Chapter 7 Too Good to be True
TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE
Lety
I’m dating my boss. Me, the woman who swore off all men, is dating the man who signs my checks.
I haven’t decided if I’m the luckiest or dumbest woman alive.
I’m still uncertain if this is a good idea, or if this is a dream I’ll be waking up from soon enough.
Either way, I can’t regret my decision to stop running from César and let him pursue me.
When I left his office that evening he ravished my pussy, I expected eyes on me.
Surely my face and slightly wrinkled clothing were a dead giveaway I had the boss on his knees.
Except, no one paid me any attention. Not even when César walked me out to my car, walking far closer than appropriate, and kissed me in the middle of the parking garage.
Since then, I can’t quite shake the tension in my body, like I’m waiting for the second shoe to drop.
It’s been three days since our tryst in his office—and over a week since I’ve been back to work.
He asked to take me out over the weekend, but I needed time alone to truly sober up and make sure I’m not making the biggest mistake of my life.
I’m so damn tired of being lonely, and César seems like he truly wants this.
Wants me. I would be foolish not to give us a shot, right?
I tell myself I’m ready to fall back into my usual routine, to find comfort in the rhythm of the workday. But the truth is, my nerves are shot to hell. My stomach flips with every step closer to the building, and anticipation is wound tight in my chest like a coil ready to snap.
I feel like a teenager sneaking around with the older boy her parents warned her about—thrilled by the danger but constantly glancing over her shoulder.
The memory of his mouth on my skin, the way he said my name like it belonged to him, is still fresh and electric in my mind.
It’s exhilarating…and terrifying. I’m walking a fine line between excitement and anxiety, and my body doesn’t know how to respond.
I’m nearly at the front entrance to the office, an hour early to work, when something darkens the entrance and I feel a presence behind me.
A moment later, two muscular arms wrap around my center, pulling me back against a firm, hard body.
My body relaxes against his, knowing it’s César before he speaks.
“Good morning, Ms. Zavala.” His lips brush against my neck, placing soft kisses that send a shiver racing down my spine.
“Morning, Mr. Estrada. Has anyone told you it’s highly inappropriate to sneak up and kiss your employees?”
He chuckles, his breath tickling my neck. “I assure you, mi reina, my thoughts are much more inappropriate than my actions.”
My body heats in response and wetness pools between my thighs. “Oh?” I manage to squeak out, too turned on to be embarrassed by my breathy tone.
“Mm-hmm. Come with me,” he murmurs and wraps his hand around my wrist, gently tugging me. “Work can wait.”
“Yes, sir,” I murmur. I half expect him to take me to his office, but he leads me back to the parking garage. “Where are you taking me?”
“Do you not like surprises?” He smirks, leading me toward a large, black Ford. The truck towers over the other cars in the garage by several feet. César touches the door handle and there’s an audible click. The headlights flicker, and he opens the back door. “Get that pretty ass back there.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Even as I say it, I find myself crawling into the back seat of his truck. The air is still cool from the AC, not having warmed up in the unusually warm morning air.
“No, I didn’t,” is all he says. He doesn’t move until I climb into the truck, and only then does he follow, sliding into the seat beside me.
The doors shut with a heavy thunk, and the dark tint of the windows turns the space into a private cocoon that shields us from curious eyes and the world outside.
He turns to me, gaze steady, as he says, “I’m not taking you anywhere.” The finality in his tone hangs between us like a closed door.
“Then what—”
He kisses me. He has a habit of cutting off my questions with panty-soaking kisses and I can’t bring myself to be mad about it. His hand moves to cup my jaw, while the other tangles in my hair, pulling my head back just enough that I have no choice but to submit to his will.
“It’s going to be torture working next to you all day and not being able to touch you,” he growls against me. “So, I’m indulging now. I’m burying my cock into that sweet pussy, savoring every fucking second of it, mi reina. Going to fill you with my cum, so you’ll feel me inside of you all day.”
“Fuck, yes. César, I need you.” I claw at his clothes with ravenous intent, wanting them gone.
His cocky laugh makes me snarl. “So fucking needy, Lety.”
“Shut up.”
This time, I’m the one who kisses him. It’s rough, furious, and starved, like I haven’t kissed him in years.
There’s no softness, no hesitation. Just teeth, tongue, and frustration.
It’s because I am angry—angry that he makes me feel this wild, desperate, and out of control.
No man should have that much power over me, yet César does.
My hands go straight for his pants, fingers fumbling with the zipper like I’ve lost all patience. When I brush over the hard line of his dick, he groans. The sound is deep and guttural, like it is being ripped from his throat, is toe-curling.
It unleashes something in both of us.
Our bodies and hands are a whirlwind as we rip off clothes. César yanks my skirt down and cusses. I smirk, knowing he sees I’ve decided against panties today. “You’re fucking sinful, Lety.”
“I know.” I didn’t know that this would happen, but as I was getting ready this morning, part of me hoped for something to happen. I was going to be prepared, and clearly, it worked out.
I finally undo his pants, and I waste no time reaching in, feeling his silk boxers before my hand wraps around a large cock.
“Fuck, César.” I’ve had my fair share of dicks, and I’ve enjoyed them at any size, but something tells me that not only does he have a large cock, but he knows how to use it.
“Lay down.”
His back seat is wide and comfortable. I lay back on the seat, spreading my legs wide. One look at the intensity swarming in his eyes tells me my core glistens with arousal. “Are you going to fuck me raw, sir?”
Again, he curses. It takes a moment for him to compose himself and I can’t help the accomplished smirk that crosses my lips. “Can I?” Despite the heated moment, he still takes time to check in with me.
“Yes. I’m on birth control.”
Thank God for birth control and regular STD screenings.
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Then yes, Lety. I’m fucking this pussy raw. It’s mine.”
“Then fucking do it.”
His nostrils flare—and then he’s on me again, crashing his mouth against mine in a kiss that’s all hunger and heat.
His rough and greedy hands find my breasts, squeezing and rolling my nipples between his fingers until I gasp into his mouth.
I writhe beneath him, hips shifting in search of relief, but he’s got me pinned—his thighs bracketing mine, his grip holding me exactly where he wants me.
Helpless, aching, and completely at his mercy.
Then I feel his heavy cock bob between us.
I spare a glance down, seeing his erection.
Just as I suspected, he’s long and thick.
His cock is slightly curved with a mushroom tip.
I desperately want to take down my throat.
Soon. First, I need him inside of me. I need to feel the burn of the stretch and the feeling of being stuffed.
“Fuck. Me,” I growl again. I run my nails down his back, earning a hiss from him.
“So fucking dirty. Are you my little slut, Lety?”
“Fuck…” I moan, nodding. I’ll be whatever the fuck he wants me to be, as long as I feel his dick inside me.
“This what you want, mi reina?” He fists his cock and strokes himself. I whine underneath him, growing more frustrated by the moment.
“Either fuck me or I’ll find someone who will.” My words have the desired effect. His eyes narrow, darkening. He bares his teeth at me, and I know I’m in trouble.
“You can show this pretty pussy to the world, Lety. You can fuck it and come on camera. But I’m the only cock allowed inside it.” His words make me tremble, but I don’t get a chance to respond. He’s notched at my entrance, and in one powerful thrust, he’s sheathed balls-deep inside of me.
I scream.
He moans.
It’s fucking bliss.
My walls tighten around him, screaming at how full he makes me feel. I wrap my legs around him, heels digging into the top of his ass.
“So fucking perfect,” he moans into my ear. I arch my back, needing to feel more of him. It’s both too much and not enough. My mind can barely comprehend the pleasure, even as it begs for more.
The truck rocks gently at first, the suspension squeaking beneath us with each movement, but it doesn’t stay gentle for long. The scent inside is thick—leather seats warmed by the sun, a faint trace of his cologne, and now, the unmistakable musk of sex and sweat clinging to the air.
He thrusts into me without warning. Hard. Fast. Deep. His cock curves just right, dragging against my walls and hitting a spot so sensitive it sends sparks down my spine.
I cry out, the raw sound tearing from my throat without permission. It’s not just pleasure—it’s shock and need from the overwhelming stretch of him filling me completely.
The force of his rhythm builds, powerful and relentless.
Each thrust slams into me with enough strength to make the whole truck lurch, the shocks creaking in protest. The windows may be tinted, but it hardly matters anymore.
Anyone walking by could tell what’s happening by the way the vehicle bounces, by the fogging glass and the rhythmic thud of bodies colliding.
His breath is sharp against my neck; the low growls escaping his throat vibrate against my skin.
My hands scramble for purchase, digging into the seat, into his shoulders, trying to anchor myself against the onslaught of pleasure.
But there’s no control. No slowing down.
Just the raw, desperate pace of him claiming me completely.
My walls tighten around him. His body shakes, shoulders tensing, and I know he’s as close as I am. I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a moan. César reaches between us, thumb finding my clit and rubbing in slow, circular motions.
Pleasure erupts, and I scream. His moans mix with mine and soon we fall over the edge together.
I come hard, just as his hot release fills me.
He comes as if he hasn’t finished in months.
But so do I, feeling lightheaded when the high fades.
My body is a mess of sweat and cum, but I fucking love it.
I’m marked by him.
“Such a good girl, Lety. Taking my cock like that,” he groans into my ear, nipping at my lobe. Even that part of my body is sensitive.
César is slow to pull away, almost reluctant. The moment he pulls out of me, I feel empty. His release drips down my thighs, coating me even more. Before he can pull away any further, my hand snaps out and closes around his wrist. “Take…a picture…of me,” I pant.
At first, he doesn’t move, just raises an eyebrow, a silent question on his lips.
“I want to post a picture on my DesireDen.”
He goes still at my explanation, every muscle tensing—and my heart sinks. For a breathless moment, I’m certain I’ve ruined everything. The air shifts, heavy with the weight of unspoken judgment.
Of course he wouldn’t want me. No man ever truly does once they know what I’ve done—what I am.
A small, bitter part of me whispers “You should’ve known better.
” I can already feel the walls rising, piece by piece, the armor I’ve spent years perfecting rebuilding itself to shield me from the pain I know is coming.
But then he grins. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just soft and knowing, like he sees every shattered part of me and still wants to stay.
“That’s a fucking sexy idea,” he says, reaching down on the floor for his pants. He pulls out his phone, aiming its camera at me. “Fuck, Lety, you look so good.”
He begins snapping photos of me. I’ve never let anyone help me with my DesireDen account. This seems far more intimate than what we just did, but I can’t deny the feeling of liking that he’s not only willing to help but seems excited about it.
Is this man even real? I hate the doubt creeping in, he almost seems too good to be true. I try to keep it at bay for now.
Once he’s done, César hands me back the phone. “Text the ones you like to your phone,” he says, nuzzling my neck.
I can’t help the smile on my face.
We lay there in comfortable silence; him softly kissing me while I look through the phone. After a few moments, he breaks the silence. “Lety?”
“Hmm?”
“Come with me to a party this weekend.”
I pause, putting the phone down to get a better look at him. “A party?”
He nods. “As my date.”
I flush at the word, even though we are so far beyond that. “What kind of party?”
“Just something small. I want to introduce you to a few people.” He doesn’t elaborate on who.
The old me wants to say no, to claim I’m busy, I have other plans, that this—we—is too complicated. It would be easier to protect myself before anything has the chance to hurt.
But if I keep saying no out of fear, I’ll never know what we could be. And something about César—beyond the way he looks at me like I matter—makes me want to try.
“What should I wear?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intend.
“Whatever you want,” he tells me, that confident glint in his eyes. “Just come.”
A grin tugs at my lips. “I think we already did that.”
He chuckles and leans in to kiss me. It’s not rushed or hungry this time, but rather tender. A kiss that speaks of more than lust. A kiss that says stay. That says trust me.
“Come with me,” he murmurs again, resting his forehead against mine.
My heart stutters. Fear lingers, but so does something else. Something like hope.
So, I nod. “Okay.”
And as he pulls away, that hope blooms, fragile and real.
I just pray that glimmer of hope doesn’t steer me wrong.