Chapter 4 #2
I didn't know anymore if he was talking about the weather or about what was happening between us.
Maybe both. The storm outside was furious, but inside the room, the pressure was even more intense.
The heat was becoming unbearable, and it wasn't just the weather suffocating us.
Our proximity, the simple act of being in that space together, sharing the silence and the weight of the situation—it only heightened the sense that something was about to break.
His gaze swept over me, and I could feel the desire there, evident, though he still tried to hide it behind a veil of doubt and guilt.
But I knew—not just from the way he looked at me, but from the way his breathing quickened—that he could no longer ignore what he felt.
Not really. We were both already immersed in this, and the only question was how much longer we could resist.
The room felt small, the storm howling against the windows as if it too were preparing to explode.
What had seemed like a safe space for rest now became a silent battlefield.
I could feel the energy between us, as if the simple act of doing nothing, of simply waiting, was harder than anything else.
But at the same time, there was a sense that until the storm passed, there was nothing more to be done.
We were both there, at the mercy of our own desires, fighting against the idea that if something happened, it could never be undone.
Fernando's dilemma wasn't just about his deceased wife.
He was wrestling with what this would mean for him, for us.
He was still trapped by a memory, a loyalty that couldn't be broken.
And yet the chemistry between us, the way our bodies seemed to understand each other, was growing harder and harder to ignore.
More and more, he seemed to want me, and I was no longer certain I could control the attraction I felt for him.
“I…” he began, but the word caught in his throat, as if something prevented him from finishing the thought.
He looked at me once more, and the silence spoke louder than words ever could.
I knew what he wanted to say, but what surprised me most was that now, I didn't want to run from this either. Not anymore.
The storm outside seemed to have intensified, but what was inside the room—what was happening between us—was beyond the storm. We were in the eye of the hurricane, and we knew it. There was no going back.
Fernando approached slowly, his dark eyes fixed on mine, burning with something I couldn't name—something that made my entire body pulse.
The distance between us was torment, each of his steps stretching the tension until it nearly broke.
I didn't know what was going through his head, but what I wanted was clear—a raw, throbbing need that swallowed any doubt, any guilt.
With the force of lightning cutting through the sky outside, he pulled me to him, his hands firm on my waist, his lips pressing against mine in an urgent, hungry kiss, as if time were running out.
I yielded immediately, my mouth opening for him, his tongue sliding against mine with a taste of whiskey and power that drew a low moan from me.
Desire exploded, hot and impossible to hold back.
He guided me to the bed without hurry this time, his eyes never leaving mine, and pressed me against the cold sheets, the contrast sending shivers across my flushed skin.
The weight of his body on mine was perfect—solid, dominant, but without brutality.
I heard our breaths mingling, rapid, uneven, while the storm roared outside, echoing what was growing inside me.
His hands slid over my body, over my clothes, his fingers tracing my curves with controlled urgency, squeezing my hips, traveling up my ribs until they grazed my breasts, the fabric of my blouse rubbing against nipples that were already hard.
“You're killing me,” he murmured against my neck, his hoarse voice vibrating against my skin as he nibbled lightly, making me arch against him. My hands grabbed his broad shoulders, feeling the muscles beneath his shirt, then slid down to open the first buttons, wanting more of him.
He hiked my skirt up slowly, just enough to expose my thighs, and settled between them, the hard bulge in his pants pressing right where I needed it most.
“Fernando,” slipped from my lips, a trembling whisper, and he responded with a low grunt, his hips moving against mine in a slow, torturous rhythm that made me bite my lip to keep from screaming.
The clothes were still there, but his heat cut through everything, the friction leaving me wet, my body begging for more.
He opened my blouse button by button, his fingers firm but careful, and kissed the exposed skin—my collarbone, the valley between my breasts, moving down to my belly, his hot, wet mouth making me shudder.
When he returned to my lips, he kissed me deeply, one hand sliding inside my skirt, finding me through my panties, his fingers pressing with enough force to draw a loud moan from me.
“So wet, you dirty girl,” he growled, and began to rub, the wet fabric clinging to me as I ground against his hand, lost in pleasure.
I fumbled with his belt, my hands trembling, and he finished the job, lowering his pants just enough to free his cock—thick, hot, pulsing with need.
He didn't take off anything else, just pushed my panties aside and slid into me slowly, letting me feel every inch as he opened me, filled me completely.
“Fuck,” I moaned, my legs wrapping around his waist, my body trembling as he began to move, firm and deep, the perfect rhythm to drive me crazy.
The bed creaked softly, the sheets bunching beneath me, and he fucked me with an intensity that was pure dominance—his eyes locked on mine, sweat dripping from his forehead onto my chest, his hoarse moans mingling with mine.
“You're mine,” he gritted out, speeding up, his hips slamming into mine with slaps that filled the room.
Pleasure surged fast, a heat that consumed me, and when he slid his hand between us, his thumb finding my clit and rubbing in circles, I exploded.
The orgasm took all of me, making me arch against him, my muscles clenching around his cock as I came, moaning softly. So no one would hear.
He came right after, with a low, guttural grunt, his cock pulsing inside me, prolonging my pleasure.
He held me tight while I trembled, the aftershocks still rippling through me, his body pressed to mine, hot and heavy.
The storm thundered outside, but there, in that room, only the two of us existed—without guilt, without politics, just the heat of our bodies and the certainty that this was only the beginning.
There was no more guilt. No more politics. Only the two of us existed, and the storm raging on outside.