10. Elías #2
“He texted my tío.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “He what?”
“Sent him the video.”
“Oh my God.” Fuck… I can’t tell by his demeanor if this is bad or not.
“Yeah.”
“What did he say?”
Fabián stirs the soup like it has insulted him.
“Fabián.”
“He asked if I was going to bring you to dinner or keep acting stupid.”
I go completely still.
“What?”
His mouth twists.
“He said if I’m going to announce things in front of strangers, I can announce them at his table too.”
My throat tightens, and the apartment feels too small suddenly.
“He also said you talk too much.”
I laugh once. “That’s a fair assessment.”
“He also said I looked less pissed off standing next to you.”
I stare at him, and he avoids my eyes by reaching for bowls.
“Fabián.”
“Hmm?” He shifts to grab spoons out of the drawer.
“That was information you withheld all day?”
He shrugs, but his shoulders sit too high. “I didn’t know how to say it.”
“That your family didn’t disown you for wanting to be with a man?”
His head snaps up, and maybe the joke came out wrong.
I know it the second I say it.
His face closes a little.
I push away from the counter. “Sorry. That was a shitty thing of me to say.”
He looks down at the bowls. “My tía took me in when my mom couldn’t be bothered to keep track of me,” he says quietly. “I don’t think she’s built for throwing me away. Even if my choice in who I lo—want to be with would disappoint her.”
Holy shit, did he almost say “love?”
My chest cracks open, and I step toward him.
Fabián doesn’t move.
“But?” I ask.
He swallows. “But I still didn’t know what it would feel like to have her look at me in church and know that being who I am is against everything she believes.”
His eyes lift to mine.
“Last night she still looked at me like I was me. But who's to say how she’ll feel on Sunday when I walk her into Mass?”
Oh.
Fuck.
I wasn’t prepared for that.
Not after my mother’s wink and Anita’s emojis and Ricky canceling Pride Month over a bumper. I’m not prepared for Fabián standing in his kitchen with soup steam between us, telling me he’s worried that the woman who has raised him like a son won't love him when it comes to her faith.
So I do what any emotionally stable adult would do. I cross the kitchen and kiss him, and he catches me immediately.
Bowls are now forgotten. A spoon clattering softly against the counter. His hands go to my waist, and mine go to his neck. The kiss starts gentle because the moment is gentle. Then his fingers dig in.
Then mine do too.
Gentle dies an honorable death.
The albóndigas sit steaming on the counter while Fabián backs me into the fridge.
A magnet digs into my shoulder blade. His mouth is hot and hungry and familiar now in a way that sends something possessive through me.
Yesterday his mouth was discovery. Today it is memory.
Proof. Practice. Want sharpening into knowledge.
“You taste like mint,” I whisper.
“I brushed my teeth after I showered; I’ve been drinking coffee like all day.”
“For me?”
“No, for my other boyfriend.”
I bite his lower lip, and he groans.
“Careful,” he whispers as he starts kissing down my neck.
“Or what?”
He grabs my jaw. “Or I’ll make you shut up.”
My whole body goes liquid.
“Promises,” I whisper.
His eyes darken, and then he kisses me harder, his hand sliding from my jaw to my throat. He stops immediately, and his fingers just rest there, lightly. My pulse jumps under his palm.
We both feel it.
His gaze snaps to mine.
“Elías.”
My voice drops. “Yeah?”
He starts to pull away, and I catch his wrist.
“Don’t.”
His breathing changes. “You sure?”
I nod.
“I’m gonna need some words, nene.”
Look at him, learning things.
Killing me with it.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Not too hard though. Keep it light.”
His thumb moves once against my throat, and there’s no pressure yet.
Just touch.
“Tap my wrist if you want me to let go.”
My stomach flips. “Okay.”
His hand settles around my throat, careful, controlled, more claim than force. The pressure is barely there, just enough to make the room narrow around his eyes and my heartbeat.
His other hand slides to my hip. “You like this?”
I nod as the fuzziness, a tingle, spreads across my head. His grip tightens by a fraction of a breath. Just a breath and my knees go weak.
His mouth brushes mine. “Eso eres, ?verdad? Mi pinche cosita sucia.”
The words hit low and hot, making my eyes flutter and his expression shift.
“You like that too?”
I should lie.
I should ask where the fuck this Fabián has been hiding and if I can please have some more.
“Mmhm.”
His smile is slow and dangerous. “Mi pinche munequito sucio.”
Fuck.
I kiss him because I can’t survive standing still. That makes him laugh into my mouth like he knows.
Then he lifts me—actually lifts me.
Hands under my thighs, my back hits the fridge harder than either of us expects. Magnets scatter to the floor.
I choke on a laugh. “Your fridge.”
“Fuck the fridge.”
“You’re very romantic.” I mumble through kisses.
He pulls back. “I have soup on the counter and you in my kitchen. I’m doing fucking great if you ask me.”
He is.
Fabián carries me out of the kitchen like I weigh nothing, and I wrap my legs around his waist, kissing him as he walks.
His apartment blurs, and I forget about where the couch is because we’re already at the bedroom door.
The fan hums louder in here, the window cracked open to the warm night. His bed is even made.
Made.
I pull back as he lowers me onto it.
“You made your bed too?”
“Come on, nene,” he chuckles. “Don’t start.”
“You cleaned and made the bed for your boyfriend.”
He crawls over me, eyes dark. “Keep saying it.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“Boyfriend.”
The word lands between us, and it hits different because it’s something real.
My chest goes tight. “Boyfriend,” I whisper.
His eyes close for half a second.
When they open, there is no hiding in them.
“Again,” he says.
I reach up and touch his face. “Mi novio.”
He kisses me like the words are something he can swallow, and the bed creaks under us. No mother down the hall this time to be worried about.
No market outside the trailer.
No customers waiting for extra chamoy.
Just his apartment.
His bed.
His body pressing mine into the mattress.
The quiet privacy of being wanted with the door shut because he invited me in.
I pull at his tank. “Off.”
He sits back and strips it off over his head.
I should be used to his body by now. I’m not.
The piercings catch the lamplight, silver through brown skin.
His shoulders. His chest. The dark trail of hair disappearing under his shorts.
The shape of him, strong and built like someone who has spent years making himself useful instead of asking to be held.
Mine.
The word arrives again, only this time I let it stay.
He looks down at me. “Your turn.”
I lift my arms, and he pulls my shirt off, slower than I want. His eyes move over me with so much focus I feel touched before his hands land.
“You’re staring,” I say.
“Yeah.” He says, licking his lower lip.
“Good staring or crisis staring?”
His mouth twitches. “Possessive staring.”
Oh.
My dick hardens so fast it almost hurts.
His hand slides down my stomach and runs over my erection.
“Yeah?” he asks. “You like possessive, huh?”
“You can’t just say things like that.”
“I can now.”
That shouldn’t turn me on, but it does. He kisses down my throat, over the marks he left that are finally starting to fade.
Then bites one and gives it a firm suck. It’s hard enough to make me hiss. “You showing these off again tomorrow?”
My laugh comes out shaky. “That depends.”
His eyes flick up. “On what?”
“How many you leave.”
His face goes dark with want.
“Mmm, careful,” he says.
I grin. “Or what?”
He moves so fast I barely track it. One second, I’m on my back with my hands on his pecs. The next, he has my wrists pinned above my head with one hand, his body heavy between my thighs, his mouth at my ear.
“Or I’ll make sure everyone knows.”
Heat goes through me so hard I arch.
“Yeah?” I whisper.
Fabián’s hips press down and his hard dick drags against mine through layers of fabric. “Yeah.”
“Then do it.”
He goes still. “Do what?”
I tilt my chin.
“Make sure everyone knows that I’m yours.”
His pupils blow wide; I almost think he might combust. Then his mouth crashes into mine. His shorts come down, mine too. Underwear shoved, kicked, lost somewhere near the foot of the bed. His dick slides against mine, hot and hard, the curved barbell catching against my skin as we rock together.
I gasp into his mouth. This should not feel this good. Or maybe it’s never felt this good because it has never been him, all thick and heavy and pierced, grinding against me like he wants to erase every polite inch of distance from yesterday.
His hand wraps around both of us, and mine covers his. The slide turns slick fast, with precum, sweat, and the heat of skin on skin.
“Fuck,” I breathe. “Oh, fuck me—”
He bites my jaw. “Quiet?”
I laugh. “My mom isn’t here.”
“No.” His voice goes rough. “But I like watching you try.”
“Such an asshole.”
He bites my neck again, this time in a different spot. “Yeah, but I’m your asshole now.”
That shuts me up, and his smile turns sharp.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s what I thought, muneco.”
He strokes us together, slow at first, then rougher, the piercing dragging against the underside of my dick, sending sparks up my spine. I grab his shoulders, nails digging in.
“Fabián.”
“Look at you,” he says, his voice low. “All mouth until I get my hand on you.”
I moan, and it’s loud because I want him to hear what he does to me when I’m not biting sounds into pillows.
His eyes flare. “You like being talked to like that?”
“Yes.” I whimper as he picks up the pace.
“Yeah?” His hand tightens. “My pretty little problem likes being told what he is?”
I choke on a breath.
“Say it.”
“What?”
“Tell me.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “Tell me what you are.”
My face heats from want so sharp it feels like embarrassment.
“Yours,” I whisper. “Papi, I’m yours.”
His whole body shudders.
“Fuck.”