Chapter 3 #2
His hands move over me—confident, unhurried—sliding from my waist up my sides, thumbs dragging over bare skin beneath the mesh. The contact is deliberate as if he’s mapping me out by touch alone. My breath stutters when his fingers hook into the hem of my top.
“Off,” he murmurs.
I drop my jacket to the ground and lift my arms without thinking, letting him tug the mesh up and over my head. The air feels cooler instantly, my skin buzzing where he’s already been. He drops it somewhere behind us without looking, attention fixed entirely on me now.
His gaze sweeps over my chest, slow and assessing.
The heat in his eyes makes my dick start to harden inside my pants, and I am regretting the choice of the skin tight material all over again.
He runs his hands over my pecks, circling my nipples with his pointer finger and pad of his thumb until they are hard and ready for more attention.
“Jesus,” I mutter, more to myself than him as he drops his head to them and sucks one into his mouth, his teeth scraping over it.
One corner of his mouth tilts against me, but he doesn’t linger long before doing the same to the other. His hands slide back down my body, thumbs brushing my ribs before settling at my hips. He squeezes once, then dips lower, fingers skimming the waistband of my jeans.
He leans away, his eyes following the same trail. “These are…” he pauses, tugging lightly at the button, “...criminal.”
I grin, breathless. “They’re painted on for a reason.”
“Mmm.” His fingers ease the button free just enough to give me a little room to breathe. The pressure eases as the zipper lowers. “Constricting, I’m sure. Let me help you with that.”
The zipper lowering feels like relief and promise all at once, the slightest mercy that only makes me more aware of how wound tight I already am. His hands linger there for a beat, not moving lower.
It’s maddening.
He straightens slowly, eyes dark, assessing, as though he’s taking inventory of the effect he’s having on me and filing it away. His thumb hooks briefly at my waistband again, a quiet reminder that he’s in control of the pace, the direction, the next move.
I shift, restless, breath shallow, every nerve lit up and waiting.
Reaching out, I tug at the hem of his shirt. “Your turn.”
He lifts an eyebrow—pure skepticism, faint amusement—but he complies anyway. No rush. Just a deliberate reach for the fabric, pulling it up and over his head like this is exactly what he planned to do all along.
I don’t hide my appreciation. Why would I? My gaze tracks the lines of him openly—broad shoulders, solid chest, the kind of body that looks earned and worked for. Control made physical. With ink on almost every inch. I want to lick it.
He catches me looking and steps closer, crowding my space again, reclaiming it without a word. One hand settles at my hip, anchoring me, while the other braces against the wall beside my head.
“Happy?” he asks quietly.
I grin, breathless and unapologetic. “Getting there. I’d be happy with less clothing between us.”
“Are you always in a hurry?” he murmurs the question against my throat.
He mouths a line down to my collarbone, and a shiver racks my whole body.
His hand slides from my hip to my jaw, fingers curling just enough to tilt my face up, forcing my attention to his whiskey eyes as he straightens.
The movement is slow, deliberate, and designed to make me aware of him completely.
As if I’m not hyperaware of every inch of him already.
“I decide the pace, hermoso,” he continues. “That work for you?”
Heat coils low in my stomach. I nod once, because words feel unnecessary and maybe a little dangerous right now. I might start begging or something.
“Good,” he says.
He doesn’t kiss me again, he lets the moment stretch, his thumb brushing my lower lip, dipping into my mouth and allowing me to suck the tip. He inhales, watching my mouth curve around his finger. I moan and nip at the pad of his thumb before swiping my tongue over the taste of him.
The word good still hangs between us when he pulls his hand away, leaving my mouth empty and my pulse racing.
He watches me swallow, like he’s cataloguing the restraint it takes not to chase his touch again. His expression doesn’t soften, but there’s satisfaction there. Approval.
“Such a good boy,” he murmurs, voice low and even. “You listen so well. Maybe you aren’t a problema after all.”
“Oh, I am trouble,” I tell him, chin lifting in challenge despite the way my body wants to fold right into him.
That earns me a smile. Slow and knowing.
“Oh,” he says quietly, stepping in again, close enough that I can feel the heat of him without being touched. “A quick learner.”
His hand settles back on my hip. He pushes my jeans down slightly, his fingers splaying out on bare skin. I resist the urge to wiggle under his touch so he is forced to touch me where I want him to.
“Trouble isn’t the issue,” he continues, gaze dropping briefly to my mouth before lifting again. “It’s whether you know when to behave.”
My breath catches. My response does too.
He leans in, close enough that his words brush my ear. “And right now,” he adds softly, “you’re doing just fine.”
I melt.
It’s embarrassing how fast it happens—how praise hits me straight in the spine and turns my knees into suggestions of bones. If he keeps that up, I’ll fold completely. Roll over. Bare my throat. Let him see exactly how easy it is to undo me.
So. Yeah.
Do I have a kink? Absolutely.
Dominant men. Praise delivered without restriction. Confidence wrapped in an accent and a few extra years of experience are bonus points.
My brain helpfully supplies a word I absolutely do not say out loud. Yes, Daddy might make him stop. Right?
I bite it back, lips parting instead, breath shaky as I force myself to stay where he put me. Still. Waiting. Behaving.
“Quieto,” he says softly.
I still.
He nods once. Approval. “That means stay still.”
The word settles into me as much as his touch does. I don’t move—not because I can’t, but because I want to see what he does next.
His fingers trail up my side, slow, deliberate. Not exploring. Teaching.
“Despacio,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath. “Slow.”
Like a demonstration, his hand moves exactly that way—unhurried, controlled, making every inch of contact feel intentional. I suck in a breath, fighting the urge to chase it.
He notices.
His fingers pause, pressure increasing just a fraction. “Bien,” he says quietly. “Good.”
The word hits hard. Maybe I should add praise whore to my profile on Prism.
He tips my chin up with two fingers until I’m looking at him again. “Mírame,” he adds.
I hold his gaze, unable to look away even if I wanted to.
“That one’s easy,” he says, eyes dark but steady. “Look at me.”
I do. I really do. And the way his mouth curves tells me that’s exactly what he wanted.
“Obedecer,” he continues, thumb brushing my jaw once before dropping away. “It means to obey. But,” he adds, “it only works if you choose it, because I don't force anything.”
My pulse stutters.
He leans in just enough that his words brush my ear. “And you’re choosing very well tonight.”
Then he straightens again, composure locked back into place, as though he didn’t just undo me piece by piece with a handful of words and the promise of more.
His hands return to my hips. “Ahora,” he says quietly.
I don’t ask what it means. I already know. It means, now.
He steps back just enough to give himself room, fingers hooking into my waistband with calm efficiency.
The fabric slides lower, inch by controlled inch, guided by his hands as if this is exactly where they’re meant to be.
No fumbling of a quick hookup. No rush of the normal college guys I sleep with.
He sinks to his knees in front of me, and I follow his movements with my eyes.
His gaze drops to my cock as it springs free, bobbing in front of his face and already leaking pre-cum.
He licks his lips, and a groan almost parts my lips, but I bite it back.
I’m rewarded when he leans slightly forward, his breath ghosting over my crown before he licks my slit.
I’m officially boneless, the wall at my back the only thing holding me upright.
I can’t help arching toward him as he sucks my tip between his lips, but he holds me steady as he pops off of me with an audible sound.
“Quieto,” he commands, and I still immediately.
He pushes my jeans down the rest of the way. They pool at my boots in a way that feels far too exposing for how much clothing he still has on. But he doesn’t look away as he lifts one foot and then the other, tugging my boots off.
“If this was more than a one-night thing, I’d tell you to take your boots off before coming into my house. But it’s not—” he says as he tosses them to the side and then removes my jeans the rest of the way.
The butterflies prove they aren’t fully dead and mentally plucking their wings off did nothing to stop them from growing new ones, because they erupt at even the possibility that I could have more than one night of this type of attention.
We only want one night you brain dead idiots, I chastise them silently since killing them off didn’t work.
I flex my still sock-covered toes into his carpet, feeling like an inexperienced teenager hooking up with someone much older, and the corner of his mouth kicks up. “Feeling exposed, hermoso?”
“Hermoso?” I echo, breath still unsteady.
His mouth curves. He doesn’t answer.
Instead, his thumb brushes along my jaw as he stands, tilting my face up just enough that I have no choice but to meet his eyes. The touch is light, but the intent behind it isn’t.
“Does it matter?” he asks quietly.
My lips part, then close again. I shake my head once.
“No,” I admit.
“Good,” he says, approval threading his tone. “Then you don’t need to know.”
He lets his hand fall away, stepping back just enough to remind me how exposed I am, how aware of myself I’ve become under his attention. The silence stretches, but it’s not awkward or empty.
“Here, let me make things even,” he adds after a beat.
His fingers go to his jeans, and he quickly removes them, kicking them away, before he takes off his socks. He’s fully naked, and I can not take my eyes off of his dick. It’s long and thick, as dark as the rest of him, with a slightly blushing crown. And I want to taste him.
“It’s still not even,” I manage. His gaze dips to my socks, and he smiles.
“So take them off.”
The instruction is calm. Casual. Like he’s asking me to hand him my phone instead of stripping the last thing keeping me grounded.
I swallow and bend, fingers fumbling just a little as I hook my thumbs into the tops of my socks. The carpet is soft beneath my feet when I straighten again—bare now, just like he wanted.
He watches the whole thing without comment, expression unreadable but intent. When I’m done, he nods once.
“There,” he says quietly. “Better.”