5. Fabián #3
He blinks up at me, eyes bare and blown wide, pupils blown dark, and for half a second I forget how to breathe.
Without the glasses, he looks younger. Not soft but more open.
More dangerous because there is nothing between us now—no plastic, no pretense, just Elías looking at me like I am the only thing in the world worth looking at, like he wants to memorize exactly how I’m looking at him right now.
Or maybe he’s blind as shit without them? What do I know?
He reaches for them, fingers trembling slightly. “Careful.”
I hold them just out of his reach and fold them with one hand, hooking them into the collar of my crop top, letting them hang against my chest. “I got’em”.
His eyes drop to where the glasses rest against my skin, and his mouth goes slack, lips parted, wet from my mouth. Then he laughs, low and rough and broken. “No mames.”
“What?”
“That’s—” He swallows, throat working. “That’s so fucking hot.”
I almost smile. Almost.
Instead, I grab his hips with both hands, and he stops laughing immediately.
My fingers dig into warm skin above the waistband of those stupid black shorts, thumbs pressing into the sharp juts of his hipbones, and I have hated these shorts all night, have wanted them on my floor all night, and now I have my hands under them, skin to skin, and he gasps like I’ve electrocuted him.
Elías’s hands slide over my shoulders, then down my chest with intent. When his thumbs catch on the silver bars through my nipples under the thin cotton, the shock of it punches through me like a live wire to the gut.
I hiss through my teeth, arching into his touch without meaning to, and he freezes for one heartbeat—
Then his face changes.
Bad.
Bad for me.
“Oh,” he breathes, and it sounds like discovery, like victory.
I grip his hips tighter, thumbs pressing into the hollows. “Don’t.”
His thumbs brush over them again.
My whole body tightens like a spring, stomach muscles jumping under his palms. “Elías.”
“That a yes?”
“That’s a warning.”
His tongue ring clicks against his teeth, and he’s smiling now, that smug, devastating smile that makes me want to fuck him and fight him and never let him go. “You keep giving me those.”
“And you keep ignoring them, but you know what I think?” I whisper, gripping his hips a little harder.
“That maybe I’m a slut for consequences?”
I push one thigh between his legs, pressing up hard, and his words die in his throat. “No te hagas, muneco.”
The moment the word slips from my lips, there’s silence.
Finally.
His head tips back against the trailer, throat exposed, silver chain shining against his skin, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
His hands clutch my shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
His body is hard against mine, hot through denim and cotton, and the second he shifts—grinds—over my thigh, both of us go perfectly, terrifyingly still.
Because there is no pretending now.
No jokes.
No maybe.
He feels me, and I feel him. Both of us hard, aching, and so fucking obvious. We’re both breathing like we ran here, like we’re drowning, like the air is too thin behind these trailers.
He smirks, but it’s shaky. “That all you got, Salcedo?”
I laugh once, dark and ugly and real. “You really don’t know when to shut up.”
“So fucking make me then.”
My mouth crashes against his so hard his head bumps the trailer with a metallic thud, and he kisses back harder—of course he does, of course he has to win even this—and his hands go under my shirt, palms scorching against my stomach, fingers dragging up my ribs with nails that bite just enough.
When he touches bare skin, my body reacts like he put that live wire under my skin, current running from his fingertips to my cock, and I grab his ass over the shorts and haul him against me.
I lift him slightly, and Elías breaks the kiss with a gasp that sounds like my name.
“Fuck, Fabián.”
My name, but not in his teasing way—just wrecked.
Begging.
It goes straight through me like a knife, hot and sharp, and I kiss down his jaw because if I look at him too long, I’m going to say something stupid, something true, something like, “I’ve wanted this forever,” or “Don't ever stop,” or “You’re mine now.”
My mouth finds his throat, and I taste salt, heat, sugar, and the pulse hammering under his skin. He smells like syrup and sweat and laundry soap and something else, something that smells like him, like the nape of his neck where I wanted to put my mouth while he counted change.
His fingers dig into my back, pulling me closer, and I suck a mark into his throat just to watch him squirm.
“Thought you weren’t scared,” I murmur against his skin, tongue tracing the bruise I’m making.
“I’m not,” he whines.
“You’re shaking.”
“So are you.”
I lift my head and realize he’s right. My hands on him aren’t steady, my thumbs trembling against his hipbones.
That should embarrass me.
And it does—a little.
But his hands are shaking too, fingers twitching against my shoulder blades, and somehow that makes everything worse in the best way, makes this real in a way that the kissing wasn’t quite, because we are both standing here pretending this is just heat, just tension, just one bad decision, but our bodies know better.
Elías’s smile softens around the edges; it loses some of its sharpness, and I don’t like that.
Soft is dangerous.
“Soft” means things I can’t say.
So I kiss him again, rougher, and he meets me, matches me, gives as good as he gets.
His tongue ring keeps catching against me, cool, slick, and maddening.
Every time I feel it, I grip him tighter, and every time I grip him tighter, he makes another sound—low, guttural, desperate—and I am obsessed with those sounds, wanting to collect them, wanting to hear what other sounds I can pull from him if I just keep going.
This is bad.
This is very bad.
I don’t fucking care.
A laugh bursts somewhere on the other side of the trailers—close, too close—and we both freeze.
My mouth is still against his, open, breathing his air.
His hands are under my shirt, spanning my ribs.
My thigh is between his legs, pressed up against him, and I can feel him throbbing even through the layers.
The market is twenty yards away. His mother and my tía are twenty-five yards away.
Jesus is probably watching us, disappointed, from an undisclosed location.
Elías whispers against my lips, breath hot and shaky: “If my mom catches us, I’m blaming you.”
I pull back just enough to glare at him, but I don’t move away. “You followed me.”
“You grabbed me.”
“You volunteered.” I remind him.
“You wore that shirt.”
“You fucking wore those shorts.”
He raises his brow. “Because you told me to.”
My brain stalls, and he smiles, smug and breathless and beautiful in the worst possible way, mouth swollen from mine, hair messed up where I touched it.
“You really wore them because I told you to?”
His eyes narrow, but he’s still smiling, still hard against me, still not pulling away. “Don’t make it… what’s the word you’ve been using? Oh yeah, weird.”
I lean in until our mouths are barely touching, until I can taste his next breath. “Too late.”
His own words. His mouth twitches when he recognizes them, and then he shoves at my chest—not hard, just enough to challenge me, to keep this game going because neither of us knows how to stop.
“Move.”
I don’t. I press closer, my thigh shifting against him just to watch his eyes flutter. “No.”
“Fabián.”
“You always this bossy after getting kissed stupid?”
His eyes flash, dark and furious. “Stupid?”
I grin—actually grin—feeling it stretch my mouth, unfamiliar and wild. His gaze drops like the grin offended him personally, like he wants to bite it off me.
“You wanna try that again?” he asks, voice dropping to a register that goes straight to my dick.
“Kissed. Stupid?” I say, enunciating each word.
He grabs the front of my crop top and yanks me closer until we’re sharing breath, until our mouths are touching without kissing, just hovering, just waiting.
His voice lowers, rough and wrecked. “You kiss good for a man who’s acting like this is his first time.”
My chest goes tight, stomach clenching, and he feels it—his fingers flex in my shirt, pressing against my thundering heart.
There are a lot of things I could say. I could lie and say he’s not the first man I’ve ever kissed. I could make a joke and say I’ve fucked plenty of guys just like him and push him back into the easy place where this is only bodies and heat and stress, where we don’t have to name what this is.
But I don’t want to lie. “Maybe it is.”
His expression shifts, and the smirk fades.
“Fabián… what the hell does that mean?” His fingers loosen on my shirt, then curl again, softer, almost gentle, and the noise of the market hums behind us like static.
For one second, there are no trailers, family, TikTok comments, no years of beef or forced booth space—no bullshit. Just Elías looking at me like he heard what I didn’t quite say. How the fuck do you say, “You’re different, you’re the only one. I don’t know how to do this, but I can’t stop?”
He swallows, throat working. “You good?” he asks.
I huff, trying to find my voice. “I hate that fucking question.”
“I know.” He smiles, and it’s soft again.
“I’m fine,” I sigh
“Ugh, I hate that answer.” His mouth curves, slow and real, not the teasing smile but something else, something that looks almost like fondness, like relief.
We’re back on familiar ground. Mostly.
He taps my chest with one finger, right over the silver bar, and I flinch, sensitive, oversensitive. “You wanna stop?”
Under the jokes and shorts and mouth, under the teasing and the taunting and the deliberate provocation, he’s asking me. He’s checking in with me.
My throat works. “Nah.”
His eyes darken again, pupils blowing wide, and he breathes out like he’s been holding it, like he was afraid of the answer, like he needed to hear it as much as I needed to say it.
“Good,” he whispers. “I don’t want to either.”