7. Fabián #2
Beautiful in a way that makes me mad because there is no joke to hide behind.
Brown skin. Silver chains resting against his chest. The hickeys on his neck.
A thin line of hair below his navel that I want to follow with my tongue.
Strong thighs. Hard in his underwear, obvious and thick and real, the fabric straining.
A man.
A man I want.
Nothing in me breaks, but something inside me unlocks.
His mouth shifts. “You’re staring.”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Good staring or crisis staring?”
I let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Both.”
He nods like that makes sense. “Fair.”
Then he takes my hand and places it on his chest.
His heartbeat punches against my palm.
Fast.
Not just me.
I step closer and kiss him again, slower this time, my hand sliding down his body because he put it there and because I want to. Over the chest. Ribs. Stomach. The trail of hair. He shivers when I reach the waistband of his underwear.
“Can I?” I ask.
His eyes flare.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Please.”
Please.
That word from his mouth nearly puts me on my knees again. I tug his underwear down, and he steps out of them.
My brain goes quiet. Like every loud, stupid thing inside me finally shuts up so I can feel.
Elías is naked in front of me, breathing hard, mouth parted, hands hanging at his sides like he is fighting not to cover himself.
He’s still hard, heavy against his thigh, and I can see the veins, the dark head, and the way it thickens as I watch.
I touch his hip, then his thigh. Then I wrap my hand around him. He’s hot. Silky. Weightier than I expected. He throbs in my palm, and when I stroke once, experimentally, his eyes close and he bites his lower lip hard.
The sound he makes is tiny—almost nothing.
It hits me like a punch.
“Don’t do that,” I whisper.
His eyes open. “Do what?”
“Hide it.”
His smile flickers. “My mom’s asleep.”
“I know.”
His hand comes up and covers my mouth for half a second. “Then don’t make me loud.”
I kiss his palm.
He inhales sharply, then looks down at my sweats. “My turn.”
My stomach drops, but I nod. Elías scrambles off the bed and kneels in front of me.
Holy fuck.
No.
Not holy.
Nothing about the way he looks up at me is holy.
Or maybe it is. Maybe this is a church I never knew how to enter.
His fingers hook in my waistband but pause. “Still okay?”
I nod, and his brow lifts.
Right, words. “Yes,” I whisper.
He pulls my sweats down, my underwear going with them, and my dick springs free, hard and heavy, and the silver catches the lamplight. Elías freezes.
Completely.
His eyes go wide behind his glasses, then his gaze snaps up to mine. “Fabián.”
“What?”
He looks back down, then up again. “You’ve been walking around with a barbell through your dick and a crop top?”
Heat climbs my neck. “It’s not—”
“Oh, it definitely is.” He reaches out, hovering, his hand shaking slightly. “Can I?”
I nod and his fingers touch the metal—warm, then cool. He rolls it gently, and my hips jerk so hard I nearly knee him in the chin.
“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, that’s evil.”
“Don’t—”
“That’s why you’re always angry.” He’s grinning now, delighted and wrecked. “You’re carrying around industrial-grade slut hardware and pretending to be straight.”
“I’m not straight.”
“No shit.” He wraps his hand around me, careful of the piercing, and strokes once. The metal shifts, dragging sensation through me like a current. “Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
“When you fuck?”
My brain short-circuits. “I—what?”
“When you fuck,” he repeats, thumb brushing the frenulum where the bar exits. “Does it feel like—” He tugs gently, experimentally, and I slap my hand over my own mouth to muffle the sound. “—like that?”
“Elías.”
“Because I think,” he whispers, leaning in, mouth against my hip, “that if you fucked me with this, I would feel every inch. I would feel the metal.”
My knees actually buckle, and I have to grab his shoulder to stay upright.
He looks up at me, eyes dark, glasses fogged, mouth wet. “Is that why you got it? So someday, when you finally let a man touch you, he’d have to pay attention?”
“I got it because I’m masochistic.”
“Good.” His tongue flicks the metal, just barely, and I see stars. “Because papi… I’m about to make you suffer.”
He stands and kisses me, and there’s no rush this time. Our bodies are bare except for my sweats around my thighs and my slides still on, like an idiot.
Elías glances down.
“Shoes, papi.”
“Right.” I kick everything off, almost trip, and he slaps a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.
“Shut up,” I whisper.
“Can’t,” he snickers. “You’re very sexy.”
“I almost died.”
“It would have been a very sexy death.”
I grab him and throw him onto the bed. Not hard, but enough to make him bounce once and bite back a laugh.
“Quiet,” I remind him.
His grin flashes. “Make me.”
The words hit like a match, and I crawl over him.
He opens for me, thighs spreading, hands reaching.
I settle between them and kiss him until neither of us is laughing anymore.
His room is small and hot, the fan doing almost nothing.
The bed creaks under our weight—a long, haunted-house groan—and we both freeze.
Outside the door, nothing.
No footsteps.
No mom.
Elías turns his face and breathes against my ear. “Slow. The bed is loud.”
“Your bed is a snitch.”
“Third spring from the left. Avoid it.”
I press my forehead to his shoulder, trying not to laugh too loud. His hands slide down my back.
“Drawer,” he whispers. “Left side.”
I lift my head, and he nods toward the nightstand.
I reach over, open the drawer, and find lube and condoms. My hand stills, and Elías notices the hesitation.
He touches my wrist. “Hey.”
I look at him.
“We don’t have to do anything.”
“I want to.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” My voice sounds rough because wanting him this much is starting to feel like pressure behind my ribs. I grab the condom box first. “I’ll wear one if you want me to.”
Elías stills underneath me, but he doesn’t pull away. His hand slides from my wrist to my jaw. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I swallow. “I mean, whatever you want. I should have said that before. Of course I’ll wear one.”
His eyes search mine.
“I got tested like three or four weeks ago,” he says. “After my last hookup. Everything came back good.”
“I got checked after my ex and I split eight months ago,” I tell him. “I’m good too.”
His thumb drags along my jaw. “Anyone since?”
“Does my hand count?”
Elías blinks, then he laughs, quiet and bright, and I kiss him before the sound can do more damage.
“Your hand loyal?” he whispers against my mouth.
“Very.”
“Good.” His fingers curl against my jaw. “I wanna feel you.”
Everything in me goes still. “Elías.”
“I need to feel you,” he says again, softer. “No condom. Unless you need one.”
Need.
Want.
Scared.
Not scared.
All of it tangles together.
I touch his face because if I don’t touch him, my hands will shake harder. “I don’t need one.”
His eyes darken. “Then don’t hide from me.”
The next few minutes are all quiet instructions and bitten-back sounds, but I need more than that. I need to taste him. I need to know what I’m doing before I’m inside him, terrified of getting it wrong.
Elías lies back, hair messy against the pillow, glasses gone now and folded on the nightstand.
I settle between his thighs and look down at him—at his dick, hard and heavy against his stomach, already leaking.
A clear bead sits at the slit, catching the lamplight.
He’s cut, dark, and the skin looks impossibly soft.
I want to put my mouth on him.
Now I’ve done this before—with women—but never with a man. Never with someone whose body I wanted this badly, whose sounds I was desperate to swallow.
“Tell me if I’m—” I start.
“You’re thinking again,” Elías whispers. “Stop thinking.”
I lower my head, and the first taste is salt and skin and heat.
I drag my tongue up the underside, from base to tip, and the sound he makes—choked, surprised—goes straight to my spine.
He’s slick already, pre-cum smearing against my lips, and I realize I’m moaning around him, the vibration making his hips jerk.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck, Fabián—”
I take him deeper.
He’s thick. Heavy on my tongue. The head bumps the back of my throat, and I gag slightly and pull back, embarrassed, but his hand finds my hair immediately—not pushing, just holding.
“You’re doing fine,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good, Papi.”
I look up at him, and his eyes are dark and blown wide, and his mouth is open. He looks wrecked already, and I’ve barely started.
I reach for the lube with one hand while I keep my mouth on him.
The bottle is cold. I warm it between my palms, then slick my fingers—one, then two.
Elías spreads his legs wider, knees falling open, and I can see everything—the dark, furled skin and the way his hole flutters when I brush over it with my thumb.
I press one finger against him while I suck at the head of his dick. He moans, too loudly, and slaps his own hand over his mouth.
I freeze.
“Don’t stop,” he whispers against his palm. “Don’t you dare stop.”
Slowly, I push in, and he’s tight. Hot. Slick with lube and clenching around my finger, and I can feel his pulse there, rapid and desperate. I curl my finger experimentally, searching, and his hips buck off the bed.
“There,” he gasps. “Right there, carino, right there—”
Carino.
The word hits me like a physical thing. I work him open with my mouth and my hand, finding a rhythm—suck, press, curl—while he whispers praise in Spanish and English, filthy and reverent, until I can’t tell which language is making me harder.
“Eso, yes, just like that.”
“Your mouth, fuck, your mouth.”
“You’re gonna make me come before you’re even inside me if you don’t stop.”
I add a second finger, and he hisses, body tensing, and I freeze again—terrified I’ve hurt him, terrified I’m doing this wrong, that I’m being too clinical, too rough.
“It’s okay,” he whimpers, reading my panic. “It burns, but it’s good. It’s good, Fabi. Keep going.”