10. Elías #4
“Fuck, you feel good,” he whimpers. “I’ve never felt anything this good. God, what’ve you done to me, muneco? I could come inside you forever and never get tired of it.”
“Then fill me,” I whisper.
Fabián’s hips slow. “What do you want me to do, nene?”
“Fill me.” My voice breaks. “Come inside me like you mean it.”
He makes a rough sound, and I smile because I know what will destroy him.
“Lléname, papi. Todo adentro.”
His control snaps and the rhythm turns wilder, harder, deeper, his hand at my throat and his mouth at mine and his body telling me everything with each thrust.
I’m close.
My dick is trapped between us, rubbing against his stomach with every thrust, slick from sweat and precum. It is almost too much and not enough all at once.
“Fabián,” I gasp, gripping his shoulders.
“I know.”
“No, I’m gonna come.”
His eyes lock on mine. “Good.”
I laugh, but it turns into a moan when he angles his hips and hits that spot again.
“There,” he says. “Right there, muneco?”
I nod, frantic.
“Look at me.”
He loosens his hand from my throat and cups my face instead. The sudden tenderness nearly breaks me worse than the pressure.
“Come for me,” he whispers.
I come hard. It punches through me, hot and bright, my body locking under him. I grab his shoulders and bury a sound in his mouth while I spill between us, over both our stomachs, slicking the place where our bodies keep moving because he doesn’t stop.
He continues to fuck me through it. Not gentle but not cruel either.
Perfect.
I shake under him, helpless, while he chases his own release with his jaw clenched and his eyes open like he refuses to miss a second of what my face looks like.
“Lalo,” he whimpers.
A plea and I wrap my legs tighter around him. “Come inside me.”
His face twists. “Fuuuck—”
“Fill your boyfriend.”
Fabián groans, raw and wrecked, and drives in deep, his whole body locking up as he groans. I feel his dick pulse inside me, the heat of him spilling, feel every shake, every broken breath, every part of him surrendering while he tries so hard to stay above me and fails.
He drops onto his forearms, face buried against my neck. His weight presses me into the mattress, and I love it.
Oh, dangerous word.
Wrong word.
Too soon, even if my stupid heart swears otherwise.
His breathing is harsh against my skin. Mine is worse, and for a few moments, neither of us moves.
The room smells like sex and sweat and cold soup waiting in the kitchen like a chaperone that gave up.
Fabián’s hand slides from my throat to my chest, then to my side, like he is checking whether I am still there.
I am.
Very much.
“Too rough?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
I drag my fingers over the peach fuzz on his head. “No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
A pause, then three quiet words. “You liked it?”
I laugh softly.
He lifts his head, defensive already. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing at you.” I say, my whole body shaking.
“Kinda looks like it.”
“Because you just rearranged my internal organs and then asked if I liked it.”
His ears go red.
Mine.
“I liked it,” I say, gripping his chin so he looks me in the eyes. “A lot.”
His face changes; it softens in the way I’ve grown to love.
That word again.
I touch his cheek. “Come here.”
He is already on me, but he comes closer anyway and kisses me. Slow and deep—a kiss with no audience and no hurry. When he pulls away, he presses his forehead to mine.
“You hungry?” he asks.
I blink and then laugh again. “That is the most Mexican after-sex question anyone has ever asked me.”
“Your mom sent you with food.” He leans in and kisses the tip of my nose. “That’s hella Mexican if you ask me.”
“She also told me to make you work up an appetite.”
“You did.”
“Did I?”
He looks down between us, at the mess and at the fact that he is still inside me. Then his gaze trails back up. “Yeah, Imma go with yes.”
The laugh that tears out of me is loud and helpless. He kisses it quietly, smiling against my mouth. After a few more minutes of kissing and laughing, we separate carefully.
I hiss and he freezes. “Nene?”
“I’m fine.” Those words make his eyes narrow.
I sigh. “Good sore. Jesus. You’re very committed to aftercare now.”
“I’m trying not to fuck this up.”
That shuts me up real quick.
We clean up with a towel he clearly set out on purpose because he is a prepared menace. Then he hands me a pair of his boxers and one of his shirts without looking directly at me. I hold them up, inspecting them.
“You want me in your clothes?”
“What?” His jaw works. “They’re clean.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
He looks at me. “Yes, okay. I want you in my house, wearing my clothes and getting fucked stupid in my bed. So put it on, muneco.”
My chest warms, and I put them on with no argument. The shirt smells like him, and I’m absolutely not normal about it. He pulls on shorts and no shirt, because apparently he wants me dead before I even eat the soup.
In the kitchen, barefoot and sticky-clean, reheating albóndigas while the apartment hums around us. The soup smells even better now. Tomato, cilantro, meatballs, rice. I lean against the counter in his shirt, watching him flip tortillas with his hands, bare-chested.
He looks at home here, relaxed, even with me in his space. I look around again at the couch, his boots, and the little bowl for his keys. The pictures of him with his tía and tío.
There’s space here.
Not a lot.
But enough to imagine myself in it.
Don’t do that, Lalo. That’s dangerous.
So dangerous.
He sets a bowl at the tiny table. “Eat.”
I sit. “Papi’s so bossy tonight.”
“You like it.”
“Unfortunately.” I sigh, sitting down while he sits across from me with his own bowl.
For a while, we eat quietly; it’s not an awkward silence. We’re just hungry. My mother was right.
I hate that for me because I know I’ll never hear the end of it.
Halfway through my second meatball, I ask, “So your tío really said “dinner,’ huh?”
He glances up. “Yeah.”
“When?”
“Whenever.”
I roll my eyes, looking at the soup. “That’s not a time.”
“It’s an open invitation.”
“Fabián—”
He sets his spoon down, and the metal clinks against the bowl. “You want a specific date? Okay, how about tomorrow? Or better yet, any night this week that you want to come. We can alternate, Tuesday with my family and Wednesday with yours… if your mom would want me over.”
My eyes burn and I look down at my bowl immediately.
Absolutely not.
Not because he now wants to become some real couple that’s inseparable. He reaches across the table with his palm up, waiting to see if I take it. I put my hand over his, and his fingers close around mine.
Warm, callused, and steady.
It lasts almost ten seconds before I make a joke. That’s a personal record. Then I say, “So when I come to dinner, is your tío going to ask about my intentions?”
“He might.”
“What should I say?”
He looks at me, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Say you’re trying to keep me fed, fucked, and less emotionally constipated.”
I choke on my soup, and he smiles like he’s accomplished something noble.
“Oh, so you’re learning jokes now too?”
“I learned from the most annoying man I know.”
“Romantic,” I groan.
“I try.”
I wipe my mouth with a napkin and lean back, studying him across the small table. No crop top, no market lights, no phones, no comments on the internet. Just Fabián in his apartment, looking at me like he is still scared, but not enough to let go.
That’s something.
“You know,” I say, “my mom packed enough food for breakfast too.”
His eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”
“She’s a subtle woman.”
“Very.” He says, leaning back.
“So what do you say? Want me to stay the night and keep you ‘fucked’?”
He takes a breath. “Yeah,” he says. “But maybe we can also watch a movie or some shit. You know… like a real couple.”
My heart stumbles. “And I stay all night? Like sleeping next to you and waking up in the morning and showering together?”
“It’s a small shower, but I’m sure we can make it work.” He shrugs. “Yeah, all night, nene.”
“Do you work tomorrow?” I ask as his thumb moves over my knuckles.
“Yeah, I have to be at the shop by eight.” He pauses. “You?”
“Mmhm, but I don’t work until ten.”
He nods, and the apartment goes quiet around us. My chest starts to hurt in a good way.
A scary way.
A way I could get used to if I’m not careful.