Chapter 6
Darling
Diablo’s gaze flicks past my shoulder. Not to Carmen. To the room. To his men. To the way people are starting to notice. To the way a crowd can turn a private moment into a weapon.
His hand slides from my wrist to the small of my back, firm, claiming, the way a biker moves a woman through a room when he wants everyone to understand she’s under his protection.
He leans in, mouth brushing my ear.
“Walk,” he says. “Now.”
It isn’t a request.
It also isn’t a threat.
It’s the closest thing to safety I’ve felt in months, and I hate myself for it.
I open my mouth to refuse.
He squeezes my back. Not painful. Just certain.
“Darling,” he murmurs, and my name sounds like a promise and a command. “Say you don’t want me to touch you and I won’t. But you’re not walking out that door with Rico’s people out there and half the city watching.”
My pulse jumps.
Because that isn’t jealousy.
That’s fear.
Real fear.
And it crawls into my bones.
I swallow, then step with him.
The room parts like it recognizes his authority. Patches shift. Prospects move fast. Women glance over shoulders, eyes bright with gossip and hunger. Someone laughs like they’re placing a bet.
Carmen’s gaze follows us as we move. She’s smiling, but it’s tight now.
Not sweet.
Strategic.
She wants the room to see him take me.
She wants it to look like she owns the ending no matter what we do.
Diablo doesn’t look at her.
He just guides me through the crowd like the club is a storm and he’s the only one who can get me through it. When we reach the hallway, he guides me up the stairs and pushes the door open with his shoulder. Pulls me inside his office.
The door slams behind us.
The noise drops to a muffled thump.
My breath catches like I’ve been running.
Diablo turns, eyes locked on me.
For a second he doesn’t move.
He just looks.
Like he’s taking inventory. Bruises. Fear. Anger. The way my hands are shaking even though I’m trying to keep them still.
“You didn’t shut her down,” I whisper.
My voice cracks. I hate that it does.
His jaw works like he’s chewing glass.
“Not in front of the room,” he says.
“That’s convenient.”
His gaze goes sharp.
“You think I don’t know what she did?” he asks, voice low. “You think I didn’t feel her pulling that stunt like she stabbed me right in the heart?”
“Then why did you let it happen?”
He takes one step closer.
Because even in here, with the door shut, he moves like the whole world is watching. Like he’s trained to control every inch of space he takes up.
“Because she wanted you to run,” he says. “She wanted you to make a scene. She wanted you to look weak, look messy, look like a problem I can’t manage.”
I laugh, bitter and shaking. “And you proved her right.”
His eyes flash.
“No,” he says. “I proved I’m not giving her a public show she can use against you.”
Against me.
The words hit wrong. Too protective. Too intimate.
Too late.
I cross my arms over my chest like it can hold me together.
“I’m not your problem,” I snap.
His gaze drops to my collarbone, to the bruise.
His expression changes.
The temperature in the room changes.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “You are.”
He closes the distance.
My body reacts before my pride can catch up.
Heat floods me, sudden and humiliating.
He stops close enough that I can feel him. The warmth of his chest. The scent of leather and smoke and rum.
His hand lifts, slow, and he doesn’t touch me yet. He waits.
“Tell me no,” he murmurs.
The words are soft.
But they’re not gentle.
They’re dangerous.
I should say no.
I should say I hate him.
I should say I’m leaving.
My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
His eyes hold mine. He shifts closer and the front of his cut brushes my skin. The contact sparks through me like I’m made of gasoline.
He tilts his head.
“Darling,” he says again, like a warning, like a prayer. “Tell me to stop.”
My throat works.
I don’t say it.
His mouth drops to mine.
The kiss isn’t sweet.
It isn’t careful.
It’s three years of denial turning into hunger.
His hand slides into my hair and grips, not yanking, just firm enough to anchor me while his mouth takes over like he owns the right to breathe me in.
I make a sound I hate.
Because it’s not anger.
It’s want.
I shove at his chest, more reflex than refusal.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at me, eyes dark, lips wet.
“That a no?” he asks.
My breath comes out uneven.
I hate him.
I nod once anyway. “No.”
The word barely exists.
But it’s there.
His expression shifts like the answer is a trigger.
He lifts me.
Not all the way off the floor. Just enough to make my back hit the desk, enough to put me where he wants me, enough to remind me who’s bigger and stronger and completely fucking inevitable.
My legs spread on instinct, and the shame of it flashes hot in my belly.
Then his hands are on my thighs, sliding up, pushing my jeans down just enough to get his fingers under the waistband of my panties.
I freeze.
His eyes snap to mine.
“Tell me no,” he says again, lower now. “And I’ll stop.”
My whole body is shaking.
Not with fear.
With wanting.
I swallow hard. “Don’t stop.”
His mouth curves like a devil.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the words make my knees want to give out even though I’m already on the desk.
He drags his fingers down, slow, and finds me wet like my body has been waiting for him for years.
I gasp.
My hand shoots out and grabs his cut like I can punish him for making me feel this. My nails dig into leather. He doesn’t flinch.
He leans in and bites the side of my throat, not hard enough to bruise, just enough to make me jolt.
His fingers stroke once.
Twice.
A third time, deeper, firmer, and my hips lift without permission.
“Look at you,” he whispers against my skin. “Acting like you don’t want me when you’re soaked the second I touch you.”
“Shut up,” I breathe, voice wrecked.
He laughs once, low and dangerous.
Then he kisses down my throat to my collarbone, right where the bruise lives.
The moment his mouth hits that spot, the air in him changes.
He goes still.
A sound rips out of him, rough and ugly.
He lifts his head and his eyes are black.
“It’s my fault,” he says, and his voice is cold enough to scare me, “I’m going to peel his hands off his wrists.”
My breath stutters.
His hand stays between my thighs, steady, possessive.
“You don’t get to say things like that,” I whisper. “You don’t get to act like you care when—”
“When I’m engaged?” he finishes, sharp.
He leans in close until his mouth is at my ear.
“I care,” he says. “I cared the whole time. I just didn’t have the luxury of showing it.”
His fingers thrust once, deep, slow, and my entire body jerks.
A sound breaks out of me.
His mouth closes over it, kissing me hard, swallowing it like he wants to keep it.
His hand moves again, faster now, sure like he remembers my body better than my mind does.
The room spins.
The muffled bass outside becomes a pulse in my bones.
I grab his shoulders. I pull him closer. I hate myself for needing this.
He’s breathing hard now, chest tight, restraint cracking.
“You’re gonna come,” he murmurs, and it sounds like an order.
“I’m not—” I try to lie.
His thumb circles my clit and my words die.
My whole body locks.
Heat tears through me. I come so hard my vision whites out at the edges, my back arching, my mouth opening on a sound I can’t stop.
Diablo holds me through it, fingers steady, mouth pressed to my throat like he’s tasting the proof.
When I finally breathe again, I’m shaking.
He watches my face like he’s learning something he already knew. Then he steps back and drags his shirt up, wiping his mouth with the edge of it like he’s trying to control himself again.
Like he can.
His belt buckle clicks.
I stare, pulse hammering.
“Diablo,” I whisper, half warning, half wrecked.
He unfastens his jeans, slow, eyes never leaving mine.
“You said don’t stop,” he murmurs.
I swallow. My body is still throbbing.
And my pride is still bleeding.
“I’m not your—” I start.
He steps in close and grips my jaw, not hurting, just forcing me to look at him.
“You’re not my secret,” he declares, his voice low. “You’re not her trophy. You’re not Rico’s punching bag.”
His thumb drags across my bottom lip.
“You’re mine, mi carino,” he says. “And I’m done pretending I can live without you.”
He pushes my jeans down farther, my panties, until they're gone, and hooks my ankles, pulling me toward the edge of the desk. The movement is rough enough to make me gasp, but careful enough that it doesn’t hurt.
His hand slides up my thigh again.
He looks down, then back up at me.
“Tell me to stop,” he says one last time, voice edged like a blade. “Right now.”
My throat works.
I should.
I don’t.
I whisper, “Don’t.”
His eyes go darker.
He grips himself, lines up, then pushes in with one smooth, relentless thrust that steals every thought out of my head.
I cry out.
My hands fly to the back of his neck, nails digging in.
He pauses, breathing hard, forehead nearly touching mine.
“Too much?” he asks, rough.
I shake my head, teeth clenched.
“No.”
“Say it.”
I swallow. “No.”
He starts moving, slow at first, deep and controlled, like he’s forcing himself to stay steady even though the way my body keeps grabbing for him is breaking his restraint.
The desk creaks.
The stained-glass saint in the window trembles faintly every time the bass hits outside.
Diablo’s mouth finds mine again, kisses turning messy, hungry, the sound of him swallowing my breaths.
I wrap my legs around his waist and drag him closer like I’m done pretending I don’t want him.
He makes a low sound, then grips my ass and drives deeper.
“Fuck,” he mutters against my mouth. “That’s it. That’s mi carino.”
The words hit something in me that is both fury and comfort.
I pull back just enough to glare at him, breathless.
“I’m not—”
He thrusts again, harder, and the sentence breaks apart.
I hate him.
I hate that my body loves him.
He watches my face like he’s feeding on it.
“Look at me,” he orders.
I do.
His eyes are wild. His jaw tight. His control cracking.
“You want to punish me?” he asks, voice thick. “Do it.”
I slap his chest, weak. I scratch his shoulders, not weak. I bite his lip when he leans in.
He groans like it’s what he wanted.
“Yes,” he breathes. “Like that.”
The friction builds fast. My body is already sensitive from his fingers, and every thrust hits deeper, harder, pushing me toward the edge again.
I grab his cut and yank him closer, desperate and furious.
His mouth drops to my ear.
“Carmen wanted you to run,” he growls. “She wanted you to doubt me.”
He drives in harder.
“She wants to own me.”
Another thrust.
“The way I own you.”
My whole body tightens.
Heat coils in me again, tighter and faster than before.
“Diablo—” I gasp.
“Come for me,” he orders, voice breaking. “Come now.”
I let go. My orgasm hits like a wave. I shatter around him, trembling, crying out, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing left.
He groans, hips stuttering, then he slams in deep and comes with a low, savage sound, face pressed to my throat like he can’t hold himself upright without me.
For a moment we just breathe.
The bass outside thumps.
Voices roar.
The club keeps partying like the world isn’t ending.
But in here, my whole life feels like it just split open.
Diablo stays inside me, hands locked on my hips, breath hot at my collarbone.
Then he lifts his head.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then my bruises, then my eyes.
“You’re staying,” he says.
It’s not a question.
I swallow hard. My pride tries to gather itself.
“You don’t get to decide—”
A knock hits the door.
Hard.
“Prez.” Magic’s voice. Low. Serious. No party in it. “We got eyes outside. Rico’s moving.”
Diablo closes his eyes for half a second like he wants to put his fist through the wall.
Then he looks back at me.
And the softness is gone.
The devil is back.
He pulls out, fixes my clothes with quick hands like he’s done it a thousand times, then grips my jaw again.
“You stay in this office,” he says, voice like steel. “Door locked. Nobody comes in but me or Magic. If anyone else tries, you scream.”
My heart hammers.
He sees it and his thumb strokes my lip once, gentler.
“I’m not locking you away,” he murmurs. “I’m keeping you alive.”
Then he opens the door and steps out into the noise like he’s walking into war.
Before he disappears, he glances back over his shoulder.
Carmen is still on that platform.
Still smiling.
But now it’s not satisfied.
Now it’s sharp.
Because she knows exactly what we just did.
And she’s going to make me pay for it.