very philosophical answer for a casual conversation.”

A quiet laugh slips out of him. “You asked.”

I exhale through my nose, lifting my bottle like I can toast the sentiment away.

“Well, I hope you find her. And I hope she’s prepared. Sounds like she’s got a whole lot to live up to.”

My words are meant to steer us back, but it doesn’t work.

Santi just watches me, his head tilted slightly, the firelight carving shadows under his cheekbones that make him look older, wearier, and more intense than usual. He lets the awkward silence hang there for a beat, letting my attempt to defuse the moment drift away like smoke, before he finally speaks.

“That’s the problem,” he murmurs, his dark eyes locking onto mine so intensely it almost makes my breath catch. “She doesn't get that she's been enough since day one.” He holds the silence, his voice falling to a rough whisper. “You really don't see it, do you?”

The fire pops, a sharp crack that sounds like a gunshot in the sudden, suffocating stillness. I freeze, my hand halfway to my mouth, the beer forgotten as the words settle over us.

I wait for the punchline, for the grin, the wink, the smooth deflection that turns this back into a joke, a tease between friends who have known each other for too long. But it doesn’t come.

Santi just stays there, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that feels almost physical. The lazy, charming facade he usually wears has completely vanished.

"Santi," I breathe out, the word barely more than a whisper. My heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Don't."

"Don't what?" he asks, seeming as though he isn’t going to back down. "Don't say it out loud? We've been dancing around this for years, and tonight you’re sitting here wondering why you weren't enough for some asshole who never deserved to breathe the same air as you. I'm done watching you do that to yourself."

I swallow hard, my grip tightening around the neck of my beer bottle until my knuckles turn white. "We're friends, Santi. The group-"

"I don't give a damn about the group," he interrupts, his tone fierce but steady. He sets his own bottle down on the table between us, entirely focused on me now. "And I haven't looked at you like just a friend in a very long time. You know that. Deep down, you do. And don't lie to me—I know you feel it, too."

The honesty of it feels like a physical blow. The safety net of our banter is completely gone, stripped away by a few words spoken in the quiet of the night. I look down at my lap, unable to hold his gaze any longer because it feels too exposing, like he's looking right into the bruised, aching parts of my soul.

"I can't do this right now," I utter, my voice trembling slightly. "My head is a mess, Santi. I'm still... I'm still trying to fix what he broke."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him move. He abandons his chair and crouches in front of me instead, closing the space between us. He doesn’t touch me, he knows better than to push that boundary, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him, steady and unavoidable.

“Then let me help you carry it,” he murmurs. “I’m not asking you to jump into anything. I’m not asking you to just… get over it. I’m just telling you where I am. Where I’ve been. So, when you finally look up, you don’t have to wonder who’s still here.”

I finally lift my head, my eyes searching his face. The shadows do nothing to hide the absolute sincerity in his expression. There’s no game here. No clever lines designed to get a girl into bed. Just Santi, completely raw and uncovered.

"Why haven’t you ever said anything before?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

A faint, wry smile touches his lips, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Because you were always with someone else. Then you were with him. And as much as it killed me to watch, you were trying to make it work. I wasn't going to mess up your life just because I wanted you. But he threw you away. And I'll be damned before I let anyone else make you feel like you're the one who failed."

A single tear slips free, hot against my cold cheek. I wipe it away quickly, annoyed by my own vulnerability.

Santi’s hand twitches on the armrest of my chair, a clear instinct to reach out and brush the dampness from my skin, but he restrains himself, keeping his unspoken promise not to crowd me. The self-control itself speaks volumes. It shows a level of care that I haven't experienced in a very long time.

The silence returns, but it’s entirely different now, moving from the suffocating weight of my own misery to the electric, terrifying hum of a line that has just been permanently crossed.

Santi watches me, waiting out my shock.

"You're lying," I whisper, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I shake my head, backing my shoulders deeper into the wooden chair, trying to create distance that doesn't exist. "You’re just... you’re being nice. You see me drowning and you’re trying to throw me a lifeline, but this isn't funny, Santi."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" His voice is dead serious, devoid of the usual easy cadence that makes everyone draw toward him. "I don't lie to you. I never have.”

"Everyone lies," I snap, a sudden flash of defense mechanism flaring up to protect the raw, bruised parts of my chest. "He said he loved me. He promised he’d never hurt me. He swore up and down that I was the only one, and look where that got me. Sitting by a dying fire, feeling like a ghost in my own life."

"I am not him," Santi says, each word a deliberate strike. "I don't make promises I can't keep. If I tell you you're the only thing I'm looking at, I mean it. If I tell you I'm going to be here, I'm not going anywhere. I promise you, if you give me a chance-"

"Stop. Just stop with the promises." I cut him off, a sharp, ragged breath leaving me. I look away, staring blindly at the edge of the brick firepit because looking at the sincerity in his eyes hurts too much. "I don't care about promises. I don't believe them anymore. They're just sentences people say to get what they want in the moment."

I squeeze my eyes shut, my throat tight and burning.

"I'm sorry, but I’m tired of words, Santi. I am so damn tired of them."

The confession hangs in the cool night air. I expect him to defend himself, to give me another speech, or to pull back into his usual protective layer of sarcasm. Instead, the yard goes completely still.

When I finally open my eyes and risk a glance back at him, the frustration on his face has cracked open, revealing something desperate. He’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s dying to solve, like he’d tear his own chest open if it meant giving me a reason to trust him.

"Then tell me what to do," he begs, his deep voice carrying a rare, vulnerable edge. He reaches out, his hand hovering in the space between us for a heartbeat before he lets his fingers rest lightly against the edge of my knee, just a fraction of contact, but it feels like lightning. “How can I make you believe me?”

I swallow, trying to find the version of myself that knows how to joke this off, but it’s inconveniently missing.

“Santi,” I start, but it comes out quieter than I mean it to.

His thumb moves slightly, not pushing, not pulling, just there, waiting.

“Look. If you need space,” he says, voice gone rough around the edges now, “I’ll give it to you. You want me gone? Fine. You want to act like this was a mistake? I’ll play along.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, bitter and tired all at once, dragging a hand over his mouth before looking at me again.

“But if you’re asking me what I want…” His gaze lifts to mine, steady and unflinching. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Another pause, smaller this time, like he’s deciding whether to cross a line he can’t uncross.

“You want me to prove it?” he asks, his voice dropping into a rough, low growl that makes my chest ache. He looks at me like he wants to shake me, or kiss me, or both. “Fine. Tell me what you need, and I’m there. You want me to follow you anywhere? Done. You want me on my knees? Just say the damn word. I will do whatever it takes to make you believe me.”

His hand doesn’t move away. It stays there, warm and grounding on the denim of my jeans.

An aching sob catches in my throat, and I swallow it down, my eyes swimming as I finally look straight at him. I want to believe him. Every broken, exhausted piece of me wants to lean into the warmth he’s offering and stop fighting the current. I want to believe that someone could look at me and see everything he just described.

Because beneath all my panic, a stubborn voice in the back of my mind refuses to let me lie to myself. I’m afraid of the risk, yes, but I am not afraid of him. For all his massive size and lethal capability, Santi is the only person alive who makes me feel entirely safe. I know with absolute certainty that he would burn the world down before he ever let a single scratch come to me.

"No more words,” I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of it. I look down at his hand on my knee, then back up to his gaze.

Santi freezes.

“Don't talk about it anymore. Just show me.”

For a long, agonizing beat, he doesn’t move. The easy confidence, the absolute certainty that usually radiates from him, falters. His jaw works, a muscle twitching violently under his stubble as he looks at me. He searches my eyes, his own dark and swirling with a sudden conflict. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Santiago Garcia hesitate, and the sheer weight of it makes my breath hitch.

Finally, he swallows.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his hand tightening just a fraction against my knee. “Because you need to understand something. If I cross this line with you, that’s it for me. No going back to how it was. I’m not playing games with you, cariño, so don’t try to play with me.”

“I’m sure,” I reply, and I mean it down to my bones. I slide my hand over his where it rests on my knee, feeling the rough warmth of his skin. “I want to believe you, Santi. I do. I'm tired of running from it. I'm tired of pretending I don't want this.”

I reach down, my fingers wrapping around his wrist, feeling the heavy, unsteady thrum of his pulse under my palm. For a second, he just looks at me like he’s trying to figure out if I really mean it, or if I’m about to pull away again the second it gets too real.

When I tug his hand upward, he lets me. He just follows, slow, like he’s giving me the space to set the terms myself. My grip tightens a fraction, not letting him slip out of it.

“So, if I’m really the one you’re waiting for…,” I whisper, turning his hand over in mine and pressing his palm flat against my chest. My heart is hammering against his skin, frantic and uneven, but I hold his hand there anyway. “No more pretty words. I've heard them all before. If you want me to believe you, Santi... Prove it.”

It’s then that I finally look at him.

“Show me I’m all that you need.”

The hesitation snaps.

Santi reaches out, his large hands anchoring against the sides of my face. His palms are warm, rough, and completely steady against my burning skin. He gently tilts my head and brushes his thumb over my cheekbone, catching a stray tear before it can fall.

He doesn't have to say a word. The fierce, consuming focus in his eyes tells me everything.

Then, he leans in, and the space between us vanishes.

When his mouth finds mine, it’s a crash of heat and absolute certainty, a silent vow pressed against my lips that completely takes the air from my lungs. It’s fierce, hungry, and so deeply possessive it makes my head spin.

My hands act on their own, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer because the sudden rush of warmth is the only thing keeping me anchored.

Santi groans into the kiss, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates straight through my chest. One of his hands slides down from my face, his fingers tangling in my hair to hold me steady, while his other hand moves to the back of my neck, his thumb anchoring my jaw. He kisses me like he’s trying to rewrite every lie I’ve ever been told, tracing the seam of my lips with a desperation that leaves no room for doubt.

Every defense mechanism I’ve spent weeks building up simply disintegrates.

And then, as abruptly as it began, he pulls back just an inch. The breath leaves him in a ragged, uneven rush against my lips.

The dark, heated look in his eyes takes over completely, swallowing any trace of hesitation. The tough, unyielding soldier vanished, replaced by a raw, single-minded focus that zeroes in on me like he’s been waiting for this exact command his entire life. The transformation is terrifying and absolute. It’s the look of a man who would burn the world down if I asked him to or kneel in the ashes to worship me if that’s what I needed.

The movement is fluid, controlled, his knees hitting the ground. He doesn't break eye contact for a second, his gaze locked on mine as he settles there, a supplicant at my altar.

He is massive, a wall of muscle and coiled power, and yet he looks completely disarmed like this. Stripped of his defenses, he's looking up at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the entire world.

He places his hands on my knees, his palms warm and rough through the denim. The heat of them sinks into my skin, branding me. He rests them there, waiting.

For a moment, I only stare at him, stunned by the sight of Santi on his knees before me. This is a man who commands rooms, who leads teams into hell and back, and here he is, kneeling in the dirt at my feet. The power rush is heady, dizzying, making the blood pound in my ears.

He waits, letting me take this in, letting me see him like this.

Slowly, his hands begin to move. They slide up my thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight up my spine. He's taking his time, exploring the terrain like he's memorizing it, his touch reverent but demanding.

"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked, vibrating against my skin.

"Worship me," I breathe, the command barely a whisper.

Santi’s eyes darken further, the pupils swallowing the iris until there’s almost nothing left. A low, ragged sound tears from his throat, something halfway between a groan and a growl, and he surges forward.

His hands slide from my knees to my hips, fingers hooking into the belt loops of my jeans to drag me to the very edge of the chair. I gasp at the sudden movement, my back arching as he pulls me flush against him, his face burying itself in the space between my legs.

He inhales deeply, like he’s trying to breathe me in, memorize my scent, and the sheer intimacy of the action makes my head spin.

"Fuck," he grits out, the word muffled against the denim. "You smell so fucking good.”

His hands move to the button of my jeans with practiced ease, popping it open and dragging the zipper down with agonizing slowness. The sound of the teeth parting is deafening in the quiet night. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my jeans and panties both, pulling them down my legs in one rough tug.

I lift my hips to help him, unable to look away from the sight of him, on his knees, doing exactly what I asked. The cool night air hits my heated skin, raising goosebumps, but his hands are there a second later, warm and grounding on my bare thighs.

He doesn’t give me a moment to feel exposed. He leans in immediately, his broad shoulders spreading my knees wider, forcing me open to the night air and his gaze. The firelight catches the sharp planes of his face as he dips his head, his breath hot against my inner thigh.

“Santi,” I gasp, my fingers flying to his hair, threading through the thick, dark curls.

He hums against my skin, a low, vibrating sound that sends a shockwave of electricity straight to my core. He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, then higher, his lips tracing a slow, torturous path up the sensitive skin of my thigh. He isn’t rushing. Every press of his mouth feels like a brand, staking a claim in the most tender way possible.

He works his way higher, his mouth leaving a trail of fire against my inner thighs. The scrape of his day-old stubble is a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips, sending shivers racing up my spine that have nothing to do with the chill in the air. He takes his time, mapping the terrain with a reverence that makes my chest ache, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of skin he’s been denied for so long.

When he finally reaches the apex of my thighs, he pauses. He pulls back just enough to look up at me, his eyes burning with a dark, fierce intensity. The sight of him, strong and unshakeable Santi, kneeling between my legs, looking at me like I’m the only holy thing left in the world, is almost enough to undo me right there.

“Look at you.”

The air between us is electric, charged with the weight of the moment. His eyes are pools of molten heat, filled with a raw, undisguised hunger that makes my breath hitch. He doesn't look away, his stare pinning me in place as he leans in, his breath ghosting over my exposed, aching flesh.

"You’re a fucking goddess," he murmurs, the words a dark rasp against my skin.

He seals his mouth over me with a desperate, hungry groan that vibrates through my entire body, his tongue flattening against my clit with a firm, pressured stroke.

My back bows off the chair, a broken cry tearing from my throat as my fingers tighten in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, but he doesn’t flinch. If anything, the pain seems to spur him on. He growls low against me, the sound rough and possessive, his hands gripping my thighs with bruising force to hold me open for him.

He eats me like he’s starving.

His tongue moves with a devastating precision, curling and flicking in ways that make my vision blur. There is no hesitation, no tentative exploration, only a relentless, consuming rhythm. He alternates between broad, flat strokes that cover every inch of me and sharp, targeted flicks of his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves that sends shockwaves racing up my spine.

I can’t think. I can’t breathe. The only thing that exists is the heat of his mouth, the rough grip of his hands on my thighs, and the desperate, embarrassing sounds escaping my own throat.

He changes his angle, dragging his lower lip through my folds before suctioning his mouth around my clit, sucking hard. My hips jerk instinctively, chasing the friction, but his grip tightens, iron-clad, holding me exactly where he wants me. He hums against me, the vibration radiating through my pelvis, down my thighs, settling deep in my bones.

The pressure builds, a tight, coiling knot low in my belly that threatens to snap. His name falls from my lips like a chant, a broken prayer. He doubles down, sliding one hand from my thigh, his fingers teasing my entrance before thrusting inside, curling upward to find that spot that makes me see stars.

The dual sensation is too much. The fullness of his fingers, the ruthless suction of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble. It’s a sensory overload that shatters me.

"Santi, I-," I gasp, my thighs trembling violently around his ears.

He doesn't let up. If anything, he presses harder, his tongue flicking rapidly while his fingers curl inside me, hitting that perfect, devastating spot over and over again. The coil in my belly snaps, white-hot and blinding.

My orgasm tears through me with the force of a freight train. I cry out, my back arching violently off the chair as the pleasure overwhelms my senses, wiping out everything but the feel of his mouth and hands. My entire body shakes, the tension releasing in a rush that leaves me gasping for air, my vision spotting with black and white.

He works me through it, drawing out every aftershock until I’m a trembling, oversensitive mess, completely boneless against the chair. The relentless rhythm of his tongue finally slows, turning into soft, languid laps that soothe rather than consume, gently bringing me down from the high.

I sag back, my chest heaving, staring up at the starless sky as my heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I feel wrecked, utterly spent.

Santi presses one last, lingering kiss to the inside of my thigh, a tender contrast to the bruising grip of his hands just moments ago. Then, he pulls back slightly, but he doesn't stand. He rests his forehead against my knee, his own breathing ragged and uneven, the heat of it seeping into my sweat-slicked skin.

The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the ragged sound of our breathing. For a long moment, he stays there, forehead resting against my knee, grounding us both. The rough stubble of his jaw scrapes against my skin, a tangible reminder of the intensity of what just happened.

He pulls back to look up at me, his eyes tracing the lines of my face as if he’s committing this moment to memory. The look in his eyes is fierce, a dark, possessive glint that says I’m his, and he’s not letting me go.

Slowly, he rises to his feet. The movement is effortless, a display of raw power that steals the breath I’m still trying to catch. He looms over me, his silhouette blocking out the firelight, a giant in the darkness. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to.

He reaches down, his hands sliding under my arms, and lifts. He scoops me up against his chest like I weigh nothing at all, one arm hooked behind my knees and the other braced firmly against my back. My head lolls against his shoulder, my face burying in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him.

The transition from the cool night air to the house is instantaneous, the warmth of the interior wrapping around us as he kicks the door shut behind him. He moves through the hallway with a predatory grace, his steps sure and silent on the floorboards.

I’m loose-limbed and floating, my body still humming with the aftershocks, my face pressed against the steady thrum of his heartbeat. I don't look up to see where we're going. I just let him carry me, trusting him completely to take me where I need to be.

He kicks the door to his bedroom open and carries me inside. He deposits me on the bed with a controlled drop, the mattress dipping under my weight.

I look up at him, breathless, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across his frame. He stands at the edge of the bed, staring down at me with a hunger that makes my throat go dry.

Santi stands there, chest heaving, his eyes dragging over me with a slow perusal that feels like a physical touch. He’s taking me in, and the look on his face is pure, unfiltered sin. He reaches back, gripping the hem of his shirt, and peels it off in one fluid motion, tossing it aside without looking.

The moonlight catches the hard planes of his chest, the definition of his abs, the scars that map his history. He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost violent, all coiled strength and restrained power.

“Come here,” I breathe, reaching for him.

He just stands there, letting his eyes trace the line of my body like he’s memorizing a map he intends to conquer. The silence stretches until the weight of his stare becomes a physical thing, pressing me into the mattress.

“Patience,” he chides, though the rough edge to his voice betrays him. His hands go to his belt, the metal clinking in the quiet room as he undoes it, then the button of his jeans. “I’m not rushing this. Not now.”

Santi’s dark eyes never leave mine as his hands hook into the waist of his jeans, pushing the denim down over his hips. The fabric bunches around his thighs before he steps out of them completely, kicking them aside with a careless movement that underscores his absolute focus on me.

He stands completely bare before me. He is magnificent, all long, powerful lines, the muscle of his thighs and the sharp, tensed V-cut of his lower stomach leading down to the undeniable, rigid proof of how badly he wants me. There is nothing hidden anymore. The vulnerability of his nakedness is entirely eclipsed by the raw, dominant presence he commands just by standing there.

A low, involuntary gasp slips from my throat at the sheer sight of him.

A slow, dark smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it disappears just as quickly, replaced by that heavy-lidded, consuming lust that has been burning in his eyes. He steps toward the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking deeply under his weight as he settles a knee on the mattress, looming over me once more.

"You like what you see?" he murmurs, his deep voice scraping low in his chest as he crawls forward, positioning himself over my body. "Because it's all yours. Every single inch."

He braces himself on his forearms, caging me in, his weight settling heavily on top of me in a way that feels like an anchor. The friction of his skin against mine sends a fresh shockwave of heat through my system, waking up nerves that are already raw and oversensitive.

I arch my neck back into the pillow, my hands coming up to wrap around his biceps, feeling the hard, tensed muscle beneath my palms. . I look up into his eyes, dark and steady, weighted with something unreadable, the kind that feel like they see too much and say too little. I’m completely helpless against the pull of him, unable to look away.

"I've never seen anything more perfect," I whisper, my voice trembling but entirely honest. I slide my hands up to his shoulders, pulling him down just that fraction closer until his breath mixes with mine. "

"God, you are so beautiful," he growls, the words raspy and unpolished as he stares down at me. His gaze roves over my face like he’s trying to memorize every line, every flush of my skin in the dim light. "I've been going out of my mind wanting you like this. It’s always been you."

He doesn't wait for me to answer, his mouth dropping down to claim mine again.

This time, the kiss is deeper, slower, filled with a quiet reverence that leaves me entirely breathless. He parts my lips with a possessive assurance, tasting me fully, while his fingers tangle into my hair to tilt my head just right. The sheer warmth of him floods through me, drowning out the lingering cold of everything that came before, until there is nothing left but the weight of his body and the absolute certainty of his mouth against mine.

He shifts, his mouth trailing a path of burning heat down the line of my jaw, finding the sensitive spot just beneath my ear. A low, ragged breath escapes him before he buries his lips against my throat. He kisses me there, deep and possessive, his tongue tracing the frantic, erratic beat of my pulse until my entire body arches into his touch.

The contrast of his heavy, solid weight against me and the deliberate, torturous precision of his mouth sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to my core.

“Santi, please,” I gasp, my hips lifting off the mattress in a desperate, silent plea. I need him to fill the ache, to stop the trembling that hasn't ceased since he put his mouth on me.

He hovers over me, bracing his weight on one arm while the other slides between us. He grips himself and runs the length of his cock through my folds, coating himself in the wet heat he left there. The friction is maddening, a slow, deliberate drag that makes my hips jerk off the mattress, chasing the contact.

“Eyes on me,” he orders, his voice a rough scrape against the quiet.

I force my eyes open, meeting that dark, consuming gaze. He’s watching me with an unblinking intensity, tracking every flutter of my eyelashes, every ragged breath that tears through my lips.

He doesn't ask again. He lines himself up and pushes forward, sinking into me with a slow, deliberate thrust. The stretch is intense, a burning, full pressure that borders on too much, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't give me a chance to adjust to the invasion. He just keeps coming, burying himself deep until his hips are flush against mine and there is nowhere left to go.

A ragged sound tears from my throat, half-gasp, half-moan. My body bows off the mattress, instinctively trying to accommodate the sheer size of him, my hands flying to his shoulders to hold on.

He holds himself there, deep and impossibly still, letting my body adjust to the invasion, letting me feel every thick inch of him stretching me wide. His breath is hot against my neck, ragged and uneven, the only sign that the iron control he’s famous for is hanging by a thread.

“Breathe,” he raps against my skin, his hand coming up to cup the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive spot behind my ear. “Just breathe, cariño. I got you.”

I try to obey, forcing air into lungs that feel seized, my internal muscles fluttering around him as they try to accommodate his size. He groans low in his throat, a dark, broken sound, his hips jerking involuntarily against me.

Then, he begins to move. A steady, punishingly deep rhythm that feels designed to completely dismantle me from the inside out. It’s a takeover. He refuses to let me look away, his dark eyes locked onto mine in the dim light filtering through the window, forcing me to witness every hitch in his breath, every tightening of his jaw, as if he's carving his name into my skin.

He leans down, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his teeth grazing my collarbone as his pace quickens, the friction and heat spiraling out of control.

“You’re it for me,” he confesses brokenly, his voice cracking against my ear as he drives us both over the edge. “But you get to decide if I stay yours the same way you’re mine.”

The admission hangs in the air, heavier than the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. It’s a detonation in the quiet room, shattering whatever fragile walls we’ve been hiding behind. The raw honesty in his voice, the way it cracks on the words, undoes me completely.

My heart lurches, a jagged, painful beat that matches the rhythm of his hips. I dig my heels into the mattress, lifting to meet him, my hands threading into his hair to pull him closer, needing him to merge with me, to erase the line where he ends and I begin. The coil in my belly tightens to the breaking point, white-hot and desperate, pulled by the drag of his body and the gravity of his confession.

“I’m yours, Santi,” I gasp, his name a prayer on my lips. “I’m yours…and you’re mine.”

He lets out a shuddering breath against my neck, as if my words have physically disarmed him, stripping away the last of his composure. But instead of driving into me harder, as his coiled muscles suggest he might, he slows. He pulls back to look at me, his expression fierce, reverent, almost pained in its intensity.

He brings a hand between us, his calloused palm tracing the line of my jaw, his thumb dragging over my lower lip until I part for him. He leans down, pressing his lips to my forehead, then the tip of my nose, then my cheeks, scattering kisses like he’s trying to memorize my features by braille.

“Mine,” he repeats, agreeing with my declaration, making it a vow. He shifts his weight, sliding one arm under my waist to tilt my hips up, changing the angle so he brushes against a spot that makes me see stars. “I’m going to take such good fucking care of you.”

He starts to move again, but the rhythm has changed. The punishing pace is gone, replaced by a deliberate, devastating slowness. He’s worshiping me with his body, using every inch of himself to show me what he can’t say with words alone.

He presses his lips to my temple, then down to the hollow of my throat, his tongue darting out to taste the salt on my skin.

“Fuck,” he exhales quietly, like the words aren’t enough for what he means. “You’re so beautiful it’s not even fair.”

His hips roll in a shallow, grinding wave, hitting that deep, tender spot inside me over and over until I’m a writhing mess beneath him. He’s taking his time, dragging out every sensation, forcing me to feel every ridge, every vein, every thick inch of him as he strokes the fire higher. His hands roam my body, gripping my thighs, tracing the curve of my waist, tangling in my hair, holding me steady for his possession.

He shifts slightly, bringing one hand between us where we are joined, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves with unerring precision. The dual sensation of him filling me and the tight, circling pressure of his thumb is devastating. My back arches off the bed, a broken cry spilling from my lips as the pleasure spikes sharp and blinding.

“Let go for me,” he commands softly, his voice dark and rough against my ear. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

He doesn’t stop. He works me with a relentless, focused dedication, watching my face with that piercing gaze as the tension in my belly winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap. The pleasure builds to a crescendo, a white-hot wave that crashes over me, pulling me under. I cry out his name, my body clamping down around him as the orgasm rips through me, leaving me gasping and shaking in its wake.

The aftershocks are still rippling through me, turning my bones to liquid, when Santi withdraws. The sudden emptiness is a jarring loss, a cold void where he just was, but he doesn’t give me time to mourn the absence. His hands are on me instantly, gripping my hips with a firm, undeniable pressure.

“Turn over,” he rasps, the command rough but laced with that same dark reverence.

I’m too wrecked to do anything but obey. I roll onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow to muffle a sound that’s half-sob, half-moan. My body is humming, oversensitive, every nerve ending exposed. I feel the mattress dip as he moves behind me, the heat of his skin radiating against mine even before he touches me.

His hands grip my waist, rough and demanding, pulling me up until I’m on my hands and knees. The position leaves me vulnerable, my back arched and exposed to him, but the vulnerability only serves to heighten the anticipation. I feel the mattress shift as he moves in behind me, the heat of his thighs brushing against the backs of mine. He’s a furnace at my back, a wall of solid muscle and restrained aggression.

He doesn’t enter me immediately. He takes a moment to appreciate the view, his calloused palms running over the curve of my spine, tracing the dip of my lower back before gripping my ass firmly. His touch is possessive, kneading the flesh, branding me as his own.

“God, look at you,” he groans, the sound rough and low, vibrating against my skin. “Perfect like this. All for me.”

He leans down, the heat of his chest pressing against my back, molding us together. The hair on his chest tickles my skin, a sharp contrast to the steel-hard muscles beneath. He doesn't rush; he takes a moment to bracket my body with his, caging me in. One arm slides under my chest, pulling me back against him until my shoulder blades are flush with his pecs, while his other hand grips my hip, anchoring me in place.

I can feel the thud of his heart against my spine, a frantic rhythm that matches my own. His breath is hot against the sensitive shell of my ear, sending shivers down my neck even as the rest of me burns.

“Santi,” I whimper, my head falling back onto his shoulder, exposing my throat to him in a gesture of total surrender. “Please.”

He doesn't make me wait any longer. He lines himself up and sinks into me in one deep, fluid stroke, a possessive invasion that forces a broken cry from my lips. The angle is deeper this way, devastatingly so, and I grip the bedsheets, knuckles white, as he seats himself fully inside.

“I got you,” he growls against the sensitive skin of my neck, his voice vibrating through my chest.

He pulls back then enters me again in one smooth stroke, and this time the angle is deeper, devastatingly so. I cry out, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on the sheets, but he has me locked down. There is no escaping the intensity of him, the way he fills every inch of space, physical and otherwise.

The friction is maddening, a slow drag that pulls against every nerve ending. He’s more than fucking me. He’s imprinting himself on me, ensuring that every inch of my body remembers the shape of him. The arm across my chest is a steel band, his hand splayed wide over my sternum, feeling the frantic race of my heart.

He shifts his hips, changing the angle just enough to hit that spot that makes spots dance behind my eyelids, and a high, thin sound tears from my throat. His response is a low, dark chuckle that he presses directly into the sweat-slicked skin of my shoulder.

“You feel that?” he rasps, his teeth grazing the tendon where my neck meets my shoulder. “That’s where I belong. Deep inside you.”

He buries his face in the curve of my neck, inhaling me like I’m the only source of oxygen left in a burning room. The intimacy of this position is overwhelming. I can’t hide from him like this. I’m completely spread open, trapped against the hard wall of his chest, forced to feel every ragged breath he takes, every twitch of the muscles that are caging me in.

“Santi, please,” I sob, the sound broken and breathless. “It’s too much. I can’t-”

“You can,” he cuts me off fiercely, his hand sliding up from my chest to wrap around my throat, tilting my head back further. His grip is firm, possessive, anchoring me to him. “You were made for this. Made for me. Do you trust me?”

“I trust you.”

“Good,” he groans, the words breaking on a thrust that feels like a prayer. “I want to show you what you do to me, how completely you have me on my knees. Fuck, I’d do anything for you.” The words are punched out of him with every thrust, raw and desperate and terrifyingly loud in the quiet room. "I need you. I need you in a way I don’t really know what to do with.”

His grip on my throat tightens just enough to make my pulse hammer against his palm, a possessive, grounding pressure that sends a fresh shockwave of heat straight to my core. The vulnerability of the position, the sheer weight of him surrounding me, is intoxicating. I feel claimed, not just in my body but in the very air I breathe.

“Please,” I gasp, my voice breaking as he hits a spot that makes the room tilt on its axis.

“Please what?” He doesn't let up. If anything, the angle sharpens, grinding deep until I’m arching off the mattress, a broken moan tearing from my throat. “Tell me what you need, cariño.”

“I… I…” The words dissolve into a breathless whine, completely broken. My mind is a white void of pure sensation, wiped entirely clean of everything but the agonizingly perfect drag of his skin against mine. I let out a desperate whimper, helpless against the relentless rhythm that’s pushing me straight toward another precipice.

“Shh,” he breathes, the words a ragged promise against my neck. He seems to understand my incoherence better than I do. “I know.”

He slides his hand between our bodies. When his hand finds the swollen, aching heat between my legs, the slick friction of his touch is absolute electricity. A violent shockwave ripples through me, bucking my hips helplessly against him.

He shifts his hips, hitting a spot that makes my vision blur, and the sheer precision of it, the fact that he knows my body better than I know myself right now, makes my head spin. He's attuning himself to me, reading every tremor, every gasp like a map he’s memorized.

His lips graze the sensitive skin just below my ear, placing a kiss there that is tender, a stark contrast to the relentless rhythm of his hips. It’s a benediction, a silent vow spoken in the language of touch.

“I’m giving it to you,” he breathes, the words rough, pouring out of him like he’s been holding them back for a lifetime. “Everything you could ever want, it’s yours. Just say the word.”

"Give it to me, Santi," I gasp out, my voice raw and completely undone against his lips. "I'm yours. I believe you."

That breaks him. The rhythm shifts from that devastatingly slow torture to a desperate, driving cadence, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room, raw and rhythmic. He’s not holding anything back, pouring everything he is, every secret, every fear, every ounce of that desperate devotion he confessed, into the way he moves inside me. It’s frantic, almost violent in its intensity, a man running out of time trying to etch his soul into mine.

He keeps talking, a stream of praise and devotion that mixes with the ragged sounds of our exertion. He tells me I'm beautiful, that I'm his, that he's never felt anything like this in his life. Each word acts as a catalyst, wringing spasm after spasm from my exhausted body until I'm sobbing, completely undone by the sheer force of his devotion and the overwhelming, blinding pleasure of him.

A raw, ragged sob tears from my throat as the third climax crashes into me, harder and sharper than the first two. It blindsides me, a white-hot supernova that obliterates every thought, every doubt, every memory of the months spent feeling invisible. My body locks up, shaking violently beneath him, my inner muscles clamping around him like a vice.

I scream his name, my voice breaking as the pleasure turns almost painful in its intensity.

He growls low in his throat, a sound of pure satisfaction, and rides me through it. He doesn't stop the ruthless motion of his hips, doesn't stop the devastating circles of his fingers until I’m completely spent, collapsed and twitching against the mattress.

He follows me over the edge with a guttural groan that sounds like it’s been wrenched out of him, his rhythm finally stuttering and breaking. He buries himself to the hilt, holding there as his body bows, his hand blindly seeking mine on the mattress, pinning our fingers together and squeezing tight. He holds me with a reverence that borders on the divine, anchoring me through the intensity, ensuring that even in the midst of his own unraveling, I am cherished, safe, and held.

For a long, suspended moment, the world narrows down to the sound of our breathing, ragged, uneven, deafening in the quiet room. The air smells of sex and sweat and him, a scent that seems to imprint itself directly into my bloodstream.

He collapses over me, a sweat-slicked weight that presses me into the mattress, but he doesn't crush me. He catches himself on his elbows at the last second, burying his face in the crook of my neck as his body continues to shudder with the aftershocks.

His heart hammers against my spine, a heavy, frantic rhythm that matches the thumping in my own chest. We are a tangle of limbs, skin sticking to skin, the air around us thick and stifling in the best possible way.

For a long time, neither of us moves. The only sounds are the ragged intake of breath and the distant, muffled crackle of the fire pit dying outside the window. It’s like the world has stopped spinning, just for us, leaving us suspended in this bubble.

Eventually, he shifts his weight, rolling us onto our sides so he doesn't crush me, but he doesn't let go. He pulls me back into his chest, spooning me, his face buried in my hair. His arm is a possessive weight across my waist, his hand splayed flat against my stomach, holding me together.

I can feel his breath against the back of my neck, warm and uneven, slowly syncing with my own. The dim room feels smaller now, the shadows pressing in, but it doesn't feel claustrophobic. It feels like a bunker. Like the only safe place left on earth.

He presses a kiss to my shoulder, lingering there like he’s memorizing the taste of my skin. "You okay?”

I hum, turning my head just enough to catch his eye. The intensity from before is still there, but it’s softened now, melted into an unguarded warmth. It’s a look he rarely shows the world, reserved only for these quiet moments when the armor comes off.

"Yeah," I whisper, my throat feeling raw and used. "I'm more than okay."

The corner of his mouth kicks up, that familiar, crooked thing that used to make my stomach flip years ago and still manages to do a number on me now. He lifts his hand from my stomach, tracing the line of my jaw with a thumb that's rough and calloused, but gentle enough to make my eyes sting.

“I know you’re tired of words,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough vibration against my skin. “But I meant every fucking one of them. I’m not letting you go. I don’t care what it takes. I’m making sure you believe me.”

He pulls back just enough to search my eyes, his gaze dark and unwavering, daring me to look away. But I don't. A slow, challenging smirk tugs at my lips as a familiar heat begins to build all over again.

The helmet tilted slightly toward you.

“Quiet,” he shot back immediately, voice low and edged with the same irritation while looking down.

Very much down.

Because while the two of you had been sprinting through corridors trying to shake the men chasing you, this tiny hiding place had appeared during a frantic scan of the hallway. Without pausing to debate the idea, Din had grabbed you by the arm and shoved you inside.

He followed a heartbeat later.

The security panel had slid shut with a quiet thunk.

Only then had the reality of the situation become clear.

The space was barely large enough for one adult standing upright. With both of you inside, it became an exercise in awkward geometry.

Din stood with his back pressed firmly against the sealed panel. One armored arm braced against the wall in front of him, creating a makeshift support so he wouldn’t lose his balance in the cramped quarters.

At least he was standing.

You, on the other hand…

You lifted your gaze slowly.

From the floor.

From where you were kneeling.

Directly between his legs.

“Oh, don’t you dare tell me to be quiet,” you muttered sharply, craning your neck to glare up at the visor. “You’re the one who got us into this mess in the first place.”

Technically speaking, you were right.

Months of working together had built enough trust that when Din proposed the job, you hadn’t questioned it much.

An easy contract, he had said.

Quick entry. Quick exit. Minimal guards.

Simple.

Every single part of that description had turned out to be spectacularly wrong.

The artifact storage facility had recently made local news - something neither of you had learned about until far too late. Apparently publicity had inspired the owners to double their security.

What should have been a short operation had turned into a crawling nightmare.

Air vents.

Abandoned wastewater tunnels.

Forgotten maintenance corridors that hadn’t seen maintenance in decades.

The two of you had spent hours creeping through the guts of the building just to reach the prize.

Still, the effort hadn’t been wasted.

Your hand instinctively brushed your pocket.

Inside rested the object you’d come for: a Kyber Resonance Shard, a fractured piece of crystal rumored to hum faintly with residual energy when exposed to certain frequencies. Collectors paid absurd amounts for relics tied even distantly to the old Jedi traditions.

You had managed to lift it cleanly from its display.

Unfortunately, the display had also triggered a silent alarm.

Minutes later the corridors behind you had filled with guards.

Not just a few.

Dozens.

The careful stealth of the mission had evaporated instantly. Instead of sneaking out quietly, you had been forced to fight your way through the first wave and run before reinforcements sealed the building entirely.

That was when the plan changed.

Getting out immediately had become impossible.

But hiding?

Hiding might buy time.

Eventually the guards would assume you had escaped the facility entirely. Once the search widened outside, slipping away would be far easier.

At least, that had been the theory.

Which was how you ended up here.

Wedged inside a maintenance cavity barely wider than a locker.

Kneeling awkwardly on the floor.

Directly between the legs of a fully armored Mandalorian bounty hunter who filled most of the remaining space.

You tilted your head again to glare up at the dark visor hovering above you.

“Yes,” you muttered under your breath, “this was definitely your brilliant plan.”

“Maybe you should’ve listened when I told you the alarm might trigger,” Din Djarin muttered sharply above you, the words low and tight through the helmet’s modulator.

You snorted quietly.

“Helpful warning,” you whispered back. “Shame it arrived after I had already pocketed the shard.”

You shifted slightly on your heels, trying for the third time to relieve the pressure building in your legs. The cramped position forced your weight awkwardly onto your calves, and the metal floor beneath you was doing nothing to improve the situation.

Your muscles protested.

“Next time a meteor storm smashes into the Razor Crest,” you added dryly, “I’ll be sure to warn you afterward too.”

Din’s right foot nudged lightly against your leg.

You couldn’t tell whether the movement was meant as a quiet command to shut up - or simply an attempt for him to adjust his own balance in the ridiculous configuration the two of you had been forced into.

“If we get out of here,” you continued under your breath, shifting your weight again, “remind me to avoid any future jobs that involve stealing.”

The response came immediately.

“That from the master thief?” he said. Even without seeing his face, you could hear the faint crooked humor in his tone.

Months of working together had trained your ears well. You had learned to read the small inflections beneath the helmet’s mechanical filter. The subtle changes that meant he was smirking, even if the visor hid it completely.

You had seen that smirk before though.

More than once.

Because you have seen his face many times now.

The first time had been an accident - an unexpected glimpse of his face during a moment neither of you had planned.

The second had been necessity, when he’d taken a nasty hit and removing the helmet had been the only way to patch him up properly.

The third…

Well.

That had happened in the narrow bunk aboard the Razor Crest, sometime after both of you decided that surviving too many dangerous jobs together had earned you a more… relaxed way of blowing off steam.

Originally, the partnership had been strictly professional.

Lately, things had become a little more complicated.

“I wouldn’t mind switching back to bounty work,” you murmured, glancing up toward the dark visor. “You know I’m better at luring targets out than you are.”

A faint pause followed.

Then he replied quietly, “A little too good at it.” The final word slipped out in the soft cadence of Mando’a. “Mesh’la.”

Thankfully the darkness inside the cramped storage compartment hid the warmth that crept across your face.

You had never asked him exactly what the word meant.

Something affectionate, you suspected.

Something he said with an ease that made it feel… oddly intimate.

Even filtered through the helmet, the sound carried a certain weight.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Din,” you whispered, voice tilting playfully. “Is that why you picked this miserable job? So I wouldn’t be flirting with half the galaxy while we worked?”

Your hand lifted almost absentmindedly, sliding along the side of his leg. The motion was half reassuring, half teasing as your fingers traced lightly over the armored plating before settling there.

“Focus,” he said quietly. But the word lacked its usual bite.

“Not much focusing I can do down here,” you replied softly. “We’re stuck waiting. Let me keep my sarcasm - it helps pass the time.”

Outside the sealed panel, the facility remained silent for the moment. No footsteps. No voices.

Still, both of you kept your voices low.

Better safe than discovered.

“You could start thinking about buyers,” Din said after a moment. “Once word spreads that the artifact disappeared from a secure facility, the list of interested collectors will shrink fast.”

You shrugged lightly, the movement barely noticeable in the cramped space.

“Let that be my headache.” He knew you would handle it. You always did. “You,” you added, glancing up again, “just focus on choosing our next job with a little more care.” A faint smirk crept into your voice. “I don’t mind spending time alone in a room with you,” you murmured. “But this setup? Less appealing.”

Your gaze lifted.

The visor angled down toward you.

“Think so? I can’t say the view is terrible.” There it was again - that invisible grin you had come to recognize.

Your hand, still resting on his shin, slid a little higher along his thigh. Your fingers tightened briefly in a light squeeze.

“Careful,” you murmured. “You know I like pushing my luck.”

“Focus,” he repeated again, though the command sounded slightly rougher now. “We need to be ready to move the second an opening appears.”

His tone still carried its usual seriousness. But there was something else hiding beneath it. A quiet thread of tension.

“I can focus just fine,” you said softly. “I’m practically meditating down here. Feeling like a damn Jedi.”

You shifted again, trying to relieve the ache building in your legs.

As you moved, you rolled your neck slightly - 

 - and accidentally brushed your head against his crotch.

The reaction was immediate.

Din shifted abruptly, a quiet hum escaping him through the modulator as he instinctively pulled back where little to no space was left.

You blinked, then slowly looked up. A wicked grin spread across your face.

“Well now,” you murmured, lips parting slightly. “Don’t tell me…” Your voice dropped to a playful whisper. “Din Djarin,” you teased, “are you actually getting turned on by this?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

Instead your hand moved higher along his thigh, slipping beneath the edge of the segmented armor until your fingers found the softer resistance of the flight suit beneath. The fabric was warm from his body heat, taut where it stretched across muscle. You let your palm settle there for a moment - just long enough to confirm what your instincts had already guessed.

And there it was.

A slow, unmistakable firmness growing beneath your touch.

Your mouth curved slightly.

Well. That answered that.

“Cyar’ika…” Din’s voice dropped into a low rumble, the word dragged through the helmet’s modulator like a warning trying very hard to sound stern.

Except the tone betrayed him.

Half caution. Half something else entirely.

“What?” you murmured softly, fingers tightening through the fabric in a deliberate squeeze that completely contradicted the innocence of your question. “Should I stop?”

His breath caught.

“This is not the place,” he said, words slightly uneven now, “and definitely not the time.”

A faint inhale followed, sharp enough that he nearly stumbled over the last part of the sentence.

“Seems to me we’ve got plenty of time to kill,” you whispered.

Your hand didn’t slow.

If anything, the motion became more deliberate - testing, exploring his length through the layers of fabric while your eyes stayed locked on the dark visor above you.

Whatever sharp retort had been forming died instantly when your curious squeeze shifted into a slow, teasing stroke.

Din’s helmet tipped back against the wall behind him with a muted klonk. The hand braced against the opposite surface tightened, his fingers curling slowly into a fist as if he needed the pressure to steady himself.

“You really shouldn’t…” he muttered.

But the growl beneath the words lacked conviction.

It sounded less like a warning directed at you and more like something he was trying to remind himself.

Meanwhile your hand had already found the seam of the flight suit.

You slipped beneath it.

The moment your fingers brushed bare skin, Din’s hips shifted instinctively against your touch. A quiet roll forward.

A reaction he clearly hadn’t intended.

“You keep watch,” you suggested lightly, your voice barely louder than a breath, “I’ll keep you entertained.”

Your fingers wrapped fully around his cock now.

The muffled sound that escaped the helmet in response sent a small thrill down your spine.

You had seen Din without the helmet before. You knew the expressions he tried so carefully to hide from the rest of the galaxy - the tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes darkened when you touched him just right.

But this?

This was different.

With the helmet still firmly in place, you couldn’t rely on facial cues at all.

Instead you found yourself reading the language of his body.

Every small shift of muscle.

Every subtle change in the way he held himself above you.

The signals were clearer than he probably realized.

And right now they were telling you that you were very much on the right track.

His length twitched faintly in your grasp.

Yes.

Definitely the right track.

“You’re being reckless,” Din whispered after a moment, his head tilting slightly as if he was still trying to listen for sounds in the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.

“This entire mission has been reckless,” you replied with a quiet smirk. “I’m just staying consistent.”

Your hand moved again.

With a practiced motion you eased him free from the remaining fabric, the flight suit sliding aside just enough to reveal his length completely.

Especially from your low position you couldn’t help the brief flicker of appreciation that crossed your mind as he stood towering above you.

Your legs had been aching moments ago from the cramped kneeling position.

Now the discomfort barely registered.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your posture so you were better aligned with his cock in front of your face. Your gaze traveled upward for a moment before settling again on the task at hand.

Almost unconsciously, you wet your lips.

Your hand gave him a few slow strokes, deliberate and unhurried.

“You should stop,” he hissed quietly.

You smiled faintly.

“I haven’t even started yet.”

Leaning forward, you pressed a soft, almost reverent kiss against the soft skin of his tip.

The thing was,  you had never been particularly patient. The teasing kisses you had started with didn’t stay gentle for long. As you closed your lips around his tip you could feel a tension coiling through Din’s entire body and you could hear the change in his breathing.

The quiet restraint he usually carried with such discipline began to slip. A low sound escaped him - muted by the helmet but unmistakable.

Above you, his free hand found your hair. Just threading through the strands in slow strokes that felt almost absentminded, as if he was grounding himself in the sensation. The movement sent a clear enough signal on its own.

You were doing exactly what he wanted, that he did not want you to stop at all.

Encouraged, you took him in deeper, the tight space forcing you to adjust carefully as your tongue circled his soft skin. Din’s hand moved from the side of your head to the back of it as you leaned in further, the grip tightening just slightly as instinct took over.

For a moment the two of you went completely still.

The closeness of the compartment left almost no room for movement anyway. The faint hum of machinery somewhere inside the walls vibrated through the metal around you while you both adjusted to the new position.

Din’s breath hitched again.

“Mesh’la…” The word slipped out rougher this time, dragged low through the modulator as he looked down at you. The dark visor tilted slightly, studying you in the dim light filtering through the vent.

“You look… perfect like this.”

The praise landed like a spark and a shiver ran through you.

Your hand slid higher along his thigh to steady yourself while the other braced against the wall behind you. Slowly you began to move your head, careful in the cramped space, finding a rhythm that worked despite the awkward positioning.

You slowly started to move your head, taking him in just an inch more before rolling back, catching a breath. Spit glistened on your lips and his soft skin, even in the shady dark light of this makeshift hideout, the air inside the compartment growing thick and humid as the seconds stretched.   

Your own pulse had begun to race now and heat coiled low in your stomach. You could feel the wetness between your legs growing although he did not even touch you fully.

It was almost frustrating to realize there would be no space for him to return the favor here - not with the two of you wedged together in a compartment barely big enough to breathe in. Not to speak of the lurking danger outside.

But you had no doubt, the moment you made it back to the Crest, he would remember exactly how to repay you. And different to now he would take his time with you.

For now though, the focus was entirely on him.

Din’s grip tightened slightly in your hair as you relaxed your jaw just a bit more, to take him up to the hilt. Before you could settle fully into your pace, he guided you forward with a firm pressure at the back of your head, pulling you closer with a sudden urgency that stole your breath for a moment.

“You take me so well,” he murmured. The words vibrated through the helmet’s modulator, sending another shiver down your spine. Your lungs protested briefly at the fullness, but your mind was far too focused on the effect you were having on him to care much about that.

Just before the pressure became too much he eased the hold, letting you pull back enough to breathe again.

You inhaled deeply before leaning in once more, eyes slipping closed as you focused on the rhythm he gave you. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his flight suit for balance as you let your tongue explore his full length, feeling every vein and twitch. He felt impossibly hard now and you longed for the moment back on the ship when he would bury himself in you, hips rolling in that infuriating slowness he always used to bring you closer and closer to the edge.

Above you, Din’s movements became less controlled now. The subtle tension running through his body and the twitching of his cock told you everything you needed to know.

“I’m almost there, cyar’ika,” he breathed quietly. Then his helmet tilted downward again. “Look at me.”

You obeyed immediately, lifting your gaze to the dark visor looming above you. Your jaw softened slightly, preparing yourself for the moment - 

 - but suddenly he froze.

Every muscle in his body went rigid.

A sound echoed faintly from the hallway beyond the hidden compartment.

Footsteps, distant enough but approaching.

The situation became instantly absurd.

You were kneeling in a cramped maintenance cavity, his cock buried deep in your throat, both of you frozen in complete silence while someone walked somewhere nearby beyond the sealed panel.

Din held himself perfectly still, his grip tightening in your hair in a silent command to stop. To wait.

You felt it.

You understood it.

You ignored it. Your tongue moved again in a teasing flick against his underside and his throb told you how he ached for the sweet release. A strangled hiss slipped through the modulator.

The footsteps grew slightly louder as they passed somewhere down the corridor.

Din’s fingers clenched in warning. Not yet pulling you away, but very clearly telling you to behave.

You didn’t.

Your hands slid around the backs of his thighs instead, gripping firmly just beneath the curve of his backside. Then you pulled him closer, deeper, stealing your own breath, all while keeping your gaze fixed on him.

That was all it took.

Din’s head fell back against the wall with a silent thud as the tension snapped.

The insulation of the compartment and the distant machinery thankfully swallowed most of the sound. Outside, the footsteps continued past without slowing.

Inside, you had no choice but to hold steady as the wave finally broke and he spilled into your mouth, his warm cum coating the back of your throat and dripping down.

True to his earlier command, you kept your eyes lifted to the visor above you as you swallowed around his cock, taking every drop of him.

His fingers dug sharply into your hair now, the pressure almost painful as he fought to stay quiet through the release that rolled through him.

The footsteps faded down the corridor.

Only once the silence returned did Din finally exhale.

The breath came out slow and shaky.

After a moment he carefully pulled his still hardened length away, the movement making his tip bump lightly against your lips as he straightened.

“You…” he muttered, voice still rough. “…are an absolute menace.”

You leaned back slightly, licking the corners of your mouth before flashing him a satisfied grin.

“Happy to be of service.” You gave him a small, mocking nod.

With practiced hands you helped Din straighten himself back into the flight suit, smoothing the fabric into place before giving the front of it a light, almost condescending pat.

“Good as new,” you murmured under your breath.

The grip he had held in your hair finally loosened. Instead of the sharp hold from moments ago, his fingers slid through the strands in slow strokes, brushing your scalp before drifting down along the side of your face, tilting your face upwards by the chin. The gesture carried none of the urgency from earlier - just quiet warmth.

“We’re going to have a conversation about your sense of risk assessment once we’re back on the ship,” he said after a moment. Even through the helmet you could hear the grin in his voice. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

“Speaking of taking me places,” you said, nodding toward the sealed panel behind him, “you think things have cooled down out there yet?”

“I certainly have,” he replied dryly. The helmet tilted slightly as he listened for a moment, the faint sounds of the facility humming through the walls around you. “Seems quiet enough. Might be our best window.”

He glanced down toward you.

“Can you get it open again?”

Your lockpicking kit was still tucked safely in your pocket. After all, the panel had sealed itself automatically once you had picked it the first time and Din had shoved you inside. Your part of the job hadn’t exactly ended when the door closed.

You pulled the tools free with a quiet clink.

“What exactly are you contributing to this mission again?” you asked with a crooked grin.

Din awkwardly stepped over you in the tight compartment so you could shift forward, bracing yourself on your knees while you reached the panel controls.

“Because as far as I remember,” you continued, sliding the picks into place, “I handled the theft, the lockpicking, and the tension relief.”

Behind you he shifted his weight against the opposite wall.

“I’m making sure no one stands between us and the ship so I can repay you,” he replied calmly.

The panel hissed softly as the locking mechanism disengaged beneath your tools.

He leaned closer.

“Now hurry up,” he added quietly, “before I make you.”

You didn’t need further encouragement. You scrambled to your feet quickly - only to wobble immediately as your legs protested the long minutes spent kneeling.

Pins and needles shot through your calves.

“Stars,” you muttered, shaking them out. “Did the Jedi deal with this kind of thing all the time?”

Din didn’t slow.

“Less talking,” he said simply. His hand closed around your wrist and pulled you forward down the corridor. “More moving.”

Waiting had been the right call.

The frantic security sweep from earlier had thinned considerably. Most of the guards had clearly moved their search elsewhere by now, likely assuming you had already slipped off the premises.

Still, the path back to the exit wasn’t completely empty.

Twice you had to flatten yourselves against shadowed corners as patrols passed nearby.

Twice Din handled the problem when stealth alone wasn’t enough.

Before long the familiar shape of the Razor Crest appeared waiting at the edge of the landing platform like an old friend.

You sprinted the final stretch. By the time the ramp lowered you were already breathing hard.

Din reached the cockpit first, vaulting into the pilot’s seat as the startup sequence flared to life across the control panels.

You stumbled up into the cockpit seconds later and dropped into the copilot chair beside him, chest still rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath.

But the grin on your face refused to fade.

From your pocket you produced the prize.

The Kyber Resonance Shard caught the cockpit lights as you tossed it lightly into the air and caught it again.

“Well,” you said, leaning back slightly as the engines hummed louder beneath your feet, “that was an experience.”

You flipped the shard once more.

Din said nothing. His gloved hands moved across the controls with steady precision, initiating the final departure sequence.

The ship lifted smoothly from the platform.

You glanced sideways at him.

“What do you think this thing will sell for?” you asked, turning the crystal between your fingers.

Still nothing.

A small flicker of unease crept into your thoughts. Had you pushed too far earlier?

You cleared your throat. “Maybe we should take more breaking-and-entering jobs,” you added casually.

You tossed the shard again - 

 - but this time Din’s hand shot out and caught it midair before you could.

The motion was so quick it left you blinking.

Without looking at you, he engaged the hyperdrive controls with his other hand. The Crest lurched gently as it entered hyperspace, the blue tunnel of stars stretching across the viewport.

Din turned the crystal over once in his hand. Then set it on the console. Only after that did he rise from the pilot’s seat. His broad silhouette loomed over you.

“Bunk,” he said.

Just one word.

No humor left in it.

The tone wasn’t angry.

But it was unmistakably an order.

And stars help you - you obeyed it eagerly.

You were out of the copilot seat in a heartbeat, heading down the narrow corridor toward the sleeping quarters.

Behind you, heavy footsteps followed.

You reached the bunk and climbed inside just as the familiar sound echoed through the small cabin - 

The quiet hiss of a helmet seal disengaging.

Your grin widened.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you stretched out on the mattress and looked toward the doorway with open anticipation.

You had worked with Din long enough to know exactly how this was going to end.

He always believed in settling the score.

My Masterlist

Taglist:

Your body freezes when you see the armor, the helmet. A Mandalorian. You gasp quietly because you had once known a Mandalorian, although his armor was much different. Din.

Din strides into the hall, prepared to face the Hutts, and prepared to watch his back every single moment. He focuses on the twins sitting on the platform, their disgusting forms makes his nose wrinkle, and as he gets closer, he's grateful for his helmet to conceal the smell that others say is vile. "Ah Mandalorian." Rotta greets him and he nods, letting his gaze drift for a moment and he is once again grateful for his helmet when his eyes land on their latest victim. He'd recognize you anywhere, even dressed in scraps of fabric with chains around your limbs. He bites his lip to stop himself from saying your name.

“Mando.” The gravelly voice of the other Hutt is smug, as if she knows something that holds power over the Mandalorian. You don’t get your hopes up, because it’s not your Mando. The helmet looks the same, but when you had asked Din about his armor, he had told you that the helmet was the only new piece he had. Everything else had been scrapped from fallen Mandalorian’s when he had taken the Creed. “I’m not working for you.” The Mandalorian rasps out and you gasp. The voice. Even if you can’t see his face, because you’ve never seen his face, his voice is the one you hear in your dreams. “Mando.” You whisper, realizing that the man standing in front of you is the same man that you had been with the day you had been kidnapped by the Hutts seven years ago.

His jaw is clenched and he’s grateful the Hutt cannot see his reaction but he cannot let it show in other ways that he knows you otherwise you’ll be leverage. He ignores you, “your cousin?” He redirects the conversation and Rotta chuckles, tugging on your chain to bring you closer until you are leaning into him. “Do you know this Mandalorian?” He asks you, turning to press his tongue to your cheek to see if the Mandalorian reacts.

You cringe and try to shy away from the wet, slimy muscle but the chain around your neck collar is pulled tight and you are helpless to move. “No.” You gasp out. “I have seen Mandalorians before.” You lie. “This is not the man I knew.” You think back to the last time you had felt him. The lights had been powered down even though his helmet had still been on. The armor was removed and the flightsuit stripped down. You had left the comfort of his embrace to go find breakfast for you both, only to never return.

Rotta hums, loosening his grip on the chain and Din has to consciously try to not clench his fists in fury. The memory of you not coming back haunts him. He thought he wasn’t enough for you, that you had run away, and it destroyed him. He thought you would be his riduur one day but you had disappeared and he thought you didn’t want him anymore. It had hurt but it hurts even more to see you end up here. You look tired and hungry, making him frown under the helmet. “I have come here to inform you that I will not be retrieving your cousin.” He announces, knowing this will anger the Hutts but he promised he would not work for gangsters anymore.

You wince, knowing that they will not like that. You think Mando’s eyes are on you, but you can’t tell. Not like it had been years ago when you could sense every time he looked at you under that helmet. Rotta growls and you shrink back slightly.

“You dare to defy me, Mando?” He hisses and his guards surge forward. Din spins around, aiming his blaster at them but they wrap a steel rope around his wrist. His free hand reaches for his other blaster, getting a couple of shots in until he is restrained on both arms and forced to kneel in front of Rotta.

You have to bite your lip from making a sound, knowing that the Hutts are suspicious now, not wanting to give them any ammunition. Rotta gives an order in Huttese and the guards reach for the edge of Mando’s helmet. “Nooooo!” You scream out, rushing forward to stop them only to be yanked back by the chain. Your earlier caution is thrown to the wind because you know how seriously Din takes his vow that no one sees his face.

He growls when the helmet is removed from his head and his eyes immediately meet yours, seeing the shock and horror on your face. He clenches his jaw, furious that the vow he tried so hard to redeem has been shattered once again. “Bring me his helmet.” Rotta orders and his guard brings the beskar to him. “Mandalorian steel. Priceless on the black market.” He holds the helmet and you cannot stop staring at Din. His twin smirks, “but what’s even more is knowing we have shamed you forever.” Rotta nods, “we know the Mandalorian creed. You will be outcast forever. Cast out for letting an enemy see your face.” You squeak and Rotta tugs on your chains again. Din’s eyes narrow as he glares at the twins, “not if you all die.” With a chuckle, the Hutt twin smirks, “it will give us great pleasure to see your spirit die. Even more pleasure to have your girlfriend watch it.” He presses his tongue to yours once again, “she’s so sweet but I’m sure you knew that.” Din doesn’t tug on his restraints, knowing that will give them satisfaction. “Put him in the pit!” Rotta orders, the grate to the pit opening slowly.

You hate what’s about to come. Din has always been a good fighter, but he is no match for the creature in the pit. You can’t help but stare at the face of the man you have loved, even while in captivity. His eyes are hard, angry as he stares at the Hutts. There’s no fear, no worry. Just hatred. Until they shift to you for a moment and something softer flashes over his face before he looks back at them again. “Since you have seen my face, you will die.” He growls.

The Hutt twins chuckle, deep and evil, and the guards grab Din, cutting the steel ropes before they push him into the pit. “Noooo!” You cry, falling to your knees and the Hutt twins laugh. Din lands on his back, winding him for a moment, and he scrambles onto his knees to catch his breath. “Dank ferik.” He growls, realizing he’s without his blasters but he thankfully still has his knife. A growl echoes from the darkness and he braces himself, watching the beast appear in front of him. He tilts his head, looking up at the creature and he swallows harshly.

****

“Hey sexy.” You grin as you lean against the side panel of the ship, watching as his back straightens and the silver helmet turns towards you. The spanner in his hand almost looks like a weapon, and the curses have stopped since he’s not working on fixing the hyper drive. “Want to take a break? You’ve been working all morning. I’ve made you some soup. It’s in the galley. I’ve already eaten and am planning on removing all my clothes and sliding into the bunk. What you do is completely up to you.” You wink playfully at him.

It’s an invitation Din is unable to refuse and he smirks under his helmet. “Go get ready and I’ll eat. Soup first though.” He teases, voice modulated, and you giggle, swaying your hips as you disappear. He sets his spanner down, rolling his shoulders, and he straightens to make his way to the galley. He should eat first and he knows you wouldn’t sneak up on him as he lifts his helmet to sip the soup you had made. After using the fresher, he strips down to just his flight suit and helmet, making his way to the bunk. “Someone is eager.” He comments as he finds you naked, legs open with your fingers already grazing your clit.

“Yes I am.” You don’t deny it, not when just the thought of Din touching you is enough to soak your folds with arousal. “Are you Mando or Din?” You tease, knowing sometimes he likes to be a bit rougher, as if you were prey he had been hunting. Fresh off working with Ran and his crew, you had understood he had done some dark things. You don’t care though, he’s good to you.

“Mando.” His voice is raspy, even more so with the modulator, and he pulls down the zipper of his flight suit. “Keep touching yourself, mesh’la.” He demands, shrugging off the suit to expose his hardening cock. “It might be all you get if you’re not a good girl.” He warns, kicking the suit aside to stand naked before you except for his helmet.

“I’ll be good for you.” You promise, eyes greedy as you drink in his scar riddled skin. Places where the armor hadn’t covered him, proof of the violence that is prone to following him. He’s strong, virile, sexy, even if you have no idea what color eyes he has or if his hair curls like the short hairs that are surrounding his thick cock. “Or bad if you want me to be.” You smirk as you roll onto your stomach so he can see your ass, but the fingers rubbing your clit are now out of sight.

He growls, unable to stop himself from smacking your ass and your squeal makes him chuckle. “You’re already being bad.” He reaches for the panel, turning off the light to leave you in darkness. “Mando.” You whine and within a moment, your whine turns into a squeal as he grabs your hips and pulls you back and up to bury his face into your folds.

“Fuuuuuuuck.” Your eyes roll back in the darkness, pussy clenching around nothing but his tongue as he pushes it inside you. “Mando.” You pant out, loving how filthy he is. Despite never being able to see his face, the man is a better lover than anyone you’ve ever had. “Baby, fuck, you are so good to me.”

He groans into you, loving the way you taste and you never push for more. You take what he gives you and he loves that. You squeal when he pushes his tongue into your cunt, nose pressing into your puckered hole as his fingers squeeze your ass to open you up for him.

Mando growls into you, his pace sloppy and needy. Obviously needing this as much as you do. He craves touch, taste. He loves when you let him do whatever he wants and you love to let him. “Thought about you all morning.” You gasp out. “Watching you work. Imagining you fucking me as I was bent over the panel access.”

His chuckle is absorbed by your flesh as he flicks his tongue over your clit, “I was imagining fucking your throat while I was trying to fix the panel.” He confesses with a deep inhale, “now you’re going to be a good girl and cum like this.” He surges back into your flesh, wanting to feel you fall apart.

You moan softly, rocking back to meet his eager tongue, knowing that he won’t stop until he makes you scream in pleasure. Your fingers curl into the sheets of the bunk and hold on as he takes you apart. “Oh fuck, oh fuck baby.” You whimper

He groans, needing you to cum for him, and he moans when you rock back, moaning his name as you fall apart on his tongue. He’s greedy for every drop, moaning when you blindly reach back to grip his hair, keeping him pressed into your pussy to ride the aftermath of your orgasm.

When he finally pulls back, you can hear the smacking of his lips, groaning happily at the taste of you on his tongue. “How do you want me?” You demand breathlessly. “I need you inside me, Mando.”

“Stay where you are.” He demands, wanting to fuck you like this first. “You’re such a fucking tease. Wearing those tight flight suits and fluttering your eyelashes at me while I’m trying to concentrate.” He growls as he grips his cock, pumping himself a couple of times until he pushes into your quivering pussy, groaning at how wet you are.

You gasp, rocking forward as you take him to the hilt. “Fuck. Your cock is so thick.” You whine, making him chuckle as he grinds deep into your body. His fingers dig into the flesh at your hips. “You take me so well, Mesh’la.” He coos, his unmodulated voice always making your walls flutter in pleasure. He’s vulnerable with you, giving you as much of himself as he can while holding true to his religion. You would never ask him for more, even if you are curious about what he looks like, you don’t ask. “Made for you.” You agree.

“Mine.” He grunts, knowing he wants you to be his riduur one day soon. He just needs to wait for the right time. “Fuck. So tight around me. You feel so goddamn good. Maker.” He hisses, smacking your ass again and he squeezes your flesh.

“So good.” You cry out, lurching forward only to be pulled back and he pushes deep. “Yours.” You promise with a gasp that fills the sleeping quarters. “Din-“ his hand comes down on your ass again. “Mando.” He growls, thrusting deep. “Yes, yes! Mando!”

He can tell you’re close. He needs to feel it so he slides his hand under your stomach, rubbing your clit, and he groans when you clench around him. “That’s it. Want to feel you cum for me, mesh’la.” He demands gruffly, “I know you can do it.”

You whine in agreement, knowing that he wants you to cum before he does. He always wants you to cum. “Maker, I’m so close.” You pant, collapsing to press your face against the cool sheet. You close your eyes as he rolls into you again and again. He is throbbing inside you and the next thrust is deep and hard, pushing you over the edge with a cry.

When you fall apart, he thrusts two more times, pulling free of your clenching cunt to stop himself from falling apart so quickly. You whine at the sudden emptiness and he chuckles, “so fucking desperate.” He smacks your ass, “on your back.” He demands, wanting to be able to kiss you when he fills you up.

You roll over and spread your legs as he shuffles to hover over you. “Hurry up.” You demand. “I don’t like being empty.” He chuckles and your hands slide up his biceps in the dark.

He can’t see but he grips his cock, pushing into you with a low groan as he ducks down to kiss you. His nose hits yours and you giggle, cupping his cheeks to bring his lips to yours. He wastes no time sliding his tongue into your mouth, starting to rock into you.

You love kissing him. You get to touch him. You don’t explore his face with your fingers like you want to, but you get to cup his cheeks, to kiss his lips. You moan into his mouth as you wrap your legs around his waist, rocking up to meet his thrusts.

This is more tender, his feelings for you bleeding through his persona as he transitions from Mando to Din. He slides his tongue into your mouth, working into a quicker rhythm and he wants you to fall apart one more time.

You feel the urgency under the tenderness. The way that his hips snap and rock you both up on the bunk. You moan and kiss him back, your short nails digging half crescent indentions into his skin to remember you by when he’s back in his armor and seemingly untouchable.

He loves how you mark him in your own way, taking what you want from him, and he hisses your name as he rocks into you. “Fuck. You feel so good.” He pants against your chin, “I want you to cum again. One more time.”

“Cum with me.” You beg, kissing along his cheek and back to his lips as he lifts back up to kiss you. “‘m close baby. So fucking close.” You promise breathlessly. “Let go with me.”

You ask him so sweetly and how can he deny you? “Gonna - please, cyar’ika. Cum with me.” He pleads against your lips, cock twitching as he is on the edge. He can’t hold off anymore and his breath puffs against your lips as he pushes his cock deep, throbbing inside you as he starts to paint your walls with rope after rope of hot cum.

You do cum with him, the way he tenses and hardens even more inside you pushes you over the edge. Walls squeezing him tight while you choke out his name, “Din!” while falling apart under him. It’s perfect and you hum when you start to come down, relaxed and giggling quietly over how perfect everything is.

He sighs, pressing kisses to your jaw and down your neck as he relaxes above you until he is shifting to lay down beside you after slowly pulling out of you. He drags you into his side, wanting to keep you close, “always so good.” He murmurs, wishing he could see you right now but he can’t.

You hum in agreement, settling down and enjoying the way your ear is pressed to his chest. His heartbeat starting to slow down. “The lights powered down all over the ship?” You ask, even though you know they are. He does that so you don’t accidentally see him on your way to the ‘fresher. “Yes, Mesh’la, go to sleep.” He murmurs, although he sounds far more sleepy than you. You smile in the dark and sigh. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.” You promise.

Din blinks as he wakes up, the lights in the bunk still off, and he reaches for his helmet. You are not in the bunk and he knows you shut the bunk door before turning on the lights. He grunts as he opens the hatch, shuffling to the fresher and he grabs a new flight suit when he’s cleaned up. The smell of food hits his nose and he groans, finding you with a fresh meal. “You went to get food?” He asks and you nod, “you should eat this while it’s hot. It’s delicious.” He hums and watches you, “I will.” He promises, grabbing the bowl and he turns his back to you, lifting his helmet to sip the broth.

You turn around, knowing that he wouldn’t mind, but you always want him to feel secure about his creed around you. “So as soon as we are done here we are headed to Tatooine?” You ask, lifting a brow. “People are always so odd around there.” You comment. Din is still eating and you take a bite of your own meal. “Still, I like it better than freezing my ass off on some of these planets.”

He snorts, knowing you are not a fan of Hoth, and he finishes his meal quickly. He’s used to eating fast, needing to reposition his helmet and satiate his hunger when he’s on the move. You take your time, savouring your food, and when he’s situated, he turns to face you. “I’ll set the coordinates.” He slaps his knees and stands, not bothering with dressing in his beskar until you are getting ready to land.

“I’ll be here!” You call back as he disappears up the ladder. Grinning to yourself as you fork up another bite. “Fuck, I love that man.” You tell yourself quietly. 

****

You peer over the edge of the pit, terrified that you are about to watch the man you’ve loved die. Hands curled into fists as the chain that ties to you Rotta’s large seat rattles, but you don’t look behind you. Right now, you’re afraid you might attack the giant slugs for what they have done and they will end up eating you. You don’t want to end up in their bellies.

Din looks up as the beast waddles towards him, and for a moment, he doesn’t think there’s much to be afraid of, until the bastard opens his mouth. Din’s eyes widen at the rows of teeth on display, “fuck.” He mutters, adjusting the grip on his knife as he faces down the creature. Rotta barks an order and the beast is poked from a grate in the way, making it roar, and its tail comes out to flick Din. The Mandalorian is sent flying back into the wall, winded by the move, and he chokes as he tries to catch his breath.

You shudder, trying not to show how terrified you are, but it doesn’t escape the giant slug behind you. He laughs as he tugs on the chain and sends you sprawling back from the ledge. “Do not try to rescue him.” Rotta huffs in his native language. “You both would die.”

Din manages to stand up, catching his breath, and he narrows his eyes. He surges forward, sinking his knife into the beast that roars and spins, sending Din flying but he engages his jet pack and lands on his feet. “Dank farrik.” He growls, flying towards the beast with knife in hand.

You can hear the battle below you, the splashing of the water and the roar of the beast, but you can’t see anything now. Fingers clawing at your throat, at the collar that is holding you back. Rotta laughs and yanks again, making you choke and gasp for air as it cuts off your breathing.

Din manages to get some jabs in but the beast is strong. It flings Din again, making stars burst behind his eyes as his head hits the wall of the pit. “Fuck.” He mutters, blinking a few times as he gathers his senses. He rushes forward again, stabbing the beast in the eye and it roars.

You choke out a cry when Rotta bellows in rage and yanks the chain again, dragging you closer to the giant slug. Your thigh drags along the floor, giving you a friction burn but you claw at the tiles, trying to grab hold of something to anchor yourself and fight against him.

“Fucking Maker.” Din huffs when the beast tries to fling him but he holds firm, making to get another jab in his eye. The beast roars and Din cuts the beast again and again until he manages to slit its jugular. Blood sprays from the beast and it falls to the ground with a growl, Din managing to roll free before he is squashed by its weight.

Rotta roars in displeasure but you don’t pay attention, black spots appearing in your vision and you feel yourself losing consciousness. “Din.” You gasp quietly, whisper before everything fades and there’s nothing.

“Mesh’la. Can you open your eyes for me?” Din’s voice sounds distant, like you’re underwater, and your head hurts. He caresses your cheek, “wake up. Want to see your pretty eyes.” He murmurs, quiet and he is worried that you aren’t going to wake up.

It takes a few moments before you start to stir. The quiet panic that had been welling in his chest settles when your eye lashes start to flutter before you open them slowly. The fog is present, the confusion as you blink away the darkness. The smoldering bodies of the guards he had slain are still smoking, the blaster wounds singed and the Hutt twins stench managed to be even more foul in death, but you don’t notice that when you look up and see Din staring down at you with worry lacing his eyes and sweat rolling down his cheek. His bare face up close and you gasp before you shut your eyes again, knowing you should not have seen him.

“Open your eyes.” He orders, wanting to see yours and he knows what you’re thinking. He has killed everyone else who saw his face except you. “Din. No. You’re - you’ll be shunned. You should’ve - you can if you need to.” You squeeze your eyes and he growls at what you are implying. “I didn’t give you all the options. When my helmet is removed, there’s only two ways to stop being dar’manda. One: kill the person who sees my face. Two: marry the woman who sees my face.” He confesses, “and killing you is not an option. I thought - I thought you left me. That morning - when you were gone.” He chokes and you don’t open your eyes yet.

****

“I love you.” You murmur to Din, kissing his shoulder and he doesn’t stir from his sleep as you shuffle from the bunk, closing the hatch before you fumble to turn on the light. You find it and clean up, dressing with a soft hum as you get ready to go find breakfast for you and your lover. Din blinks when he wakes, huffing when the bed feels cold and he grunts as he sits up, scratching his cheek. He grabs his helmet, putting it on his head, and then he opens the hatch, exposing his eyes to brightness that makes him wince through the visor. He calls your name and when you don’t respond, he doesn’t think much of it. You usually go and fetch breakfast. He cleans up and dresses, putting on his beskar, and he frowns when time drags. You’d usually be back by now. He makes his way to the ramp, hitting buttons to open the Crest and he walks outside, calling your name once more. No sign of you. Closing the Crest, his fingers flex over his blaster and he makes his way to town, deciding to search for you. When he exits the last store, the anger sets in. You’re gone. Disappeared. You’ve left him. He clenches his jaw, feeling his heart break in his chest and he rolls his shoulders, striding back to the Crest to forget you existed. He’d grown up to never trust anyone and he let you in, trusted you, and you broke that trust.

****

You slowly open your eyes again, focusing on him as he swallows harshly. The regret and hurt shining out of his dark eyes. “I would have never left you.” You can’t believe that it is him, but it’s the same voice, the same soft touch against your cheek. This is Din. “I- I was abducted when I was at the market.” You explain as you push up to your elbows. Din quickly adjusts to help you sit up, moving slowly as the room spins slightly. “Slavers. I was sold to Rotta.” You shudder slightly. “I waited and hoped you would find me.” He will blame himself for that, but he deserves to know. “For years, I had prayed that you would blast through those doors looking for me.”

His dark eyes sadden and he shakes his head slowly, “I was angry. I thought you’d left. No one in the market told me you’d been taken. I buried myself in bounties and then I met - well, there’s this kid. He was - the empire wanted him but I protected him and well, he’s my foundling. It’s a long story but he has the force. I left him with a Jedi and then I - I went back to distracting myself with bounties. I’m sorry I didn’t search for you. I was hurt, angry, and I thought - I thought you couldn’t handle my creed.”

You frown slightly, trying to follow his rambling explanation but your head hurts and you only catch the first and the last part of his long winded speech. “Never.” You almost reach for him, but you stop yourself, fingers curling back. Still unable to believe that you are looking at his face. “I never would have dishonoured your creed or left you for it.” You promise him. “I- I loved you.” His mouth turns down, frowning more as his shoulders shift. “Loved?” He chokes out quietly, sure that you must hate him now. He abandoned you. He left you at the mercy of slavers for years because he was angry. Because he had been so quick to believe that you would leave him. Even when all your belongings had been on his ship. The crates he had carried around for years until the Razor Crest had been blown up by Moff Gideon. “Mesh’la, I-“ you swallow harshly. “You shouldn’t marry me.” You tell him quietly. “I’ve been- I’ve been a slave for seven years, Din.” You remind him, looking down at your hands. “You can restore your creed, walk with honor if you-“

“No.” He doesn’t let you finish what you want to say. “Absolutely not. If you don’t want to marry me, I will return to Mandalore. I can redeem myself in the waters. I will not - no.” He growls, shaking his head. He would be prepared to go through the ritual to redeem himself if it means saving your life.

You gasp, shaking your head as you grab onto his pauldrons. “No. Mandalore is cursed. You would be killed and I- I couldn’t-“ you close your eyes. “Maker.” You whisper, feeling guilty for putting him in this position even if you had not been the one to remove his helmet. Din tuts and cups your cheek again. “Mesh’la, Mandalore is not cursed.” He promises. “My people have returned to our planet and the great forge is once again lit.” He nods when your jaw drops. “I have already bathed in the waters once before.” He confesses. “I- I removed my helmet to save the child. Grogu.” You bite your lip and stare at him. “Why do you offer to marry me then?” You ask softly.

“Because I want to.” He confesses softly. “I wanted it then. I loved you. I still love you and when I saw you standing there next to those bastards…my heart was racing and then I wanted to kill every single one of them for taking you. Even if they took you after you left me.” He explains his thoughts, “I fought for you. For your freedom so if you want to go, you can. But I want you to be my riduur.”

Din doesn’t lie, at least not to you. “I love you are the last words I whispered to you when I left the bunk that morning.” You reveal. “When you walked in, I was disappointed because I thought it couldn’t be you. When I heard your voice….my heart started beating like a hammer. I still love you. I wanted to be your riduur then, and I still do now.”

He stares at you for a moment, unused to the sight of your face without his visor distorting you slightly. “Mesh’la. Marry me.” He pleads, wanting you to be his, “I want you with me as my riduur.” He promises, reaching out to caress your cheek with his gloved hand.

You close your eyes, the smell of the leather familiar and you turn torn head towards his palm and nuzzles into him. “Yes.” You murmur quietly. “Yes, Din. I’ll marry you.”

He grins, leaning in to nudge his nose against yours, “we can say vows now. I want to have a ceremony back on Mandalore with you.” He confesses, “but I want you to be mine this second if you want that.”

You giggle slightly, off kilter and amused that you would marry Din wearing nothing but the skimpy slave bikini that the Hutts demand you wear when he is covered from neck to toe. “Can you leave your helmet off for our vows or would you prefer to have it on?” You would like to see his eyes but you understand if he would rather have it on.

He shakes his head, “I want to look at you without the visor.” He promises, reaching for your hands. “Are you ready?” He asks and you nod. He looks down at your joined hands, “mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde. We are one when together, we are one when parted, we share all, we will raise warriors." He translates so you understand what you are promising.

Raise warriors. Your stomach twists in pleasure at the thought of having his children. “Mhi-mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar-dar’tome, mhi me’dinui an, mhi ba’juri verde.” You stumble through the words, encouraged by his hands squeezing yours softly as you made mistakes. “Are we married now in the eyes of the Mandalore?” You ask softly.

He offers you a blinding grin, happiness making his stomach twist as he nods, “we are.” It’s not Mandalorian tradition but he leans in to press his lips to yours, wanting to kiss you for the first time as his riduur. “I love you.” He promises, “I won’t let anything happen to you. You’ll be safe with me. Until my dying breath.”

You close your eyes and sigh softly as you let it sink in that you are leaving. Reaching up, you realize that your collar is missing, Din must have broken it off while you were unconscious and your eyes fill with tears. “I’m- I’m free.” You sob out quietly.

“You’ll be free from now on. Even if you get tired of me, you will have your freedom.” He promises,  not wanting you to feel trapped by him. “Are you ready to go?” He asks, holding his hand out towards you once he’s standing up.

“Yes.” You groan as you look around the room, the bodies of the men Din had slain are still smouldering. “I never want to see this planet again.” You admit quietly.

Din smirks as his eyes drift up to the thrones of the twins who now lay dead on the floor after a slow effort to escape the wrath of the Mandalorian. “I want you, mesh’la.” He confesses, “I have - since you were gone, I’ve - you know, but no one was like you. I love you. I want you. Do you want to ride me on their throne?” He offers, knowing it would be revenge for them keeping you in their clutches.

You should probably say no, to take some time to heal mentally from what you’ve had to endure over the past seven years. You don’t want to. Every day you have woken up knowing that it could be the day Rotta or his twin killed you, thrown you into the pit for sport. You’ve lived in fear. Now you just want to live. “That would be perfect.” You hum as you glance at the throne. “Always wanted to ride you with your helmet off. Just never thought it would be possible.”

He nods, shifting to lift you up into his arms, carrying you over the bodies of the Hutt loyalists, to the throne that you were chained to. “You’re so beautiful…mesh’la.” Din murmurs as he sets you down, sitting in the large throne of the gangster that kidnapped you from him. This is his ultimate revenge. You waste no time straddling him and he smiles, his gloved hands sliding along your back.

“You are more handsome than I imagined.” You admit, hands reaching up to caress his cheeks. Your fingers slide across the bridge of his nose. “That helmet conceals how handsome you are, but it doesn’t take away from your appeal.”

He is happy that you think he’s handsome. He has a different concept of attractiveness for himself. He thinks you are the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “I thought I was terrifying?” He teases softly, sliding his hands lower to squeeze your ass.

“Terrifying to those that don’t know you.” You admit with a smirk of your own. “To those that have wronged you or those you care about.” You moan softly when you feel his arousal twitch, his cock already hard and tenting his flight suit. “You are nearly covered and I am nearly nude.” You snort.

“We will make sure you get some proper clothes.” He promises, “you will never wear this again.” He vows, grunting when you grind down onto him. His hand snakes between the scraps of material, huffing when he finds you bare. “Bastards.” He growls, furious that they left you bare like this. He wants to replace the negative association so he slides his fingers through your folds to rub your clit.

“Din.” You moan, not bothering to ask him what he wants to be called. You know. You know that he wants to hear his name on your lips, just like your entire body hums in pleasure as he murmurs your name between kisses to your skin. “I need you.” You pant softly. “I always have needed you.”

"Can you take me? I don't want to hurt you." He murmurs, rubbing your clit, and you huff, reaching between you to work on freeing his cock from his flight suit. "I need you." You repeat and he groans, "you have me, baby."

You don’t give yourself time to think, just needing to feel him inside you again. You shift enough to push up and position him at your entrance before sinking down on his length. Feeling like you are where you belong for the first time in seven years. “Din.”

He pants as you take him inside you, lost in how wet and tight you are, lost in how it feels to have you in his arms again. “Fuck, mesh’la. So good.” He surges forward to press his lips to yours, keeping his eyes open so he doesn’t miss a moment of this when so much was shrouded in darkness before.

Your fingers tangle into his hair and you kiss him back. Ignoring the tears that roll down your cheeks, so happy that you are with him again. It feels like a dream, except you’ve never felt him pulsing inside you when you were dreaming. Rocking your hips makes him groan against your lips and you do it again while grinning.

He chuckles, “you are a handful.” He teases, kissing your neck until he playfully nips your neck. “My handful.” He smirks and rocks up into you, twitching inside you when you moan his name. “I love you, riduur.” He vows, “never letting you go again.”

“Never.” You agree. You don’t blame him for what happened, he believed that you had left. Considering that you know how the slavers operate, no one would have told Din you were taken. “I love you.”

His hands caress your body, wanting to remove their outfit from your form but he doesn’t have anything else for you to wear. He will make sure you get the clothes you want when you land on the next planet. “Fuck, need you to - please.” He begs, needing you to cum for him. “I can’t - it’s too much.”

You whine but you know you aren’t close enough to cum. Din’s body is tense and shaking under you as you bounce on his cock. “I’m- I’m working on it.” You huff out, loving how wrecked he sounds.

“Fuck, baby. I’m - need you to work on it a little quicker.” He grunts, “I can’t - baby, shit. I - I’m gonna-” He can’t stop himself as he falls apart, pushing up into you, his fingers digging into your hips as he twitches inside you. His hot cum paints your walls as he groans your name, resting his forehead against your shoulder.

You giggle, loving that he couldn’t hold back. Grinding down on him and squeezing his still twitching cock inside your walls. “Fuck.” Din groans, sounding embarrassed but you just lean back and lift his chin to make him look at you. “I love it, I love you dripping out of me. I don’t care that I didn’t cum.”

“I do.” He huffs, shaking his head, and he slides his hand lower to find your clit, rubbing circles on it. He wants you to fall apart for him. “Need you to cum for me. Wanna see it again, riduur.”

You moan, watching as his eyes light up in pleasure and he bites his lip, “always wondered what kind of faces you make when you cum.” You tease. “Now I want to see it all the time.” Din smiles. “You can see it, but I want to watch you right now.”

He rubs your clit a little faster, wanting to see you fall apart for him like this. He has only even watched it through his visor and he wants to see every minor detail on your face. He's softening inside you but he doesn't care, hissing a little when you squeeze him in your walls, but he wants you to fall apart.

You don’t rock your hip, but grind them down in a circular motion. Close to cumming as you stare at your riduur’s face. Din is your husband. You are the one person who can see his face, share his creed although you are not Mandalorian. You are one with him. Another swipe of his fingers sends you over the edge and you cry out, clenching down around him again. “Din!” His name echoes through the hall where you have been held captive as you cum for your husband.

He groans, kissing along your neck as you shake against him. He continues working his fingers until you cry out and he pulls them away, watching you as you try to catch your breath. “Mesh’la.” He murmurs, caressing your cheek with his free hand. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“Yes.” You smile at him as you slowly pull off his softened cock and stand. “I want to go back to the Crest. I’m sure you don’t have my things anymore, but it was always home.” Din frowns. “I have a Razor Crest but it’s not the ship you were on.” He confesses and you frown. “That ship was destroyed three years ago, by an Imperialist named Gideon. He was after the kid that is my apprentice.” Your eyes widen as Din stands to tuck his cock away. “What?”

“I - I was dar’manda. Showed the kid my face. Became the technical leader of Mandalore. Lost that title, thank the Maker, then decided to start taking bounties again. I have been across the galaxy and I never stopped thinking about you.” He promises, reaching out to take your hands.

You shiver slightly and Din immediately pulls back, reaching for the cowl of his cape and unhooks it from his flightsuit to hand to you. You wrap it around yourself and sigh when you feel covered and warm and comfortable since it smells like him. “I’ve never stopped thinking about you either.”

He glances around the hall, grabbing his blaster from its holster, and he guides you out of the shithole you’ve suffered in. “I got you, baby.” He promises, escorting you out into daylight and you gasp, tilting your head to let the sun warm your face. You look ethereal and Din wishes he could keep this moment forever but you need to go. “Come on, riduur.” He guides you to the Crest, opening the hatch. “Where are we going?” You ask and he secures the ship, “to get the kid.”

The kid. You can tell that Din cares about this child. It makes you smile softly as you watch him, now helmet back in place as he starts the ship up. You had dreamed about having his children one day, when you had almost imagined it to be impossible but he is acting like a protective father. Even his tone when he talks about this apprentice is warm and caring. “Where is he?” You ask softly.

He sighs, "I left him on Nevarro with a friend." He knows that Karga is capable of babysitting the kid. "We will find you some more clothes when we get to Navarro." He promises, "and whatever you want. You buy it." He demands, "but you can keep my cape for now."

You chuckle. “Thanks. I would hate to see the looks I would get on Nevarro.” You huff, knowing how rough and tumble it could be. “I don’t need you shooting another bounty hunter and impacting your standing with the guild. Din tilts his head and pulls back the leaver to increase power to the engines. “Nevarro has changed, Mesh’la.” He explains. “It is civilized, respectable.”

Your eyes widen and he chuckles, making his way up to the cockpit to punch in the coordinates. You glance around the Crest, familiar - yet different from the ship you called your home, and you caress the metal, finally realizing you are free.

You don’t go upstairs just yet. Exploring the new ship that feels so familiar already. The hours and days you had spent on the original Razor Crest with Din, you can’t even calculate it. Although you open the little sleeping nook and sigh when you see his blanket tossed on the cot. Crawling in and pressing the fabric to your face, you close your eyes and fall asleep.

****

“Mando. You have returned.” Karga greets him with open arms and Din nods, keeping you close. “And you brought a friend.” He adds and Din adjusts his stance, widening it as he proudly says, “riduur. My wife.” He says your name and you fluster, ducking your head.

Karga’s eyes widen in shock. “Wife?!” He exclaims and then laughs a full belly laugh. “You are full of surprises, Mando.” He admits. “I did not know you were looking to get married.” He glances back at you and smiles. “No wonder he once turned down my offer of a camtono of spice and trip to the Twi’lek Healing Baths.” He smirks as he reaches for your hand to bend down and kiss the back of it. “I would turn it down too, if I had a beautiful woman like you keeping hearth and home warm.”

Din smiles under his helmet and reaches for your hand, “she is beautiful. And she needs clothes.” He is glad for his cape to conceal your outfit, knowing you wouldn’t want anyone to see you like that now that you are free.

“We have the finest merchants in the outer rim.” Karga immediately turns into a salesman for his planet. “We import from Coruscant, Naboo , even host refugees that had been fortunate enough to not be on Alderaan at the time of its demise.” He winces slightly but quickly recovers. “One even made clothes for the Organa family.” He boasts proudly, happy with what he has turned Nevarro into. 

Your eyes widen and Din reaches for the credits he keeps on his belt. "Get her the best." He demands from Karga, "I want to get the kid and then we will go back to my home for food and rest." Karga nods, "I will arrange for some clothes for the lady."

“Your home?” Your eyes widen as Din guides you away from his friend. “I live here, when I’m not working.” He explains. “I- we, have a house outside of the city. You will love it, Mesh’la.” You never expected Din to ever have a home, expecting him to be a nomad. “It’s for your kid.”  You realize. “For Grogu.”

He nods, “it’s for him. And now for you.” He promises, entering the hut when you hear a coo. You look down and gasp, seeing a small green child staring up at you. “Hey kid.” Din greets him and you can hear the smile in his voice as he picks the child up who coos at your husband, reaching out to touch his face. “There’s someone I want you to meet.” Din says your name, “my riduur. She’s our family.”

The kid, Grogu, is like no creature you have met before. He stares at you with wide black eyes before he somersaults from Din’s arms and lands on your shoulder with a grunt as you gasp and reach for him, terrified he will fall. Your husband chuckles. “He likes you.” He explains as you turn your head as a three finger claw settles against your cheek and suddenly images fill your head. Images of Grogu in a pram, a strange Mandalorian arriving. Din protecting him from a giant beast and in return, Grogu saving him. Hundreds of visions, all with your husband in the center. Putting himself in danger for the child resting on your shoulder until you realize that Grogu chose to stay with Din and he loves him. The visions stop and you bite your lip, smiling at the little green creature. “I love him too.” You promise softly. “Always. So that means I will love you, if you let me.”

He chirps at you, wanting you to know he likes you and if Din loves you, he will too. You seem to understand as you reach up to caress his ear and he tilts his head. “Let’s go home.” Din murmurs, taking your hand as Grogu jumps from your shoulder into the satchel Din had slung around his body. The three of you walk to the small cabin Din calls home and you gasp when you see it. “You like it?” Din asks, turning to look at you, and you wish you could see his face. “I love it.” He nods, opening the door, and Grogu squeals as he jumps, rushing towards the snacks Karga stocked in the back pantry.

“It’s very nice.” You walk around the surprisingly spacious open room and notice the comfortable sofa and chairs. There’s some doors on one side that must lead to sleeping quarters. And there is an honest to Maker kitchen. “Wow, you mean I can cook here? More than just ration packs?”

Din smiles under his helmet, “you can cook here, whenever you want.” He promises and Grogu coos in delight. “He never stops eating.” Din explains and you giggle, “we will make sure you have enough snacks.” Grogu spins in delight and waddles over to his pod. “Nap time.” Din explains and the doors close on the pod. “Do you want to shower? It’s not a ‘fresher.” He promises and you groan, “really? Yes. I want to clean up.” Din steps closer, “you can say no but I’d really like to clean up with you.”

You smirk at him as he shuffles slightly. “And miss out on the chance to have you completely stripped down with me, and have the lights on?” You shake your head. “That’s something I never imagined I would ever get to have.”

He chuckles, taking your hand to guide you to the bathroom, working on his beskar once you’re there and you lean in to turn on the water. His cape drops to the floor and you start to rip at the outfit the Hutt’s forced you to wear. Tears sting in your eyes and Din notices the change. “Hey, hey, hey.” He reaches for your hands as you tear the fabric from your body. “I’m so sorry you had to endure that. Those bastards…you survived. They are dead. You’re so strong, riduur. So damn strong.” He shifts to cup your cheek, “you are here and you are protected. My life for yours.” He promises, wanting you to know he’d lay his life down for you.

“I would never want that.” You choke out and you bite your lip as you look up into his visor. “Can I see you?” You ask softly. He nods and leans in, silently giving you permission to remove his helmet. You reach for the cool beskar and slowly pull it off. Loving that his eyes are immediately on yours.

You set the helmet down and he reaches for your waist, pulling you closer, and your fingers caress his features. He closes his eyes for a brief moment as you trace his nose, until he opens them, wanting to see you. “I love you.” He murmurs, lips brushing your fingertips as you trace their shape.

“I love you.” You are bare now, no trace of your past is on you and you reach for his flight suit, wanting him to be just as bare. “Here we can just be us.” You murmur softly. “No creeds, no past. Just the two people who love each other.”

He nods, nudging his nose against yours when you lean closer. You pull on the tabs of his flight suit, stepping back so he can shrug it off and kick it aside. “Shower.” He orders, squeezing your waist.

You hum, stepping into the stall and standing under the hot spray of the water. Groaning happily at the heat. “The lava flow under the surface keeps the water hotter than anything I’ve ever felt before.” Din chuckles as he steps in with you and groans himself when water touches his skin.

“It’s been so long since I had a hot shower.” You confess, “I only got a bowl of cold water.” You admit and Din frowns, hating to hear about how you suffered. “Never again, riduur.” He vows and reaches for you to pull you closer, “you will never want for anything.”

You know that he means it, but he doesn’t have to give you everything. “I just want you.” You promise as you wrap your arms around his shoulders. “I know not everything will be comfortable in life, that’s not the life we had before, but I want this with you.”

He nods, understanding what you mean and he reaches for the soap, wanting to wash you. You sigh when his bare hands caress your skin, enjoying his touch, and he can’t help the way his cock starts to harden at your soft sighs while he lathers you up.

You had known this would end up in sex, touching Din always does. You don’t mind it, you want it. You want your husband. Now your hands slide over his shoulders as you hold on. “I love you.” You murmur softly.

He loves hearing you say it and he surges forward to press his lips to yours, lost in the overwhelming reality that he can touch you. He can see you and touch you and this isn’t his imagination. He groans your name and slides his hands down to your thighs, lifting you up to press you against the wall of the shower.

He groans into your mouth and your legs naturally wrap around his waist. “Din.” You pant as one hand slides up to cup your tit. “I want you. I want you to make love to me right here.” You beg softly.

He pants as your heels dig into his ass. “You need me to get you ready?” He offers, knowing he will stretch you but you shake your head. “Now, riduur.” He nearly bursts hearing you call him that and he groans, letting go of your breast to grip his cock, positioning himself at your entrance to slowly push into you with a harsh hiss.

He stretches you out. It would be painful, except it’s never with him. Always nothing but pleasure as he fills you up. You cling to him as the water cascades down his back and you press your lips to his in a kiss that is years of repressed emotions.

Din groans into the kiss, loving how you feel around him, and he feels like this place is now his home. He squeezes your thigh, keeping you pressed into the tiles as he starts to rock his hips, pulling back to watch your face as you take him.

All you can do is cling to him and enjoy it. To realize that you are free to love him, free to love your life with him. “More.” You beg. “Make me forget everything.”

He grunts, wanting to create new memories for you. That doesn't involve those gangster bastards. “Fuck, mesh’la. You feel so good.” He murmurs, kissing along your jaw as he rocks into you.

You whine and your eyes slip closed. Almost afraid you are dreaming but the way he feels is more real than any dream. The water is still hot, beating down on both of you and you dig your nails into his shoulders. “I love you, Din.”

He groans, rocking into you, and there’s no rush. There’s nothing but time now for you and him. He pants as your walls flutter around his length, making him groan as you take everything he gives you. “Cum for me, cyar’ika.” He pleads softly, wanting to watch you fall apart for him.

There’s a soft intensity that you know has to have been there the entire time, hidden under his helmet. The warmth and love in his eyes makes you moan just as much as the way he pushes inside you. “Yes, yes.” You whimper, leaning back and trusting him to keep you up against the wall. “So close.”

“That’s it. Fuck, you’re so beautiful. My riduur. My life.” He vows and he says it so reverently that you fall apart. Clamping down on his cock, he groans your name and within a half dozen thrusts, he’s pushing deep to fill you up. Your nails dig into his shoulders but he doesn’t care, loving the way you are squeezing him to drain him of every drop.

“Cum for me, riduur.” You whimper. “Fill me up, Din. I want to feel you. I need to feel you.” You beg, cupping his cheek and pressing your lips to yours as his cock pulses inside you. You love it, you love that he finally found you. It doesn’t matter that it took years, it matters that you are together.

****

The way Joel fucks you can never be labeled as anything other than exquisite. His breath is hot against the sensitive skin of your neck, his mouth closing over the pulse point just below your ear so as to taste the salt of your sweat. The coarse scratch of his chest hair drags across your breasts as he leans in close, the low rumble of his groan vibrating through your ribcage. The muscles in his back shift and flex under the featherlight touch of your fingertips. A large hand pins your wrist above your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, his thick fingers digging into the soft flesh in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

Despite being lost in the throes of pleasure, you can tell how dangerously close Joel is to coming. His thrusts are no longer the steady, rolling grind that he started with, but desperate and choppy. The thick head of his cock grazes against your cervix with every sloppy snap of his hips. The veins along his shaft throb against your stretched rim, his balls slapping against your ass with each stuttered movement. “Joel…” you warn.

He shakes his head fast, jaw tight and teeth clenched as he fights his impending orgasm. “I know, baby. I know. M’pullin’ out, I promise.” 

That had always been the deal between the two of you – he could fuck you bare like he wanted, but he had to pull out – and until tonight, Joel had always been overly cautious. He’d pull out earlier than he needed to, stroking himself those last few seconds before spilling across the backs of your thighs.

Tonight though, Joel seemed to be struggling to hold up his end of the bargain. He rises onto his knees and hooks one of your legs over his broad shoulders. The new angle lets him sink into you further, grinding against that spongy spot inside you with merciless precision. Your body clenches around him, squeezing his cock in a way that makes him break with a choked sound. “Fuck, baby. M’gonna come–”

He rips out of you at the very last second, cock throbbing in the cool summer air. His hand wraps around the thick, slick shaft as he jerks himself with fast, desperate strokes. With an exasperated groan, the first hot rope of come shoots out of him, landing exactly where he wants it - splattered perfectly over your swollen clit. Before you can even react, a second spurt follows dripping down your folds in a sticky, pearly streak. 

The sight of his release painting your pussy flips a switch in him instantly. That primal urge in him that is usually kept locked down roars to the surface. Joel’s chest heaves, his entire body going rigid as every civilized thought gets wiped clean and is replaced with the need to be inside you. “Fuck. Fuck, baby–” He drives into you in one brutal, instinctive thrust, thrusting every thick inch of his cock back into the heat of your cunt. The stretch is sudden and overwhelming despite him pulling out only moments earlier.

“Joel–” you manage to breathlessly exclaim as he turns his head and groans against your ankle. His orgasm hits him harder now that he’s buried where he knows he shouldn’t be, the guilt and wrongness only seeming to intensify everything as he continues to spill inside you.

His whole body shakes with the force of it, completely lost in the rush of filling you when he promised he wouldn’t. “Oh fuck–” he chokes out, gasping and moaning as he grinds himself impossibly deeper, pushing his spend as far inside you as he can. 

Your leg slips from his shoulder and Joel’s body collapses forward with a groan, his weight pressing you into the mattress. He trembles above you, arms braced on either side of your head, too weak to hold himself up fully as he attempts to catch his breath. Even after the last powerful aftershocks ripple through him, Joel stays buried to the hilt, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary roll, unable to stop chasing the euphoric feeling. His cock twitches inside your come-filled pussy, his body refusing to accept that it’s over.

The room falls silent, the gravity of what just happened settling over you until it’s almost suffocating. Joel finally slumps over you, his forehead nudging into your shoulder, arms wrapped tight around your middle like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His breath is shaky as he burrows his face into your neck and you sense the tension and unease radiating off of him.  “...baby. I–I fucked up,” he admits, voice wrecked from both exhaustion and nerves. 

You can feel the warmth of his release slowly leaking out around his softening cock and you try to lift your head to see, but Joel is heavy over top of you. You tap the side of his ass, urging him to get up and thankfully he understands the gesture. He eases himself out of you, his cock slipping out of you with a wet noise, and falls back onto the mattress, covering his face with his forearm. “Jesus…” you breathe, having propped yourself up on your elbows to look down at the mess he made. The sheen of your slick is smeared glossy across your inner thighs. Joel’s come is everywhere – seeping out of your hole in thick, pearly white streaks and dripping onto the bedsheets beneath you. 

Joel sits up, leaning back on one hand as he takes in the sight of your spread thighs, watching as his come slowly trickles from your entrance. The guilt of breaking his promise to you starts to eat at him; but, alongside the shame is a dark, hungry satisfaction that he can’t push away. The conflicting feelings weave together into some fucked up shame spiral and he lets out a heavy sigh, flopping back onto the mattress. 

He hears you say his name, but the sound barely registers. He’s too lost in his own head, trapped somewhere between regret and disgust. You call out again, this time a little louder, and he rolls onto his side to face you. Without a word, he leans in, one hand cradling your cheek as he kisses you. It’s not rushed or desperate, but rather sweet, as if his lips were trying to say everything he was having difficulty putting into words. There’s an apology in the way that his thumb gently strokes the side of your face. There’s hunger in the way his tongue slides against yours. And, there’s relief in the quiet sigh he breathes into the kiss, like touching you is the only thing keeping him grounded. “M’sorry, baby…” he murmurs against your lips. 

His eyes flick back down to the mess between your thighs, brows furrowing together. “Fuck…look at what I did to you,” he whispers. “As soon as I can feel my damn legs, “we’re gonna get in the car, okay? I’ll drive you to the pharmacy and we’ll see about gettin’ you the mornin’ after pill.” Joel shakes his head, disappointed in himself, but even more so at his cock which twitches with interest. “I promised. I fuckin’ promised and I just…” his voice cracks, “the second I came, I lost it. Buried myself right back in like some goddamn animal.” There’s a short pause, Joel swallowing down a dangerous thought, “Jesus Christ, baby…what the hell did I do?”

You grab Joel’s face with both hands before he can spiral any further, pulling him into a kiss that shuts him up and steals whatever apology was about to tumble out. His lips quiver against yours, unsure if he should even be allowed this kind of forgiveness. It isn’t until the tip of your tongue slides slowly over the seam of his lips that he melts. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding and the tension in his jaw finally eases. His hand comes to rest on your waist and he kisses you back, trying to convey his gratitude for not pushing him away.

When you break apart, you rest your forehead against him and brush your thumbs over his stubbled cheekbones. “Should make you go by yourself,” you mumble against his lips, no malice in your voice. “Explain to the pharmacist what you did.”

Joel looks at you with wide, pleading eyes, knowing he deserves every bit of shame and reproach that would come from confessing it aloud. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his face starting to heat up. “Baby…” he breathes out, voice barely above a whisper. 

You smile softly, eyes locked on his, “She’s going to take one look at this guilty face and just know that you couldn’t keep your cock where it belonged.” Joel makes a ragged sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “She’ll make you say it too,” you add, dragging your thumb over his bottom lip. “What you did. Out loud.”

Joel’s eyes flutter shut, cheeks burning hotter under your gaze, his forehead dropping to your shoulder in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. You’re not exactly sure what prompts you, but you find yourself sliding your fingers into Joel’s hair, gently tugging his head back up so you can see his face. “Tell me what you’d say to her,” you whisper. “Tell me like you’re standing at the counter.”

Joel shakes his head weakly, attempting to resist your request, but his pupils are blown wide, lust swallowing his irises. His cock twitches with interest, blood rushing to where he’s already growing half-hard between his thighs. 

You let your gaze drop, catching the sudden movement in your peripheral vision. Joel lets out a small, miserable whine and tries to bury his face in your neck again, but you keep your grip firm in his hair. “Joel,” you say, slightly amused but with a strangely cruel undertone to it. “Are you getting hard while apologizing?”

Your question lingers in the air, and the real shock of it hits you, because Joel is not the type to be brought down to his metaphorical knees. He is always the one in control – bigger, stronger, unmistakably male – and seeing him like this almost feels surreal. You can’t help but think that it looks good on him for a change. 

Joel’s breath stutters, his cock betraying him as it twitches under your gaze. His blush deepens until he’s red all the way up to the tips of his ears. He feels exposed, ridiculous and so fucking turned on that it’s making his head spin. “Baby, I–I’m trying not to.”

You tilt your head and let out a disbelieving laugh, glancing down at his cock steadily thickening between you. “Doesn’t look like it. Looks like you’re getting big and hard just from thinking about having to talk to the pharmacist later.”

A shiver zips up Joel’s spine and he barely restrains the groan that wants to escape. He fucking loves it when you call him big. Not just because of the way it strokes his ego – though he loves when you admire his dick – but because the way you say it makes him feel powerful. Hearing you use that word against him, teasing him while he’s exposed like this, makes his stomach tighten. The contradiction of being called ‘big’ while feeling so small and humiliated fucks with his head in the best way. Because no matter how big he is – how easily he could pin you down and take control – here he is, rock hard and almost submissive for you. His cock throbs, heavy and flushed dark, curving up towards his stomach as the tip glistens with a fresh bead of precome.

“Answer me,” you say, voice low and commanding as you give his hair another firm tug until his eyes are trained on you.

“...fuck,” he mumbles under his breath, unable to keep himself in check as you stare down at him. “Yes…okay? Yes, I’m gettin’ hard. I hate it and I can’t fuckin’ help it.”

Joel looks completely mortified, but his hips twitch upward anyway, like his body is begging for attention. His big, guilty brown eyes stay locked on yours, glassy and desperate. A long moment stretches between you while you watch him squirm, shame and arousal practically eating him alive. You lean in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “That’s because you liked it,” you whisper. “You liked filling me up when you weren’t supposed to. You liked fucking up.”

His whole body tenses, his cock jerking with another helpless twitch. “Fuck…baby,” he whispers. “So fucking much.”

You let the silence sit for another beat, just to watch him sit with his admission. His hand flexes at his side like he’s dying to reach out and touch you – to grab your hips, pull you closer, bury his face between your thighs, and eat you out until you’re shaking and pushing him away.  Anything to distract from the embarrassment of telling someone else how much he enjoyed coming inside you. 

When you’re satisfied that you had made him wait long enough, you loosen your grip on his hair and slide your hand down to cup his jaw. “Joel,” you say softly. He responds with a hum, leaning into your touch. “Say it.”

Joel blinks, his breath shallow. “Say what?”

You lean in until your lips are barely an inch from his, “What you’re going to tell the pharmacist.”

Joel’s eyes flutter shut for a second, his lips parting slightly as he half-expects you to lean in and kiss him. When you don’t, he lets out a huff. After a moment, he relents,  “Sorry ma’am,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Can I bother you for Plan B? I…I accidentally…” His sentence tapers off, embarrassment and arousal tying his tongue while you look at him expectantly. “She–she told me to pull out, but I couldn’t help myself.”

You tsk at him, a low, disappointed sound that makes his shoulder tense. You trail your fingers from where it cups his cheek, down the side of his neck, over the rapid thud of his heartbeat in his chest, until you reach his navel. You trace his happy trail with the pad of your pointer finger, purposefully keeping away from his more than interested cock. “Keep going,” you state, more demand than request. “You weren’t finished."

Joel looks at you wrecked, completely at your mercy as you continue teasing him with featherlight touches. “Baby…I–”

You cut him off mid-sentence, wrapping your fingers firmly around the thick base of his cock. He goes stock still, his eyes flying wide open as he lets out a sharp gasp, “Fuck–”. You hold him there, tight and possessive, feeling his cock throb hot and heavy in your palm, but refusing to stroke him. 

“Keep going,” you say calmly, your thumb brushing lightly over the prominent vein on the underside of his shaft. “Don’t stop just because I have your cock in my hand.”

Joel licks his lips, eyes glued to yours, his thighs trembling as he fights the overwhelming urge to thrust up into your fist. “She told me to pull out,” he starts, your grip tightening. “…but I saw how pretty she looked on my cock and I–” He groans softly, enraptured by the way you’re looking at him. “I couldn’t help myself, baby.  I–I just needed to feel you feel you full of me.”

You lean in close, nose brushing against the shell of his ear, and whisper, “Pathetic.”

A broken groan tears out of Joel’s chest, shame flooding his face. He jerks his hips involuntarily, eagerly chasing the heat of your palm. His body shakes – the big, strong man who’s always in control, trembling from a single whispered insult.

“Go on,” you purr in his ear. “Repeat what you’d say to the pharmacist. Word for word.”

Joel’s eyes squeeze shut, his voice is wrecked, cracking with every humiliating word. “...Sorry, ma’am. Can I get a Plan B? I accidentally came inside my girl. She told me to pull out but I…I couldn’t help but fill her up anyway.” His hips twitch helplessly, precome drooling from the tip and leaking over your fist.

“And why not,” you ask softly, adjusting your grip, your thumb swiping over the flushed, sensitive head.

Joel keens, his back arching off the bed. “Because–” he starts, swallowing down a shaky breath,  “because she was squeezin’ me so good that I lost control.”

“I told you to pull out,” you remind him, thumb continuing to move. 

He nods quickly, shame tightening in his throat. “I know, baby. I know. I did at first but…” Joel lets out a strangled whine, only furthering his embarrassment, “...fuck.”

“But what, Joel?” you ask, lips still brushing his ear in a tease. “Finish your sentence.” Your hand slides up his length in one smooth stroke, then back down to the base. He’s so fucking big in your grip, your fingers barely meeting around his shaft due to the sheer size of him. His cock is a complete mess, glistening and still slick with his earlier load. 

Joel’s hands fist the sheets, needing to hold onto something, the fabric pulling away from the edge of the mattress as he fights for control. “I didn’t listen,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “Stuffed myself right back inside.”

You pull back just enough to see his face, his pupils blown with lust, his lips parted as he pants, desperate for more – desperate for something. “Good boy,” you praise. Joel’s entire body seizes up, his cock surging with want, as he attempts to push himself deeper into your grasp. You keep stroking him, the pace excruciating, letting your thumb swirl over the messy come-slick head on every upstroke. “Now tell her why you’re there,” you murmur.

Joel lets out a broken whine, hips jerking helplessly. His voice cracks as he forces the words out, shame and arousal twisting together so tightly he can barely speak.  “ ‘Cause she needs the morning after pill,” he breathes out. “And it’s all my fault.” Joel shoves his hips up, spearing his cock into your grip as he starts fucking your fist in short, needy strokes. “All my fucking fault.” 

The big, dominant Joel Miller is officially gone. In place is this desperate, leaking, shame-drenched version of him who can’t stop confessing how badly he fucked up – how badly he needed to come inside you – and how much he loved it.

“Greedy boy. You just can’t help yourself, can you?” 

He doesn’t answer you. You let him use your hand to get off, watching his face go slack with pleasure before urging his hips down and slowing your hand. Your fingers tighten around him, just enough to control the pace, forcing his thrusts to become shallow and frustratingly restricted. Every time he tries to move, you ease off, keeping him right on the agonizing edge without letting him tip over.

“That’s it,” you croon softly, “Tell her exactly why you need it.”

Joel’s hands fist the sheets tighter, knuckles white as he bunches the fabric at his sides. “‘Cause–fuck…’cause I came inside you, baby,” he groans. “Pussy looked so good covered in my come that I just had to get back inside.”

You feel him swell impossibly bigger in your hand, the thick shaft pulsing in time with his heartbeat, as he teeters dangerously close to the edge. His balls draw up tight, the first warning of his impending orgasm.

Joel’s breath catches, his eyes starting to roll back, inches away from satisfaction. You let go, your hand pulling away completely, leaving his cock twitching and bobbing angrily in the air. He lets out a broken sound as his orgasm crests and then crashes without release. His cock kicks hard, pulsing uselessly, a thick bead of precome dribbling pathetically from the tip and sliding down his shaft. His hips buck in the air, every muscle straining as everything fades into a cruel, aching denial. He collapses towards you, his body practically shaking  as he presses his forehead to your shoulder. “Fuck…baby…please…” he begs. 

You let him ache, his chest heaving with quick, uneven breaths, his denied cock twitching and leaking against his stomach. Every heavy throb is visible as he attempts to gather himself. He tries to tamp down his arousal, but underneath is something deeper  – raw, aching need. 

You press a hand gently to his chest, urging him to lie flat and Joel obeys instantly, falling back onto the mattress fully and without protest. You swing a leg over him, straddling his hips, your slick folds parting around him. His head falls back with a guttural groan as you start to rock against him, the fat head of his cock dragging hot and slippery over your swollen clit making you both moan. You feel him shudder underneath you, a low groan vibrating through his chest as he curses silently, “...fuck, baby. Just like that.”

Joel’s hands fly to your thighs, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s barely holding himself together. His breathing is ragged, eyes half-lidded and desperate as he watches you use him. You tease him like that for a few more torturous seconds without giving him what he really needs, a needy whine slipping out before he can stop it. 

Without hesitation, you take his cock in hand, lining him up with your entrance and sinking down all the way to the hilt. The stretch is perfect, your walls squeezing tight around him, greedy for more. A broken moan escapes both of you at the same time as Joel springs up, sitting up beneath you in a rush, one arm wrapping around your back as he pulls you into a messy, desperate kiss. Joel licks into your mouth like he’s starving for you. One hand slides up your back, while the other stays wrapped around your middle as he guides you harder onto his cock. 

“Fuck, baby…” he pants between kisses, “you feel so goddamn good.” Joel’s forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin as he lets you take complete control, utterly lost in the feeling of being buried inside you again. 

“Keep going,” you say, pulling off of him until only the tip of him remains inside you, then slamming back down until he’s fully sheathed again. “Tell the pharmacist what you did.”

Joel’s brain is barely coherent. “Fuck–I–” His hands dig into your skin, almost like he’s afraid you’ll leave him ruined and desperate again. “M’sorry, ma’am,” he begins, his words somewhat slurred as you continue to mercilessly ride him, the wet heat of your cunt enveloping him over and over again. “Need a plan B for my–fuck– girl.” His voice cracks as you grind your clit against his pelvis, the coarse hair on his groin prickling into your skin. “I’m sorry,” he groans, starting to babble, the confession spilling out in desperate, shattered pieces. “So fucking sorry. Felt so good. Fuck, baby…you feel so good. Needed to fill you up.”

Joel is embarrassingly close already, his hips stuttering up to meet your rhythm. “Fuck, baby. Hop off–fuck, I’m gonna–” he gasps, starting to panic. His hands scramble frantically at your hips, trying to lift you off him to avoid further incident. 

But you don’t let him. You slam down onto him one last time, taking him as deep as you can, rolling your hips in tight circles that eke him closer to the finish line. Your walls clench around him like a vice and Joel’s eyes widen in shock. “No–baby, wait–I can’t–fuck!”

His panicked warning dissolves into a guttural groan as his cock pulses violently inside you, his eyes rolling back into his head, vision going white, as thick, hot ropes of come flood you for the second time that afternoon. His entire body trembles beneath you, his fingers bruising your skin where he grips you as if you’re the only thing anchoring him to Earth.

The wet warmth of his spend spills from your cunt and drips down his shaft, coating him in his own mess. Joel’s face is slack, experiencing what one can only assume to be pure bliss – like nothing in the world exists except the tight, slick heat of your cunt milking him dry. 

You ride the high right alongside him, your bodies in a perfect, filthy sync until your own orgasm crashes into you without warning. Your thighs lock tight around his hips as white-hot pleasure rips up your spine. You cry out, your head lolling back, his name slipping from your lips as every muscle shakes with wave after wave of mind-numbing pleasure. 

Joel starts to slowly soften inside of you but doesn’t dare look down at the mess. “Still gotta go to the pharmacy, baby.”

The fluorescent lights of the pharmacy feel way too bright as Joel stands at the counter, posture rigid like he’s waiting on his own execution. The pharmacist, a no-nonsense type of woman in her fifties, offers him a polite smile. “How can I help you today?”

Joel’s face immediately burns red, his blush crawling all the way up to his ears. He rubs the back of his neck, glancing over at you like maybe you’ll save him from utter embarrassment, but you don’t. He clears his throat, an attempt at keeping himself from stuttering which immediately backfires as soon as he opens his mouth to speak. “Uh–I–I–uh…I need the, uh…the Plan B pill.”

The pharmacist doesn’t even blink, she just nods calmly and types something into the computer, “One moment, sir. I’ll grab that for you.”

Joel lets out an apprehensive breath, muttering under his breath while his fingers tap nervously on the counter. He prays the ground will just swallow him whole. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbles to himself.

The pharmacist returns with the small blue box and sets it on the counter, scanning the barcode. “Alright, if that’s it for today, that’ll be–”

“It’s my fault,” Joel blurts out, far too loud, before realizing his blunder. “I–I messed up.”

You watch the pharmacist’s eyebrows slowly lift. In truth, your hand reaches for him like you’re going to stop him, but the words tumble out of him quicker than expected. “She told me to pull out but I just lost my head.”

You bite down hard on your lip to keep from laughing, your face heating with a mix of second-hand embarrassment and delight. The pharmacist blinks, completely unfazed. “Oh. Well…it happens. That’ll be $54.11.”

Joel looks like he’s two seconds away from melting into the floor. His neck and ears are bright red, jaw clenched so tight you’re afraid he’s going to pop a vein in his forehead. He fumbles for his wallet, dropping his debit card with a loud clatter, cursing quietly under his breath. You place a steady hand on his bicep and he manages to swipe the card with shaking fingers, refusing to look at you.

When the transaction is complete, the pharmacist hands him the bag, telling him she hopes he has a good day. He can’t even respond with words. He raises his hand, nodding his head and gently takes you by the arm, leading you out of the pharmacy as quickly as he can. When he reaches the sidewalk, he turns towards you, the bulge evident in his jeans, his voice dropping into a hushed whisper only you can hear. “Baby…I swear I ain’t ever been that embarrassed in all my life.”

The minute the front door clicks shut behind you, Joel lets out a heavy exhale, dropping the keys to his truck on the entryway table. You barely make it two steps before he reaches for you, grabbing your hand and pulling you into him, your back flush against his broad chest. His face drops into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your skin like he needs the contact to steady himself. 

He turns you to face him and his eyes are soft, filled with adoration and love. The flush of humiliation hasn’t fully faded, his ears tinted pink as he cocks his head to the side and then leans in to kiss you. The kiss starts slow, as if he’s asking for permission, but the moment you kiss him back, it deepens – slow and hungry in the softest way. His hands slide down your back, palms warm and steady, pressing you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies. “Baby…”, he whispers, his lips not leaving yours. “...you were real mean to me.”

You smile, humming in agreement, “Yeah, you gonna let me do it again?”

Joel swallows, eyes dropping to your mouth, his response somewhat shy, “Jesus…I–yeah,we’ll talk about it.”

His forehead rests against yours and he breathes you in for a long moment, then kisses you again. His arms tighten around you as the tension starts to bleed out of his shoulders. “Thank you,” he murmurs, the words barely more than a breath. “For helpin’ me take care of it. For not bein’ mad. For…hell, for everything.”

The way Joel fucks you can never be labeled as anything other than exquisite. His breath is hot against the sensitive skin of your neck, his mouth closing over the pulse point just below your ear so as to taste the salt of your sweat. The coarse scratch of his chest hair drags across your breasts as he leans in close, the low rumble of his groan vibrating through your ribcage. The muscles in his back shift and flex under the featherlight touch of your fingertips. A large hand pins your wrist above your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, his thick fingers digging into the soft flesh in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

Despite being lost in the throes of pleasure, you can tell how dangerously close Joel is to coming. His thrusts are no longer the steady, rolling grind that he started with, but desperate and choppy. The thick head of his cock grazes against your cervix with every sloppy snap of his hips. The veins along his shaft throb against your stretched rim, his balls slapping against your ass with each stuttered movement. “Joel…” you warn.

He shakes his head fast, jaw tight and teeth clenched as he fights his impending orgasm. “I know, baby. I know. M’pullin’ out, I promise.” 

That had always been the deal between the two of you – he could fuck you bare like he wanted, but he had to pull out – and until tonight, Joel had always been overly cautious. He’d pull out earlier than he needed to, stroking himself those last few seconds before spilling across the backs of your thighs.

Tonight though, Joel seemed to be struggling to hold up his end of the bargain. He rises onto his knees and hooks one of your legs over his broad shoulders. The new angle lets him sink into you further, grinding against that spongy spot inside you with merciless precision. Your body clenches around him, squeezing his cock in a way that makes him break with a choked sound. “Fuck, baby. M’gonna come–”

He rips out of you at the very last second, cock throbbing in the cool summer air. His hand wraps around the thick, slick shaft as he jerks himself with fast, desperate strokes. With an exasperated groan, the first hot rope of come shoots out of him, landing exactly where he wants it - splattered perfectly over your swollen clit. Before you can even react, a second spurt follows dripping down your folds in a sticky, pearly streak. 

The sight of his release painting your pussy flips a switch in him instantly. That primal urge in him that is usually kept locked down roars to the surface. Joel’s chest heaves, his entire body going rigid as every civilized thought gets wiped clean and is replaced with the need to be inside you. “Fuck. Fuck, baby–” He drives into you in one brutal, instinctive thrust, thrusting every thick inch of his cock back into the heat of your cunt. The stretch is sudden and overwhelming despite him pulling out only moments earlier.

“Joel–” you manage to breathlessly exclaim as he turns his head and groans against your ankle. His orgasm hits him harder now that he’s buried where he knows he shouldn’t be, the guilt and wrongness only seeming to intensify everything as he continues to spill inside you.

His whole body shakes with the force of it, completely lost in the rush of filling you when he promised he wouldn’t. “Oh fuck–” he chokes out, gasping and moaning as he grinds himself impossibly deeper, pushing his spend as far inside you as he can. 

Your leg slips from his shoulder and Joel’s body collapses forward with a groan, his weight pressing you into the mattress. He trembles above you, arms braced on either side of your head, too weak to hold himself up fully as he attempts to catch his breath. Even after the last powerful aftershocks ripple through him, Joel stays buried to the hilt, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary roll, unable to stop chasing the euphoric feeling. His cock twitches inside your come-filled pussy, his body refusing to accept that it’s over.

The room falls silent, the gravity of what just happened settling over you until it’s almost suffocating. Joel finally slumps over you, his forehead nudging into your shoulder, arms wrapped tight around your middle like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His breath is shaky as he burrows his face into your neck and you sense the tension and unease radiating off of him.  “...baby. I–I fucked up,” he admits, voice wrecked from both exhaustion and nerves. 

You can feel the warmth of his release slowly leaking out around his softening cock and you try to lift your head to see, but Joel is heavy over top of you. You tap the side of his ass, urging him to get up and thankfully he understands the gesture. He eases himself out of you, his cock slipping out of you with a wet noise, and falls back onto the mattress, covering his face with his forearm. “Jesus…” you breathe, having propped yourself up on your elbows to look down at the mess he made. The sheen of your slick is smeared glossy across your inner thighs. Joel’s come is everywhere – seeping out of your hole in thick, pearly white streaks and dripping onto the bedsheets beneath you. 

Joel sits up, leaning back on one hand as he takes in the sight of your spread thighs, watching as his come slowly trickles from your entrance. The guilt of breaking his promise to you starts to eat at him; but, alongside the shame is a dark, hungry satisfaction that he can’t push away. The conflicting feelings weave together into some fucked up shame spiral and he lets out a heavy sigh, flopping back onto the mattress. 

He hears you say his name, but the sound barely registers. He’s too lost in his own head, trapped somewhere between regret and disgust. You call out again, this time a little louder, and he rolls onto his side to face you. Without a word, he leans in, one hand cradling your cheek as he kisses you. It’s not rushed or desperate, but rather sweet, as if his lips were trying to say everything he was having difficulty putting into words. There’s an apology in the way that his thumb gently strokes the side of your face. There’s hunger in the way his tongue slides against yours. And, there’s relief in the quiet sigh he breathes into the kiss, like touching you is the only thing keeping him grounded. “M’sorry, baby…” he murmurs against your lips. 

His eyes flick back down to the mess between your thighs, brows furrowing together. “Fuck…look at what I did to you,” he whispers. “As soon as I can feel my damn legs, “we’re gonna get in the car, okay? I’ll drive you to the pharmacy and we’ll see about gettin’ you the mornin’ after pill.” Joel shakes his head, disappointed in himself, but even more so at his cock which twitches with interest. “I promised. I fuckin’ promised and I just…” his voice cracks, “the second I came, I lost it. Buried myself right back in like some goddamn animal.” There’s a short pause, Joel swallowing down a dangerous thought, “Jesus Christ, baby…what the hell did I do?”

You grab Joel’s face with both hands before he can spiral any further, pulling him into a kiss that shuts him up and steals whatever apology was about to tumble out. His lips quiver against yours, unsure if he should even be allowed this kind of forgiveness. It isn’t until the tip of your tongue slides slowly over the seam of his lips that he melts. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding and the tension in his jaw finally eases. His hand comes to rest on your waist and he kisses you back, trying to convey his gratitude for not pushing him away.

When you break apart, you rest your forehead against him and brush your thumbs over his stubbled cheekbones. “Should make you go by yourself,” you mumble against his lips, no malice in your voice. “Explain to the pharmacist what you did.”

Joel looks at you with wide, pleading eyes, knowing he deserves every bit of shame and reproach that would come from confessing it aloud. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his face starting to heat up. “Baby…” he breathes out, voice barely above a whisper. 

You smile softly, eyes locked on his, “She’s going to take one look at this guilty face and just know that you couldn’t keep your cock where it belonged.” Joel makes a ragged sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “She’ll make you say it too,” you add, dragging your thumb over his bottom lip. “What you did. Out loud.”

Joel’s eyes flutter shut, cheeks burning hotter under your gaze, his forehead dropping to your shoulder in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. You’re not exactly sure what prompts you, but you find yourself sliding your fingers into Joel’s hair, gently tugging his head back up so you can see his face. “Tell me what you’d say to her,” you whisper. “Tell me like you’re standing at the counter.”

Joel shakes his head weakly, attempting to resist your request, but his pupils are blown wide, lust swallowing his irises. His cock twitches with interest, blood rushing to where he’s already growing half-hard between his thighs. 

You let your gaze drop, catching the sudden movement in your peripheral vision. Joel lets out a small, miserable whine and tries to bury his face in your neck again, but you keep your grip firm in his hair. “Joel,” you say, slightly amused but with a strangely cruel undertone to it. “Are you getting hard while apologizing?”

Your question lingers in the air, and the real shock of it hits you, because Joel is not the type to be brought down to his metaphorical knees. He is always the one in control – bigger, stronger, unmistakably male – and seeing him like this almost feels surreal. You can’t help but think that it looks good on him for a change. 

Joel’s breath stutters, his cock betraying him as it twitches under your gaze. His blush deepens until he’s red all the way up to the tips of his ears. He feels exposed, ridiculous and so fucking turned on that it’s making his head spin. “Baby, I–I’m trying not to.”

You tilt your head and let out a disbelieving laugh, glancing down at his cock steadily thickening between you. “Doesn’t look like it. Looks like you’re getting big and hard just from thinking about having to talk to the pharmacist later.”

A shiver zips up Joel’s spine and he barely restrains the groan that wants to escape. He fucking loves it when you call him big. Not just because of the way it strokes his ego – though he loves when you admire his dick – but because the way you say it makes him feel powerful. Hearing you use that word against him, teasing him while he’s exposed like this, makes his stomach tighten. The contradiction of being called ‘big’ while feeling so small and humiliated fucks with his head in the best way. Because no matter how big he is – how easily he could pin you down and take control – here he is, rock hard and almost submissive for you. His cock throbs, heavy and flushed dark, curving up towards his stomach as the tip glistens with a fresh bead of precome.

“Answer me,” you say, voice low and commanding as you give his hair another firm tug until his eyes are trained on you.

“...fuck,” he mumbles under his breath, unable to keep himself in check as you stare down at him. “Yes…okay? Yes, I’m gettin’ hard. I hate it and I can’t fuckin’ help it.”

Joel looks completely mortified, but his hips twitch upward anyway, like his body is begging for attention. His big, guilty brown eyes stay locked on yours, glassy and desperate. A long moment stretches between you while you watch him squirm, shame and arousal practically eating him alive. You lean in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “That’s because you liked it,” you whisper. “You liked filling me up when you weren’t supposed to. You liked fucking up.”

His whole body tenses, his cock jerking with another helpless twitch. “Fuck…baby,” he whispers. “So fucking much.”

You let the silence sit for another beat, just to watch him sit with his admission. His hand flexes at his side like he’s dying to reach out and touch you – to grab your hips, pull you closer, bury his face between your thighs, and eat you out until you’re shaking and pushing him away.  Anything to distract from the embarrassment of telling someone else how much he enjoyed coming inside you. 

When you’re satisfied that you had made him wait long enough, you loosen your grip on his hair and slide your hand down to cup his jaw. “Joel,” you say softly. He responds with a hum, leaning into your touch. “Say it.”

Joel blinks, his breath shallow. “Say what?”

You lean in until your lips are barely an inch from his, “What you’re going to tell the pharmacist.”

Joel’s eyes flutter shut for a second, his lips parting slightly as he half-expects you to lean in and kiss him. When you don’t, he lets out a huff. After a moment, he relents,  “Sorry ma’am,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Can I bother you for Plan B? I…I accidentally…” His sentence tapers off, embarrassment and arousal tying his tongue while you look at him expectantly. “She–she told me to pull out, but I couldn’t help myself.”

You tsk at him, a low, disappointed sound that makes his shoulder tense. You trail your fingers from where it cups his cheek, down the side of his neck, over the rapid thud of his heartbeat in his chest, until you reach his navel. You trace his happy trail with the pad of your pointer finger, purposefully keeping away from his more than interested cock. “Keep going,” you state, more demand than request. “You weren’t finished."

Joel looks at you wrecked, completely at your mercy as you continue teasing him with featherlight touches. “Baby…I–”

You cut him off mid-sentence, wrapping your fingers firmly around the thick base of his cock. He goes stock still, his eyes flying wide open as he lets out a sharp gasp, “Fuck–”. You hold him there, tight and possessive, feeling his cock throb hot and heavy in your palm, but refusing to stroke him. 

“Keep going,” you say calmly, your thumb brushing lightly over the prominent vein on the underside of his shaft. “Don’t stop just because I have your cock in my hand.”

Joel licks his lips, eyes glued to yours, his thighs trembling as he fights the overwhelming urge to thrust up into your fist. “She told me to pull out,” he starts, your grip tightening. “…but I saw how pretty she looked on my cock and I–” He groans softly, enraptured by the way you’re looking at him. “I couldn’t help myself, baby.  I–I just needed to feel you feel you full of me.”

You lean in close, nose brushing against the shell of his ear, and whisper, “Pathetic.”

A broken groan tears out of Joel’s chest, shame flooding his face. He jerks his hips involuntarily, eagerly chasing the heat of your palm. His body shakes – the big, strong man who’s always in control, trembling from a single whispered insult.

“Go on,” you purr in his ear. “Repeat what you’d say to the pharmacist. Word for word.”

Joel’s eyes squeeze shut, his voice is wrecked, cracking with every humiliating word. “...Sorry, ma’am. Can I get a Plan B? I accidentally came inside my girl. She told me to pull out but I…I couldn’t help but fill her up anyway.” His hips twitch helplessly, precome drooling from the tip and leaking over your fist.

“And why not,” you ask softly, adjusting your grip, your thumb swiping over the flushed, sensitive head.

Joel keens, his back arching off the bed. “Because–” he starts, swallowing down a shaky breath,  “because she was squeezin’ me so good that I lost control.”

“I told you to pull out,” you remind him, thumb continuing to move. 

He nods quickly, shame tightening in his throat. “I know, baby. I know. I did at first but…” Joel lets out a strangled whine, only furthering his embarrassment, “...fuck.”

“But what, Joel?” you ask, lips still brushing his ear in a tease. “Finish your sentence.” Your hand slides up his length in one smooth stroke, then back down to the base. He’s so fucking big in your grip, your fingers barely meeting around his shaft due to the sheer size of him. His cock is a complete mess, glistening and still slick with his earlier load. 

Joel’s hands fist the sheets, needing to hold onto something, the fabric pulling away from the edge of the mattress as he fights for control. “I didn’t listen,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “Stuffed myself right back inside.”

You pull back just enough to see his face, his pupils blown with lust, his lips parted as he pants, desperate for more – desperate for something. “Good boy,” you praise. Joel’s entire body seizes up, his cock surging with want, as he attempts to push himself deeper into your grasp. You keep stroking him, the pace excruciating, letting your thumb swirl over the messy come-slick head on every upstroke. “Now tell her why you’re there,” you murmur.

Joel lets out a broken whine, hips jerking helplessly. His voice cracks as he forces the words out, shame and arousal twisting together so tightly he can barely speak.  “ ‘Cause she needs the morning after pill,” he breathes out. “And it’s all my fault.” Joel shoves his hips up, spearing his cock into your grip as he starts fucking your fist in short, needy strokes. “All my fucking fault.” 

The big, dominant Joel Miller is officially gone. In place is this desperate, leaking, shame-drenched version of him who can’t stop confessing how badly he fucked up – how badly he needed to come inside you – and how much he loved it.

“Greedy boy. You just can’t help yourself, can you?” 

He doesn’t answer you. You let him use your hand to get off, watching his face go slack with pleasure before urging his hips down and slowing your hand. Your fingers tighten around him, just enough to control the pace, forcing his thrusts to become shallow and frustratingly restricted. Every time he tries to move, you ease off, keeping him right on the agonizing edge without letting him tip over.

“That’s it,” you croon softly, “Tell her exactly why you need it.”

Joel’s hands fist the sheets tighter, knuckles white as he bunches the fabric at his sides. “‘Cause–fuck…’cause I came inside you, baby,” he groans. “Pussy looked so good covered in my come that I just had to get back inside.”

You feel him swell impossibly bigger in your hand, the thick shaft pulsing in time with his heartbeat, as he teeters dangerously close to the edge. His balls draw up tight, the first warning of his impending orgasm.

Joel’s breath catches, his eyes starting to roll back, inches away from satisfaction. You let go, your hand pulling away completely, leaving his cock twitching and bobbing angrily in the air. He lets out a broken sound as his orgasm crests and then crashes without release. His cock kicks hard, pulsing uselessly, a thick bead of precome dribbling pathetically from the tip and sliding down his shaft. His hips buck in the air, every muscle straining as everything fades into a cruel, aching denial. He collapses towards you, his body practically shaking  as he presses his forehead to your shoulder. “Fuck…baby…please…” he begs. 

You let him ache, his chest heaving with quick, uneven breaths, his denied cock twitching and leaking against his stomach. Every heavy throb is visible as he attempts to gather himself. He tries to tamp down his arousal, but underneath is something deeper  – raw, aching need. 

You press a hand gently to his chest, urging him to lie flat and Joel obeys instantly, falling back onto the mattress fully and without protest. You swing a leg over him, straddling his hips, your slick folds parting around him. His head falls back with a guttural groan as you start to rock against him, the fat head of his cock dragging hot and slippery over your swollen clit making you both moan. You feel him shudder underneath you, a low groan vibrating through his chest as he curses silently, “...fuck, baby. Just like that.”

Joel’s hands fly to your thighs, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s barely holding himself together. His breathing is ragged, eyes half-lidded and desperate as he watches you use him. You tease him like that for a few more torturous seconds without giving him what he really needs, a needy whine slipping out before he can stop it. 

Without hesitation, you take his cock in hand, lining him up with your entrance and sinking down all the way to the hilt. The stretch is perfect, your walls squeezing tight around him, greedy for more. A broken moan escapes both of you at the same time as Joel springs up, sitting up beneath you in a rush, one arm wrapping around your back as he pulls you into a messy, desperate kiss. Joel licks into your mouth like he’s starving for you. One hand slides up your back, while the other stays wrapped around your middle as he guides you harder onto his cock. 

“Fuck, baby…” he pants between kisses, “you feel so goddamn good.” Joel’s forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin as he lets you take complete control, utterly lost in the feeling of being buried inside you again. 

“Keep going,” you say, pulling off of him until only the tip of him remains inside you, then slamming back down until he’s fully sheathed again. “Tell the pharmacist what you did.”

Joel’s brain is barely coherent. “Fuck–I–” His hands dig into your skin, almost like he’s afraid you’ll leave him ruined and desperate again. “M’sorry, ma’am,” he begins, his words somewhat slurred as you continue to mercilessly ride him, the wet heat of your cunt enveloping him over and over again. “Need a plan B for my–fuck– girl.” His voice cracks as you grind your clit against his pelvis, the coarse hair on his groin prickling into your skin. “I’m sorry,” he groans, starting to babble, the confession spilling out in desperate, shattered pieces. “So fucking sorry. Felt so good. Fuck, baby…you feel so good. Needed to fill you up.”

Joel is embarrassingly close already, his hips stuttering up to meet your rhythm. “Fuck, baby. Hop off–fuck, I’m gonna–” he gasps, starting to panic. His hands scramble frantically at your hips, trying to lift you off him to avoid further incident. 

But you don’t let him. You slam down onto him one last time, taking him as deep as you can, rolling your hips in tight circles that eke him closer to the finish line. Your walls clench around him like a vice and Joel’s eyes widen in shock. “No–baby, wait–I can’t–fuck!”

His panicked warning dissolves into a guttural groan as his cock pulses violently inside you, his eyes rolling back into his head, vision going white, as thick, hot ropes of come flood you for the second time that afternoon. His entire body trembles beneath you, his fingers bruising your skin where he grips you as if you’re the only thing anchoring him to Earth.

The wet warmth of his spend spills from your cunt and drips down his shaft, coating him in his own mess. Joel’s face is slack, experiencing what one can only assume to be pure bliss – like nothing in the world exists except the tight, slick heat of your cunt milking him dry. 

You ride the high right alongside him, your bodies in a perfect, filthy sync until your own orgasm crashes into you without warning. Your thighs lock tight around his hips as white-hot pleasure rips up your spine. You cry out, your head lolling back, his name slipping from your lips as every muscle shakes with wave after wave of mind-numbing pleasure. 

Joel starts to slowly soften inside of you but doesn’t dare look down at the mess. “Still gotta go to the pharmacy, baby.”

The fluorescent lights of the pharmacy feel way too bright as Joel stands at the counter, posture rigid like he’s waiting on his own execution. The pharmacist, a no-nonsense type of woman in her fifties, offers him a polite smile. “How can I help you today?”

Joel’s face immediately burns red, his blush crawling all the way up to his ears. He rubs the back of his neck, glancing over at you like maybe you’ll save him from utter embarrassment, but you don’t. He clears his throat, an attempt at keeping himself from stuttering which immediately backfires as soon as he opens his mouth to speak. “Uh–I–I–uh…I need the, uh…the Plan B pill.”

The pharmacist doesn’t even blink, she just nods calmly and types something into the computer, “One moment, sir. I’ll grab that for you.”

Joel lets out an apprehensive breath, muttering under his breath while his fingers tap nervously on the counter. He prays the ground will just swallow him whole. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbles to himself.

The pharmacist returns with the small blue box and sets it on the counter, scanning the barcode. “Alright, if that’s it for today, that’ll be–”

“It’s my fault,” Joel blurts out, far too loud, before realizing his blunder. “I–I messed up.”

You watch the pharmacist’s eyebrows slowly lift. In truth, your hand reaches for him like you’re going to stop him, but the words tumble out of him quicker than expected. “She told me to pull out but I just lost my head.”

You bite down hard on your lip to keep from laughing, your face heating with a mix of second-hand embarrassment and delight. The pharmacist blinks, completely unfazed. “Oh. Well…it happens. That’ll be $54.11.”

Joel looks like he’s two seconds away from melting into the floor. His neck and ears are bright red, jaw clenched so tight you’re afraid he’s going to pop a vein in his forehead. He fumbles for his wallet, dropping his debit card with a loud clatter, cursing quietly under his breath. You place a steady hand on his bicep and he manages to swipe the card with shaking fingers, refusing to look at you.

When the transaction is complete, the pharmacist hands him the bag, telling him she hopes he has a good day. He can’t even respond with words. He raises his hand, nodding his head and gently takes you by the arm, leading you out of the pharmacy as quickly as he can. When he reaches the sidewalk, he turns towards you, the bulge evident in his jeans, his voice dropping into a hushed whisper only you can hear. “Baby…I swear I ain’t ever been that embarrassed in all my life.”

The minute the front door clicks shut behind you, Joel lets out a heavy exhale, dropping the keys to his truck on the entryway table. You barely make it two steps before he reaches for you, grabbing your hand and pulling you into him, your back flush against his broad chest. His face drops into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your skin like he needs the contact to steady himself. 

He turns you to face him and his eyes are soft, filled with adoration and love. The flush of humiliation hasn’t fully faded, his ears tinted pink as he cocks his head to the side and then leans in to kiss you. The kiss starts slow, as if he’s asking for permission, but the moment you kiss him back, it deepens – slow and hungry in the softest way. His hands slide down your back, palms warm and steady, pressing you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies. “Baby…”, he whispers, his lips not leaving yours. “...you were real mean to me.”

You smile, humming in agreement, “Yeah, you gonna let me do it again?”

Joel swallows, eyes dropping to your mouth, his response somewhat shy, “Jesus…I–yeah,we’ll talk about it.”

His forehead rests against yours and he breathes you in for a long moment, then kisses you again. His arms tighten around you as the tension starts to bleed out of his shoulders. “Thank you,” he murmurs, the words barely more than a breath. “For helpin’ me take care of it. For not bein’ mad. For…hell, for everything.”

I freeze, my mind scrambling to catch up with my body. I barely know what I’m doing or what’s supposed to happen next, only that the line we’ve been toeing is about to be erased completely.

Panic flutters through my chest in quick, uneven beats. I turn my head away and pull back. His head dips like he thinks I’m exposing my neck for him. But I’m not. My hands hover uselessly in the space between us, lost.

“Benny, wait…”

He stills immediately.

The change in him is almost startling, a switch flipping instantly. One second, he’s close enough that everything feels blurred and warm, and the next he’s propped up on one elbow, creating space without hesitation. His blue eyes settle on mine, sharp and searching.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes immediately. “Is this too much? We can stop. Or slow down. Whatever you need.”

The certainty in his voice tightens my throat.

“It’s not that I want to stop,” I reply. My voice comes out thinner than I expected. My stomach drops when I realize it. “It’s… well…” I swallow, looking anywhere but directly at him. “Never mind. It’s fine.”

It’s clearly not fine.

Benny’s frown deepens slightly, but not in frustration, studying me as though I’m a puzzle missing half its piece.

“Whatever it is,” he says after a beat, softer now, “you can tell me.”

The patience in it almost undoes me. I let out a slow breath, shoulders easing a fraction even as my embarrassment lingers under my skin.

“I don’t think I ever really questioned it before,” I admit, hesitating. “But… sex has always been fine. Good, maybe. But never great.”

Benny’s expression falters, his brow drawing together in quiet confusion. He looks at me as if I’ve just told him the sky is green.

Carefully, he asks, “What does that mean exactly? Is it uncomfortable for you?”

I pause, picking at the edge of my own words before I trust them enough to say them out loud.

“No. Not really,” I admit finally. “It always felt like I was supposed to be enjoying it more than I actually was. Like I wasn’t quite getting it...”

My voice trails off at the end, smaller than I intend it to be, and I suddenly find the texture of the couch cushion far more interesting than his expression.

A beat passes between us before he eases off me, shifting to sit near me on the cushion instead. It isn’t distance. Just a quiet reset between us.

“Wait,” he says, almost hesitant. “Do you… Do you not enjoy sex?” He searches my face, clearly trying to make it make sense. “Because I can’t tell if you mean it’s bad, or if nobody’s ever actually…done it right with you.”

I squirm a little under his gaze, suddenly aware of how closely he’s listening. My words seem to matter to him in a way I’m not used to.

“I mean… I don’t hate it,” I reply carefully. “It feels good, most of the time. It’s just…” I search for the right words a moment longer, then let out a small, frustrated breath. “I don’t know. I always end up feeling kind of unsatisfied afterward. As if I’m supposed to get something out of it that just never quite happens.”

Benny drags a hand through his hair, the motion slow and restless, trying to organize his thoughts through the motion alone.

“Okay,” he says before shifting slightly. “Sorry if I’m completely out of line, but are you trying to tell me you’ve never had an orgasm?”

The question lands heavily. Not because it’s invasive, but because of the genuine confusion in his voice. It’s clear he wants to make sense of this. And truthfully, so do I.

 “What?” I blink at him.

His brows pull together, seeming to realize this conversation is not going to be simple.

“An orgasm,” he repeats. “You know… when sex builds up and then… Well, your body sort of hits that point where it… releases. Finishes.”

“Oh.” I fall silent for a moment, thinking it over. “Isn’t that… a guy thing? You know, the biological end point?” I frown slightly. I’m trying to match the idea to something I already know but coming up blank.

Benny goes still. For a second, he doesn’t even blink.

“No,” he finally answers, slow and controlled, like he’s making sure he heard me correctly. “Not even close.”

My stomach drops a little under his stare. “I…I didn’t think women did that. Not in real life. Movies, maybe, but-”

“Wait.” His voice sharpens with disbelief. “What about when you’re alone?”

“What about when I’m alone?”

The silence that follows is so complete I can practically hear his thoughts grinding to a halt.

“You’ve never…,” he starts. “Never explored your body? Ever?”

Heat floods my face, spreading fast and unrelenting all the way up to the top of my ears.

“I grew up with a very… ‘don’t have sex or you’ll ruin your life’ kind of talk. Anything like exploring your own body was pretty much off-limits. Pleasure wasn’t really part of the curriculum.”

The words feel clumsy in the open air. Too honest, too exposed. I let out a small sigh, shoulders dropping with it as the embarrassment settles in.

“I’m sorry,” I add quietly. “I know you didn’t exactly sign up for this.”

The shock on his face softens almost instantly into something steadier, something protective.

“Hey,” he says softly, his tone steady enough to cut right through my shame. “Don’t apologize for that. When I started seeing you, I signed up for all of you. Whatever that comes with.”

Before I can respond, his hand reaches out, closing the small space between us. His fingers wrap lightly around mine, warm and grounding, anchoring me back into the moment instead of letting me drift further into my own discomfort.

Then, with absolute seriousness, he adds, “But we are fixing this.”

My brain stalls. “We?”

“Yeah.” He nods once, clearly having assigned himself a mission. “Let’s do it.”

Before I can even process his words, he’s up. He crosses the room with purpose and comes back a moment later with a legal pad and a Sharpie.

I stare as he sits down again, tongue poking slightly out in concentration.

“Benny… What are you doing?”

“Making instructional material,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Why does this feel like a tactical briefing?”

“Because it is a tactical briefing,” he says, settling back like this is completely normal behavior. “Or maybe a debriefing? I don’t know. Just give me a minute. You’ll see.”

A moment later, I’m staring at what can generously be called a diagram, if one is extremely generous and ignoring all artistic standards. The page is a mess of uneven, overlapping lines and half-formed shapes, as though it were drawn blindfolded.

There are thick, dark scribbles that might be meant to indicate hair, and everything else blurs together into something abstract enough that I can’t quite tell what I’m supposed to be looking at. One corner even has a stray, oddly enthusiastic squiggle looking like it wandered in from another drawing and decided to stay.

“What is that, and why does it look like a very sad clam?” I question, leaning in a little closer to inspect it, as if getting closer might somehow help.

It definitely does not.

Benny looks down at his handiwork, then back at me, a sheepish grin breaking through his serious soldier facade.

“Well, to be fair, if it’s never experienced an orgasm, it is a very sad clam,” he says, then pauses to draw a small frowning face on the side like it needs emotional support.

I snort. “Now it seems to be melting.”

“Art was never my specialty,” he admits. “Here… let me add a little more to make it clearer.”

By the time he is done, the page has evolved into something more chaotic: arrows, labels, a makeshift legend. He’s clearly trying to be organized and seeming to fail on principle.

I lean in, squinting at it.

“That’s more clear?” I ask. “It looks like a treasure map drawn by a drunk pirate.”

“Well, call me Jack Sparrow. But it’s supposed to be educational diagram.”

Benny studies his scribbles for a second longer, then adds, a little grudgingly, “If you want to call it a treasure map, I guess technically it does point to the main objective.”

I laugh harder than I mean to, the sound bright and clear. The absurdity of the situation, the world’s most capable soldier hunched over a legal pad, meticulously labeling anatomy for my benefit, is enough to sweep away the last of my nerves.

Benny doesn’t look offended.

“Laugh all you want,” he says, a playful glint in his eye as he taps the edge of the paper with the Sharpie. “I’ve navigated through dense jungle with maps that were way less legible than this. At least this one has a high-value target.”

I shake my head, trying to catch my breath, but my eyes drift back down to the paper. Amidst the shaky loops and detailed key, one specific area stands out. It isn’t just labeled. It’s been circled three or four times, the ink thick and dark where he’d pressed down repeatedly.

Tentatively, I reach out, my finger hovering over the heavily emboldened spot. “And what exactly is this?” I ask, my voice dropping an octave as I look at the aggressive scribbling. “Is it the buried treasure?”

Benny lets out a short laugh. It’s quiet, surprised, as though it caught him off guard. He shakes his head, still amused, eyes dropping back to the page.

“Sort of?” he says, testing the idea. “If you consider that it can be buried beneath folds and is definitely the spot.”

Then he catches himself, the humor fading as he taps the drawing. “That,” he says, more grounded now, “is the clitoris.”

I blink. “The…what?”               

“The clitoris,” he repeats, slower this time.

I stare at the diagram. “The clitoris… Okay. I take that it’s very important?”

Benny huffs another laugh before he can stop himself. “Well, if you’re calling this a clam, then the clitoris is the pearl. It’s the part that really matters. You don’t just poke around the shell and call it a day, right?”

He glances up at me, a little sheepish but committed now. “You have to know it’s there. Pay attention to it. Be….” - he makes a vague circling motion with the pen, then winces at himself - “intentional. Otherwise, you’re just opening clams for no reason and never even getting to the pinnacle.”

Benny angles the pad toward me so I can read everything more clearly.

“Look,” he says, tapping different parts as he speaks. “This whole outer area here” -he circles the messy oval- “is the vulva. That’s the general term for everything on the outside.”

I furrow my brows. “What? I’ve been calling the whole thing the wrong thing? It’s not all the vagina?”

“No. The vagina is the inside. It has walls,” he says, tapping the drawing. “Think of it as… an internal space. Everything outside is a different category entirely. Most people mix it up though, so don’t worry.”

I feel myself starting to spiral.

“That feels like important information I should’ve gotten earlier in life.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t agree more. But it’s never too late to learn, right?” He taps another line. “These are the inner lips, and these are the outer lips. They’re… protective structure. Like insulation.”

“Insulation,” I repeat slowly. “I am apparently insulated and have walls. My vagina is a house now?” The words come out more playful than I mean them to, what’s left of my nerves twisting into sarcasm.

He stares at the diagram for a second, seemingly betrayed by his own metaphor. A short breath escapes his nose.

“Well, now I’m afraid to say anything else in case it gets classified as architecture.”

Hesitating, Benny rubs the back of his neck. He seems to be suddenly aware of how ridiculous the conversation has gotten, and how close I am while he’s having it.

“Are you planning to move into my house? Paint the walls and call it yours?”

“No! No part of you is a house. Or any sort of architecture,” he says quickly, then immediately shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean. You’re not a work of art. Well, you are-”

He stops mid-sentence and cringes at himself. “That also came out wrong.”

Color creeps up the side of his neck. “You’re just…” he tries again, then huffs a quiet laugh at himself. “You’re very much not a house. Or art.”

A beat passes.

“Thank you for establishing that,” I say, my voice flat in a way that makes it very clear I’m trying, and failing, not to laugh.

Then, softer, almost like it slips out before he can catch it, he says, “I only mean that you’re work of art in the sense that you’re…beautiful. Fucking gorgeous, even. But let’s move on before I end up in an even deeper hole.”

“Isn’t getting into a hole the endgame here?” I ask, unable to stop the teasing. At this point, I don’t even know if I’m trying to make things less awkward for him or for myself.

Benny’s brain seems to short-circuit in real-time. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then looks down at the legal pad like it might contain an emergency exit strategy.

"I- That is not what I meant," he sputters, the flush creeping up his neck more obvious.

“It’s really easy to fluster you,” I reply, a smile tugging at my mouth as I clearly succeed in doing exactly that.

Benny lets out a long, suffering sigh, dropping his head back against the back of the couch. "I’ve survived three tours, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to be taken out by a single conversation on my own couch."

Chuckling, I pull the pad closer to me. “Can we circle back to the clitoris now?”

“You’re going to quickly realize why you can’t say ‘circle’ and ‘clitoris’ in the same sentence,” he mutters. “I’m starting to wonder if you’re fucking with me.”

“No, but I want to,” I reply, light and teasing. “Hence this…enlightening educational experience.”

He lets out a short breath of a laugh, then looks at the page again, his expression tightening as the instructor part of him clicks back into place.

“Right,” he says after a beat, tone leveling out. “Any questions so far?”

“Is the clitoris as small as it seems? Is that… maybe why I’ve never been able to find it?”

“Yes and no. It’s actually a lot bigger than that visible part,” Benny replies. “What you’re seeing here is just the external tip. It extends internally under the surface.”

I lean in a little without thinking. “Sorta like an iceberg?”

“Yeah, exactly.” He glances up at me briefly, a faint hint of approval in his expression. “The internal part is what people call the G-spot. It’s part of the same overall structure, but it’s not visible from the outside. Stimulating it, either with a penis or fingers or a toy, can contribute to a lot of pleasure for people.”

I sit back a little, processing, drawing my brows together as I try to make the pieces fit in my head.

“So… If you can stimulate it with a penis, why has it never really felt that great for me?” I ask slowly. “Shouldn’t I have… I don’t know… felt something more?”

My voice trails off a little at the end, quieter now, less confident.

His expression tightens slightly, more serious now. “Even though there’s an internal part, penetration alone doesn’t work for a lot of women. Most women can’t orgasm without stimulating the clitoris. You know, the part on the outside.”

I blink at him, then at the aggressively annotated vulva still sitting between us. This is too damn complicated.

“Dare I even ask how best to do that?” I question.

A short, almost helpless laugh slips from Benny. I don’t think he expected the follow-up question.

“I mean,” he says, bobbing his head back in forth in consideration, “there are a few ways. But the point is… it requires a conscious effort. It’s not really something that just…happens on its own most of the time.”

I nod with the seriousness of someone absorbing critical mission intel.

“So,” I say slowly, leaning back into the couch as the realization settles in, “what you’re telling me is I’ve basically been aiming at the wrong ‘goal’ this entire time, and nobody thought to mention the target is in a completely different arena?”

“Yeah,” he says. “That unfortunately sounds right.”

I let out a breath that’s part laugh, part disbelief, shaking my head slowly. “I’ve basically spent years operating on completely incorrect assumptions. Great.” I gesture vaguely at myself. “I think my body deserves compensation at this point.”

A small huff of laughter slips out of him, but his expression stays soft.

He studies me for a moment, his expression steady but intent. “You weren’t given the information,” he assures me. “A lot of people failed in educating you. You can’t fault yourself for that.”

A beat.

“And for what it’s worth,” he adds, mouth twitching slightly, “you’re correcting course pretty damn fast.”

I offer him a smile before leaning in again, studying the drawing like it might suddenly make more sense if I stare hard enough.

“Is this for real? This isn’t something you made up to impress me, right?” I ask.

Benny looks offended in the way only someone being questioned about highly personal, improvised anatomy can look.

“Yeah, I had a gorgeous as all hell woman beneath me, but stopped and thought, ‘You know what would really help me seal the deal? A competitive round of draw what you think anatomy looks like from memory using a Sharpie and pure panic.”

“I mean, your drawing is so realistic. It doesn’t put you in the mood?” I question jokingly.

Benny lets out a long, suffering sigh.

“I’m retiring from art immediately,” he mutters.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Stick to your day job.”

My eyes drift back to the page, specifically to the aggressively circled spot he’d labeled. My mind swirls as I try to take it all in, a faint disbelief creeping in. How did I make it this far without knowing any of this?

“Can I ask you something?” Benny asks after a minute, his tone careful again, as though he’s testing the edges of the conversation. “I mean, it might be a little too personal.”

I glance at him sideways. “At this point, I don’t think there’s a category of question that qualifies as too personal.”

That earns a faint, relieved huff of laughter from him. He hesitates anyway, then finally asks, “If you’ve had sex before… how did you not know about any of this stuff? Didn’t your boyfriends do any sort of foreplay? Anything to help make you come?”

“I’ve only had one before you,” I admit. “We were together for a while, and he never…” I gesture vaguely at the paper between us. “Any of this. He never mentioned it. Never asked anything. He’d just… do his thing and be done.”

I swallow, the words feeling a little heavier now that they’re out.

“And I thought…” I trail off with a small shrug. “I thought that was how it was supposed to be. Just… get through it and make the man happy.”

Benny goes very still. “I’m going try really hard not to say anything disrespectful here.”

“That bad?” I ask, wincing a little as I brace myself for the answer.

“Let’s just say he would not pass this class.”

That makes me laugh again. “Is there at least some hope for me?”

Benny’s mouth twitches. “Oh, there’s hope,” he replies. “I’m very concerned for the guy who came before me though.”

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “I mean… literally came, right?”

Benny chuckles, but there’s a faint edge of disbelief under it. “I’m surprised he at least knew how to that. Did he even put it in the right hole?”

I blink at him for a second, then a small, incredulous laugh escapes before I can stop it.

“I think we at least got that part right. Give me some credit.” I shake my head slightly, a breath of disbelief slipping out of me. “It’s just… I came from a conservative background,” I add, glancing away for a second. “And Kyle…” I hesitate, jaw tightening faintly. “He was honestly kind of a selfish asshole. It took me too long to realize that.” I let out a quiet, humorless huff. “I don’t think he’d recognize a clitoris if it was labeled, highlighted, and circled on a diagram in front of him. Not because he couldn’t figure it out,” I say, meeting Benny’s eyes again, “but because he never cared enough to try.”

Benny’s expression changes, the humor giving way to something quieter, more contemplative. His eyes stay on me. He’s putting the pieces together, and he doesn’t like what he sees

“I’m sorry he didn’t give you what you deserve.”

There’s no edge to it, no performative anger. He is steady and sincere, and that lands deeper than I expected.

I huff out a soft breath, glancing down at my hands for a moment before looking back at him.

“I didn’t really know there was anything missing,” I admit. “It’s hard to miss something when you don’t know it’s supposed to be there.

His jaw tightens just slightly, not at me, but at the idea of it.

“Well,” he says after a beat, “you know now.”

Something lighter starts creeping in. Tilting my head, I say, “Hypothetically, if someone were to want to further fix a gap in knowledge…”

Benny’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Hypothetically?”

“In actuality,” I correct, my voice more confident now. “Would that require more…hands-on instruction?”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“I mean,” he replies playfully, “there is only so much I can teach with a Sharpie.”

I glanced at the legal pad again. “Yeah, I think I’ve reached the limit of what the sad clam can offer me academically.”

Benny lets out a laugh at that, quick and genuine, like it catches him off guard, then drags a hand down his face, still shaking his head. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” I reply lightly.

I shift on the couch, suddenly hyper-aware of everything: how close he is, how the space between us doesn’t feel uncertain anymore, just warm and charged in a quieter, steadier way. My own heartbeat feels louder than the room.

“I think I’m ready for a more practical lesson.”

His expression changes immediately. It’s subtle, but unmistakable, like something in him sharpens and softens at the same time. The humor fades, replaced with attention that’s fully focused on me.

“You sure?” he asks.

I nod once, even though my nerves flicker at the edges. “Yeah. I am. Will you help me?”

Benny doesn’t look away when he answers.

“It would be my pleasure,” he says, then immediately winces at himself. “Well, no. That sounded way better in my head. I mean, this is about your pleasure. Mine is…secondary. Extremely secondary. Not the point.”

A small laugh slips out of me, the tension easing just enough that I can finally breathe again.

“Noted. Glad we clarified the priorities.”

A boyish grin spreads across his face.

There’s a different kind of pause now. Less chaotic. More real.

Then, because apparently, I have completely lost the ability to be normal tonight, I add, “Show me, Benny. Help me understand what I’ve been missing.”

That does it.

The humor in his face shifts, turning into something more serious underneath.

“Okay,” he replies simply.

Benny stands and holds out his hand. A simple offering. I take it, letting him help me up, my heart picking up in a way that feels different now. Less anxious, more anticipatory.

His bedroom is dim, the air cooler against my flushed skin as he guides me inside. It feels private here. The outside world can’t reach us.

I stand near the edge of the bed, acutely aware of my own body. My heart hammers against my ribs, anticipation coiling low in my belly.

His focus narrows like I’m the only thing in the room.

“We don’t have to do this,” he says softly, brushing hair from my face. “There’s absolutely no pressure. We do whatever you want on your time.”

“No,” I argue immediately, voice steady. “I want this.”

His eyes search mine, like he’s making sure there’s not a single flicker of doubt there.

“I’m serious, Benny,” I add, firm in a way that surprises even me. “I want you to show me what it’s supposed to feel like. Show me what my body is supposed to do. Make me…” I swallow, thinking of the word he used earlier. “Make me come.”

His breath catches slightly, enough to notice. His eyes turn dark, and he gives me the deadliest smirk.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Benny pulls me toward him, kissing me slow and steady, no hesitation left in it now. His hand is firm at my waist as walks me backwards until the back of my legs hit his bed.

Gently, he guides me down onto the mattress, his movements deliberate. He doesn’t rush to undress me or himself. Instead, he settles beside me, one hand sliding beneath the hem of my shirt to rest against the heated skin of my waist. His thumb traces lazy circles there, grounding me, while his mouth finds mine in a deep, slow kiss.

It’s different from the frantic making out on the couch. This is purposeful. He’s taking his time, letting me get used to the weight of his hand and the way his body fits against mine. When his fingers finally drift upward, cupping my breast through the lace of my bra, I arch into him instinctively, a soft gasp escaping my lips.

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” he murmurs against my mouth, his voice low and warm.

His hand drifts downward at first, then pauses, like he’s reconsidering, before sliding upward instead. His fingers slip beneath the edge of my bra, brushing over my skin before finding my nipple.

The touch is gentle at first, exploratory. My reaction is anything but. He exhales softly against my lips, the sound catching somewhere between surprise and approval while he feels the way my body responds beneath his hand.

His thumb sweeps over the sensitive peak, and I practically jerk off the mattress. It’s electric, a sharp, sudden jolt that shoots straight down my spine and settles low in my belly. He does it again, a little slower this time, rolling the tight bud between his fingers, and a broken sound escapes my throat that I don’t even recognize.

Benny doesn't let up. He watches my face with dark, hungry eyes while pinching gently, tugging just enough to make me sigh. Every pull sends a shockwave through my system, turning my muscles to jelly and my brain to static. I’m gasping, my hands fisting in the sheets, completely at the mercy of a few fingers and a little friction. It’s maddening, the way he’s playing me like an instrument, drawing sounds out of me I didn't know I could make, and he hasn't even touched me there yet.

His gaze lingers on my face for another moment, cataloging every gasp and flutter of my eyelids before his hand retreats from beneath the lace. The loss of heat makes me whine low in my throat, a sound I barely recognize as my own, but he hushes me softly, his hand moving to the hem of my shirt.

"Let's get this out of the way," he murmurs, his voice rougher than before.

He sits back slightly, creating space between us, and grips the fabric. I lift my arms without hesitation, surrendering to whatever he wants to do to me. He pulls the shirt over my head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor.

The cool air of the room hits my skin instantly, raising goosebumps along my arms, but the warmth under my skin doesn’t let up. I’m left in my bra and leggings, feeling suddenly bare under the weight of his stare. Benny doesn't rush to touch me again. Instead, he takes a moment, his eyes tracking the exposed lines of my body with a focus that feels heavy, almost reverent. It makes me want to cover up, but the way his jaw ticks tells me he likes exactly what he sees.

"You have no idea," he says quietly, more to himself than to me, "how long I've wanted to see you like this."

He leans back in, but this time his hands go to my back. With a quick, dexterous flick of his fingers, he undoes the clasp of my bra. The tension releases instantly, and he slides the straps down my shoulders, pulling the lace away until I’m completely bare to the waist.

My instinct to cover myself wars with the hungry way he’s looking at me. But Benny doesn't give me a chance to shy away. He dips his head, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of my shoulder and down the slope of my breast. His facial hair scrapes against the sensitive skin, sending jolts of electricity skittering across my nerves, and when his mouth finally closes over the tight peak of my nipple, I cry out.

He doesn't stop there. He takes his time, worshiping one breast and then the other with a patience that unravels me. His tongue circles and teases while his hand continues its downward exploration, fingers tracing the waistband of my leggings. I suck in a sharp breath when his hand slides beneath the fabric, his palm resting flat against my lower belly, searing me with his touch.

Benny smirks against my body, clearly pleased with the reaction he’s wrung out of me. His fingers slip under the waistband, reaching down and encountering the damp fabric of my underwear. He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my chest.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers, his voice low and satisfied.

The words hit me like a bucket of ice water, dousing the heat in an instant. My stomach twists into a knot of mortification. I snap my knees together, trapping his hand, and scramble backward.

“Oh my god,” I breathe, my hands flying up to cover my face. I’m burning alive. “I am so sorry. That is…that is so gross. Did I-”

"Stop," he commands gently, but firmly enough to cut through my spiral. He doesn't try to pull his hand free, just holds it there, a steady, grounding weight against my panic. "Look at me."

I force my hands away from my face, my eyes darting anywhere but at him before finally landing on his. He isn’t grimacing. He doesn’t look grossed out. Instead, he looks intense, focused, as though he’s trying to defuse a bomb with nothing but his calm voice. My ex had always acted like anything involving my body was messy, wrong in some way. Like even normal reactions were something to be ashamed of.

"It is not gross," he says, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "It is the opposite of gross. It’s a biological response. It means your body is working exactly the way it’s supposed to. It means you’re aroused." His thumb strokes idly over the fabric covering me, sending an involuntary shiver up my spine. "Do you have any idea how much of a turn-on it is to know that I did that? To know that you want this just as much as I do?"

"It's a good thing," he insists, his voice dropping to a rough, intimate register that makes my toes curl. "It makes everything easier, makes it feel better for you. If you were dry, it would hurt. This is your body taking care of you, getting ready for me. Please don't apologize for wanting me."

His words sink in slowly, pushing back the shame. He doesn't sound like he's lying. He sounds like he's in awe. The panic in my chest loosens, replaced by a slow, pulsing warmth.

"Okay," I whisper, my voice shaky but trusting. I force my muscles to unlock, my legs relaxing their death grip on his wrist. "If you say so."

"Do you trust me?" he asks, his eyes locked on mine, searching for any lingering hesitation.

"Yes," I breathe out instantly. "You know I do."

"Then let me take care of you." He changes his weight, pressing his hips into the mattress to hold me still while his hand retreats long enough to hook his fingers into the waistband of my leggings. He pauses, a silent question, and when I lift my hips in permission, he slides them down, taking my underwear with them in one slow, deliberate motion. The air is cool against my overheated skin, but his gaze is scorching, tracing the lines of my body like he’s committing them to memory.

"Do you know how beautiful you look right now?" he asks, his thumb tracing the crease where my thigh meets my hip. "Flush. Swollen. All for me."

"I feel... exposed," I admit, my voice barely a whisper. "I don't know how to just lie here and let you look."

"You don't have to do anything," he says, his eyes returning to mine. "Breathe. Let me handle the rest."

His hand shifts, slowly sliding inward from my hip. The anticipation is a physical weight, tightening my chest and making my breath hitch in my throat. When his fingers finally brush through my folds, the sensation is so sharp, so overwhelming, that I gasp, my eyes fluttering shut.

"God, Benny," I breathe, my head falling back against the pillows.

"Easy," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble as his hand stills.

His fingers remain exactly where they are, resting heavily against that sensitive bundle of nerves without giving me the relief of pressure or rhythm. The denial of movement is its own kind of torture, a sweet, tormenting friction that winds me tighter than I thought possible.

My hips twitch instinctively, seeking more, chasing the friction I desperately need, but he holds firm, anchoring me to the bed with a calm dominance that makes my head spin. He’s dictating the pace entirely, forcing me to exist in this suspended state of anticipation where every nerve ending is screaming for attention.

"Please, Benny," I whimper, my hips canting upward in a silent demand for more contact, for anything to relieve the unbearable throbbing that has taken up residence between my legs.

He hums, a dark, satisfied sound, but instead of giving me what I want, he lowers his head. His breath is a ghost of sensation against my inner thigh, hot and teasing, before he presses a deep, wet kiss dangerously close to where I needed him.

"Not yet," he scolds softly, his eyes locking onto mine. "We're going to take this slow. You need to learn exactly what you like, and I'm not going to let you rush past the best parts."

When he finally leans in, it isn’t the fast, aggressive rhythm I expected. He flattens his tongue and drags it upward in a deliberate, devastating lap, circling my clit with precision.

A sharp, broken cry tears from my throat, my back bowing off the mattress as the sensation blazes through me like a live wire. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt, wet, hot, and overwhelmingly intense. My fingers fly to his hair, tangling in the short strands to anchor myself against the sudden shockwave of pleasure.

"Feel that?" he mumbles against my skin, the vibration of his words nearly undoing me. "That's the spot. I'm going to stay right here until you're shaking for it."

He does exactly that, alternating between broad, flat strokes and tight, sucking pulls that build the pleasure higher and higher, winding me tight like a coil ready to snap. My fingers tug desperately, but he groans and redoubles his efforts, holding me on the knife-edge of release without letting me fall.

He pulls back when the pressure starts to become too much, leaving me gasping at the sudden loss of heat. I look down at him, dazed and desperate, my chest heaving.

"Shh, I know," he soothes, bringing his hand up to replace his mouth. He hovers his index and middle fingers over my entrance, letting them rest there without pushing inside, a maddening tease. "I'm going to slide inside you now," he informs me, his eyes never leave mine. "And I'm going to curl my fingers up, toward that spot you learned about earlier. I want you to tell me when I hit it."

He pushes forward, sinking his fingers deep in one slow, relentless glide. The stretch is sharp, a fullness that steals my breath, but he doesn’t stop. He crooks his fingers upward in a “come here” motion, rubbing firmly against the sensitive ridges on my front wall.

A gasp slips from my lips as my body bends instinctively, tension pulling me toward him the moment he hits exactly where it matters.

"There," he growls, his voice dark with satisfaction. "Right there, isn't it? That's the spot. Does it feel good?"

"God, yes," I sob.

He begins to move then, a slow, torturous rhythm that drags against that bundle of nerves with every thrust. His other hand comes down to press flat against my lower belly, holding me in place as he works me over.

“Take it," he commands softly, his pace steady and unyielding. "Don't try to run from it. Just breathe and let me make you feel it."

The dual sensation of his fingers stroking deep inside and the anchor of his hand on my stomach is overwhelming, pushing me until I am teetering on the edge of oblivion, begging him for the release only he can give. That coil in my belly is winding so tight it hurts, a sweet, agonizing pressure that has my muscles locking up in anticipation.

"Benny, please," I gasp, my voice barely recognizable as my own. "I can't...I need..."

"You can," he corrects me gently, though the pace of his fingers never stumbles. He shifts slightly, pressing the heel of his hand against my clit while his fingers continue that relentless, curling stroke inside me. The added stimulation is a match to a fuse. "I can feel you. Let go. I've got you. Come for me."

The command in his voice shatters whatever resistance I have left. The pressure snaps, sending me spiraling over the edge with a hoarse cry. My inner muscles clamp down around his fingers, pulsing rhythmically as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me. Benny doesn’t stop, milking every last spasm out of me until I am a trembling, gasping wreck, completely undone beneath his hands.

I drift back to reality slowly, like surfacing from deep water, my body feeling heavy and loose in a way that is entirely foreign to me. The room is quiet except for my ragged breathing, and Benny is still there, watching me with a dark, hungry gaze that tells me he isn't nearly finished with me yet. He carefully withdraws his fingers, the loss making me shiver, and presses a tender kiss to the inside of my knee before moving to kneel between my legs.

"Do you have any idea how incredible you look when you come apart for me?" he rasps, reaching for the button of his jeans. His movements are methodical, unhurried, giving me a front-row seat as he strips off his clothes.

My eyes trace the broad expanse of his chest, the defined muscles of his abs, and finally settle on the heavy, flushed length of him as he frees himself from the denim. He wraps a hand around his base, stroking slowly as his eyes roamed over my bared body.

"I could watch you do that all night, but I think you’re ready for the next lesson."

He reaches over to the nightstand, fumbling in the drawer for a condom, and the sound of the foil wrapper tearing makes my breath hitch in my throat. He rolls it on, and I can't look away. His jaw is tight with the same restraint he’s been exercising all night. He lowers himself over me, bracing his weight on his forearms to cage me in. When he settles his hips against mine, the hot, hard length of him presses against my still-sensitive entrance. It’s a stark, delicious reminder that while I found my release, he has been holding back the entire time, waiting patiently for his turn.

He captures my mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing my gasp as he begins to rock his hips against me. He hasn’t entered me yet, just letting me feel the weight and heat of him, sliding the slick length of his erection through my folds to coat himself in my arousal. The friction is maddening, making me pull my hips up without thinking.

Benny pulls back to look me in the eyes, his gaze intense and searching, checking for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he reaches between us to notch himself at my entrance, the blunt head pressing forward enough to stretch me.

"Relax for me," he coaches softly, his thumb stroking my cheek. "Remember, breathe. I'm going to take it nice and slow. This time, I want you to come on my cock."

“I-I don’t know if I can.”

“You can do it. I know you can. I’ll help you.”

He pushes forward with agonizing patience, letting me feel every inch as he stretches me open. The burn is there, a sharp sting that makes my breath hitch, but beneath it is that rising tide of pleasure he so carefully cultivated. He pauses when he’s halfway in, giving me time to adjust to the intrusion, his jaw clenched tight with the effort of holding still.

"You're taking me so well," he praises, his voice ragged. "Look at us. Look at how we fit together." He surges forward the rest of the way in one smooth, fluid motion, burying himself deep, and the sudden fullness knocks the air out of my lungs.

When my hips shift restlessly beneath him, practically begging for friction, he knows I am ready. He draws back slowly, almost all the way out, before sliding back in.

The rhythm he sets is punishingly slow, a deliberate glide that forces me to acknowledge every ridge and vein of him as he drags against my inner walls. He isn’t merely fucking me. He’s worshipping me, his hips rolling in a deep, languid wave that leaves my body trembling beneath him, my thoughts scatter completely.

“God, look at you," he grits out, his voice straining with the effort of maintaining his control. He captures my wrists, pinning them above my head against the pillows, interlacing our fingers to anchor us together. "You're so tight, so perfect. I can feel you fluttering around me, trying to pull me in deeper."

Each thrust is a lesson in patience, dragging ragged moans from my lips as he hits that spot with unerring accuracy, stoking the fire he built inside me until I’m a trembling mess beneath him.

My body isn’t my own anymore. It’s a live wire under his touch, strung tight with a need so sharp it borders on pain. I try to move faster, to arch up and take control, but he holds me firm, denying me the quick friction I crave.

"No," he commands gently, nipping at the sensitive skin of my throat. "Don't rush. I want you to really feel it. I want you to remember exactly how this feels, how I fill you up, how hard you make me."

He shifts his hips slightly, changing the angle to grind against my clit with every thrust, and the added stimulation shatters what’s left of my composure.

"Benny, please," I sob, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes as the pleasure crests higher, threatening to drown me. "I can't take it. I need..."

"You can, and you will," he growls against my mouth, finally picking up the pace just enough to push me over the edge. He drives into me harder, deeper, his rhythm turning relentless as he chases my release. "Let go for me. I want to feel you come around my cock. Now."

Once more, the command is my undoing. With a broken cry, I shatter, my orgasm ripping through me with the force of a tidal wave. I convulse around him, my inner muscles clamping down tight as wave after wave of ecstasy obliterate everything else. He rides me through it, his own rhythm fracturing as my body grips him. His groan of release mingles with my gasps as he follows me over the edge, burying himself deep and pulsing inside me as we collapsed together in a tangle of limbs.

I drift in the haze for what feels like an eternity, my body humming with a residual sweet ache that’s entirely new to me. When I finally blink open my eyes, Benny is still hovering over me, his weight resting on his elbows to keep from crushing me. His hair is damp with sweat, a stray lock falling over his forehead, his eyes locked on my face with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. He brushes his thumb over my cheekbone, swiping away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen, his expression softening into something so tender it makes my chest ache.

"You did it," he murmurs, a crooked, tired grin tugging at his lips. He presses a lingering kiss to my forehead, then to the corner of my mouth, before shifting to sit up.

I make a small, involuntary noise of protest at the loss of his warmth, but he hushes me softly, reaching for the base of the condom to tie it off.

"I'm not going anywhere. Just hold on a second." He moves with the same deliberate care he’s shown all night, disposing of the condom and grabbing a few tissues from the nightstand to clean me up. His touch is gentle as he wipes away the sticky evidence of our lovemaking, his eyes tracking every movement like he’s memorizing the moment.

When he’s done, he reaches down and pulls a blanket up over us, cocooning us in the warm, heavy weight of it. He settles back against the pillows and pulls me into his arms, tucking my head securely under his chin. I curl into him instinctively, molding myself against the hard lines of his body, my leg thrown over his hip.

The silence that settles over the room isn't empty or awkward. It’s heavy, sated, filled with the sound of our slowing breaths. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of soap and sex and Benny, feeling the frantic beat of his heart gradually slow down to match mine.

The silence stretches on, comfortable and warm, but my brain is finally starting to reboot. As the post-orgasmic fog begins to lift, snippets of the night drift back to me. The diagrams, the instruction, the way Benny had practically turned my nervous system into his own personal science experiment. A huff of laughter escapes me, bubbling up from my chest.

Benny shifts slightly, his hand stroking lazily up and down my spine.

"What's so funny?" he murmurs, his voice raspy and thick with sleep. He presses a kiss to the top of my head, his breath rustling my hair.

I tilt my head back, grinning up at him.

"I was thinking," I say, tracing the constellation of freckles across his shoulder with my fingertip. "That was a lot. Lots of theory. Lots of practical application." I bite my lip to suppress a smile, looking at him through my lashes. "So, as the instructor... Do you think I passed?"

Benny lets out a low, sleepy chuckle, the sound vibrating through my chest where it’s pressed against his. He tightens his arm around my waist, pulling me impossibly closer until there is no space left between us.

"Passed?" he teases, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looks down at me. "Honey, you didn’t just pass. You graduated with honors. Fuck, I’m pretty sure you set the curve."

A flush heats my cheeks, but I can’t look away from his soft, adoring gaze.

"I don't know," I counter, feigning doubt even as I smile. "I think you might be biased. You seemed to be enjoying the curriculum a little too much."

"Trust me, that lesson was mutually beneficial," he says, his expression sobering slightly as he brushes a stray lock of hair away from my face. He traces the line of my jaw with his thumb, his touch reverent. "But if you're worried about your grades, we can always schedule a few review sessions. I'm thinking nightly. Possibly multiple times on weekends."

I snort against his skin, the warmth of his chest seeping into mine and making me feel drowsy and safe.

"You think you have that kind of stamina, Professor?" I tease. "I'll have you know I'm a demanding student. I may require a lot of hands-on attention."

"I'm willing to risk it. Besides," he mumbles, his voice already growing heavy with sleep, "someone has to make sure you don't forget the material. Repetition is key to retention, or whatever it is they say in school." He yawns widely, his jaw cracking, and then tightens his hold on me possessively, like he is afraid I might try to sneak out and take the final exam without him.

My heart gives a little flutter at that, a stupid, sappy reaction would have had me rolling my eyes at in anyone else. But here, wrapped in his arms with the smell of us clinging to the air, it feels right. I settle back against him, listening to the steady, rhythmic thump of his heart beneath my ear.

"Alright," I whisper into the quiet room, closing my eyes as a sense of profound peace settles over me. "I guess I can fit a few tutoring sessions into my schedule. But promise you won't go easy on me."

"Deal," he whispers back, his voice already slurring with sleep as he tightens his hold on me.

Within minutes, his breathing evens out, but my mind is still wide awake. I lay there tracing the lines of his palm, my thoughts racing. For years, I had treated my own body like a stranger, a piece of machinery I didn't know how to operate, convinced it was broken because I’d never been given the manual. But tonight, Benny didn’t only hand me the manual. He taught me how to read it.

As I drift off, secure in his arms, I know one thing for sure: I am done being ignorant. I want to know everything there is to know about this machinery, and I am more than ready to explore more.

----

It’s a Friday night, three months post-sexual awakening, as I’ve started calling it in my head. The bar is loud, packed with the after-work crowd. Benny has his arm draped comfortably over my shoulders, his thumb rubbing absentmindedly against my sleeve. I feel loose, happy, and significantly less clumsy in my own skin these days.

Then, I see him.

My ex, Kyle, is standing near the dartboards, holding a beer and laughing with a group of friends. The sight of him hits me like a splash of cold water. It isn't heartbreak or longing. It’s...annoyance. The memory of years of faked sighs and unfulfilled promises rushes back, followed immediately by the knowledge of what I’d been missing out on the entire time.

Benny must have felt me tense against him because he stops rubbing my arm and follows my gaze. His body goes rigid, the easy warmth vanishing instantly.

"Do you know him?" he asks, his voice low and vibrating with a sudden, dangerous tension. “Oh shit. Is that… Is that him?”

"Yeah," I mutter, trying to steer us toward the exit. "Let's go, Ben. It's not worth it."

But I don’t move fast enough.

Kyle spots us and raises his glass, a smug, oblivious grin plastered on his face. He starts to push through the crowd toward us, seemingly ready to offer some backhanded compliment about how "healthy" I look.

Benny doesn’t move toward the door. He plants his feet, his jaw clenching tight enough to grind diamonds. I see the exact moment recognition and comprehension dawn on Benny's face. He isn't looking at a guy he’s jealous of. He’s looking at a man who had wasted years of my time, and the realization makes something snap behind his eyes.

Before I can grab him, Benny is already moving, stepping in front of me with an aggression that makes the crowd part like the Red Sea.

By the time he reaches Kyle, Benny has already transformed into a solid wall of barely contained fury. He doesn’t say a word, just steps directly into Kyle’s personal space, forcing the other man to stumble back a step. The smirk slides off Kyle’s face as he looks up, realizing he is shorter than Benny and significantly less prepared for a fight.

"You must be the ex," Benny says, his voice terrifyingly calm, yet it cuts through the din of the bar like a knife. He doesn’t offer a hand to shake. Instead, he crowds Kyle back until my ex is nearly tripping over his own feet.

"I have a question for you. How? How did you look at her every day and not make sure she was satisfied? How do you keep someone like that in your bed and never once bother to learn how to make her fall apart?"

Kyle blinks, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, clearly stunned by the verbal assault.

“I… Excuse me? Who the hell are you?" he sputters, his face turning a splotchy red. He tries to puff his chest out, but Benny doesn’t budge an inch, looking down at him with a mix of pity and disdain that is far more insulting than actual rage.

"I'm the man who actually gives a damn," Benny snaps, taking another step forward that forces Kyle to recoil into a nearby table. His voice drops to a dangerous growl, and for a second, I genuinely think he is going to throw a punch, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "You had the most incredible woman in your bed every night, and you treated her like a piece of furniture. You didn't only cheat yourself out of a good time. You made her feel like she was broken. You owe her an apology for that."

Kyle looks wildly around the room, searching for an escape route or perhaps a bouncer, his bravado completely evaporating under Benny’s blistering scrutiny.

"Look, I don't know what she told you, but we had...different priorities," he stammers, trying to save face, but he only looks smaller, more pathetic. He doesn’t even look at me once, his eyes darting anxiously between Benny and the exit sign.

"Different priorities? That’s an awfully funny way of saying you were incompetent,” Benny shoots back, his lip curling in disgust. He leans in close, looming over Kyle. “You couldn’t find a clitoris if it was labeled for you.”

Kyle huffs, trying to claw back some dignity. “She never complained,” he says, shrugging like that settles it. “Seemed fine to me.”

Something in Benny’s expression goes completely still. Not louder. Not angrier. Worse.

He steps in closer, slow and deliberate, until Kyle has nowhere left to go but the edge of the table digging into his back.

“Yeah,” Benny says quietly. “That’s the problem.”

Kyle scoffs, but it’s shaky now. “Man, I think you’re blowing this way out of proportion. She-”

Benny leans in just enough that Kyle has to tilt his head back to keep eye contact.

“If you say one more word that even sounds like you’re blaming her,” Benny says, voice low and razor sharp, “you’re going to need a dentist.”

Kyle freezes at that, whatever comeback he had dying in his throat. For a second, it looks as though he might push it anyway. His jaw tightens, his pride scrambling for something to hold onto.

But then he glances around.

People are watching now. The bartender. Couples at a nearby table. The energy has shifted, and Kyle knows it. He swallows hard, shoulders pulling in just slightly, like he’s trying to make himself smaller without admitting it.

“Yeah,” he mutters, not meeting either of our eyes. “Whatever, man.”

The words land week.

Benny studies him for one long second, seeming to calculate whether there’s anything left worth saying.

There isn’t.

He straightens, the tension rolling off him as quickly as it built. When he steps back, it’s controlled.

“Yeah,” Benny says flatly. “That’s what I thought.”

He turns away, tossing over his shoulder, “Remember: clitoris. Look it up.”

A smug smirk tugs at Benny’s mouth as he walks back to me.

“You ready to go?” he asks.

I nod, still a little stunned.

Benny reaches for me, his hand gentle despite the adrenaline still coursing through him. Steadily, he steers me toward the door, leaving Kyle standing there with his drink and his bruised ego.

The night air hits us as we step out onto the sidewalk, shocking my overheated skin. The adrenaline pumping through my veins makes my hands shake.

Benny doesn’t stop until we’re halfway down the block, putting distance between us and the noise and smell of stale beer. He comes to an abrupt halt under a streetlamp, turning to face me, his hands settling gently on my arms.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice low and unsteady. "I know I shouldn't have done that. I know I embarrassed you. I just... I saw his face and realized he was the reason you spent so long thinking you were broken, and I lost it."

I stare at him, stunned for a different reason now. For the first time all night, the tension in my chest unravels, replaced by a warm, bubbling sensation that makes me want to laugh out loud.

"Embarrassed?" I repeat, stepping closer, pulling a hand off my shoulder to hold it. "Benny, that was the hottest thing that has ever happened to me. You told off my ex for not knowing where the clitoris is." I can’t help but laugh. I squeeze his fingers, leaning into his space. "I didn't know you were the jealous type."

He laughs, the tension in his shoulders easing away as he looks down at me, his eyes softening.

"I'm not usually," he admits, slipping an arm around my waist to tug me against him. "I don't like assholes. And that guy... he wasted years of your life because he couldn't be bothered to pay attention. It pisses me off." He leans down, resting his forehead against mine, the familiar scent of him grounding me instantly. "He had no idea what he had," he whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth. "But I do. And I'm going to make sure you never forget it."

I smile against his mouth, feeling the last of the lingering tension evaporate into the night air.

“You know,” I murmur, pulling back to look up at him, “I’ve been doing a little research… and I might have a few new experiments to test out when we get back to my place.”

Benny grins, that familiar, crooked smile that still makes my knees weak. "I am absolutely available for peer review," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple.

I laugh, a warm, unburdened sound that spills out of me more easily than it ever has before, wrapping my arm around his waist as we turn away. The ghost of the girl who had felt broken for years is officially gone, and in her place is someone who finally knows her own worth. And her own body.

"I think you're going to like my presentation," I tease, leaning my head against his shoulder as we walk toward my apartment.