12. Sean #2
I nod quickly, because my eyes are burning again and I refuse to cry in front of his mom.
“Sí,” I whisper.
“You are loved here,” she smiles, satisfied with what she’s said, and then she pats my hand but doesn’t let go.
Then, like the universe is obsessed with timing, Uncle Juan’s voice cuts through the room again.
“?Emiliano!”
Emiliano looks up, his nephew on his back like a little monster.
Juan points at me with his beer. “?Qué es él de ti?”
Sofía freezes mid-step. Maribel stops talking. Even the kids slow down like they sense something important is happening.
This is the question.
The one I’ve been running from.
The one that makes my life feel like it’s balanced on a knife edge.
I look at Emiliano, and he stands up slowly, sets his nephew down, and wipes his hands on his jeans. His gaze meets mine, steady and warm.
There’s no pressure.
Just him… right here. Silently telling me he’ll hold whatever answer I give. That he’ll catch me if I fall.
My mouth goes dry, and Senora Guerrero squeezes my hand once, then releases it like she’s letting me choose.
I stand, and my legs feel unsteady, but I stand anyway, and I face his uncle, my heart pounding.
And I do it.
“I’m his boyfriend.”
For a second, my own heartbeat is the loudest thing in the room. Then Juan’s grin widens like he just got the answer he wanted.
“Ah,” he says, satisfied. “Eso.”
Sofía squeals again like she’s incapable of being a normal person. Maribel smiles like she’s been waiting for this moment forever, and his mom’s eyes fill with tears, but not sad ones. She crosses herself once, a quick little gesture that feels like blessing, not condemnation.
Then she steps in and hugs me, tight and warm.
“Eres muy querido, Sean,” she murmurs into my shoulder.
My throat closes, and Emiliano steps in beside me, arm sliding around my waist like it’s instinct, like it’s his right, like he’s proud.
He doesn’t kiss me, even though I would totally be okay with it. No, he just holds me with a quiet pride in every line of his body.
And my eyes burn so much I can’t pretend anymore. I blink fast, swallowing, trying to keep it together. Emiliano leans in, voice low, only for me.
“Te amo,” he murmurs.
I nearly break right there, in the middle of his mother’s living room, surrounded by loud love and Catholic candles and kids running wild.
Because he loves me, and for the first time in my life, saying the truth out loud doesn’t feel like punishment.
It feels like a blessing.
The door barely clicks shut to my hotel room before Emiliano gets me by the hoodie, yanking me back into him like he’s tired of being polite.
His mouth crashes onto mine, hot and greedy, tongue sliding in like he’s claiming interest on every second I made him wait.
I make a sound that embarrasses me, so I bite his lip.
Hard.
He hisses, hands tightening at my waist.
“Mmm, you wanna play rough, pretty boy,” he murmurs against my mouth, smiling, then pulling back to wipe the blood from his lip.
“You know it,” I shoot back, breathless.
Emiliano laughs low and backs me up until my calves hit the bed. He shoves me down like he’s setting me right where he wants me.
“Say it,” he says, voice rough. “Say you’re my boyfriend.”
Heat floods my face. I glare. “Shut up.”
His eyes go darker. “Ah. So you want me to make you.”
“You can try,” I snap.
“Con gusto,” he murmurs, and then he’s kissing me again, slower, like he wants to taste the word “boyfriend” off my tongue. His hand slides down my ribs to my waistband. He pops the button, unzips me, and pauses just long enough to look me in the eye.
“Do I have permission to touch you like this?” he asks, his voice low.
My throat tightens at the question, at the care buried inside it.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Touch me.”
Emiliano’s mouth tilts. “That’s a good boy.”
He yanks my jeans down, underwear and all, and I kick them off impatiently, shoes included. He drops to his knees between my legs like he’s about to pray.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, because my pride is hanging on by a thread.
“Don’t I dare what?”
“You know exactly what,” I pant.
He hums, amused, and drags me closer to the edge of the bed, his hands hooked under my knees until I’m exactly where he wants me. He spreads my legs like he owns them.
I should feel exposed.
I feel wanted.
Emiliano kisses the inside of my thigh, slowly, then looks up again.
“Still scared?” he murmurs.
My mouth opens, but the only truth I can manage is the one that belongs to him.
“Not of you,” I breathe.
Something soft flashes across his face, then hunger takes over.
“Así me gusta,” he murmurs. “Never be afraid of me, baby.”
His hand wraps around my cock, firm, and I choke.
“Shh,” he says, his voice all velvet and violence. “Mírame.”
I force my eyes open and stare down at him, and he’s wrecked already. Like he likes watching me fall apart.
“Tell me you don’t want it,” he says, smiling.
I bare my teeth. “I don’t want it.”
His grin goes razor-sharp. “Mentiroso.”
Then he leans in and takes me into his mouth, and my whole body locks up.
Holy shit.
My hand flies to his hair, fingers tangling in his short curls, and I try to hold back the sound ripping up my throat. Emiliano hums around me, and the vibration turns my legs to jelly. He watches my face while he does it like he wants to own the exact moment I break.
I choke out, “Oh, fuck. You’re—fuuuck—you’re such a—”
He pulls off just long enough to murmur, lips slick, “Say it. Say I’m a bastard. Say you hate me.”
“I hate you,” I gasp. “Oooh, I fuckin’ hate you.”
Emiliano grins and goes back down, taking me all the way to the back of his throat, using his hand in sync with his mouth like he’s torturing me on purpose.
I’m shaking within seconds.
“Mili,” I whimper.
He pulls off again, breath hot as he kisses down my shaft. “Sí, nene?”
“You’re enjoying this,” I pant. “Way too fucking much.”
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I just love you.”
Then he stands, kisses me hard, and commands, “Turn over.”
“What?”
Emiliano gives me half a second to move. When I don’t pull away, he grips my hips and rolls me onto my stomach like it’s nothing. He presses me down into the mattress, cheek to the sheets, with my ass up.
The position hits like a memory.
Dugout.
Chain-link.
His voice in my ear.
He leans over me and murmurs, “You like it like this. Me behind you, fucking this—” Smack. “—perfect ass of yours until you moan my name.”
“Fuck you,” I bite out.
Emiliano laughs softly. “That’s the plan.”
He strips the rest of the way, and then I hear him spit into his palm. His hand slides between my cheeks, slicking me up with slow, deliberate strokes.
I shudder.
“Relájate,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Fuck.” I writhe against the bed, his two fingers buried to the second knuckle. “Mili, please…”
“You ready for me so soon?” he breathes, his voice hot against my neck. “You ready for your boyfriend to put his dick in your ass?”
“Yes,” I moan. “Lube. It’s in the drawer.”
He pauses and slides the drawer open, taking out the travel pack of wipes and bottle of lube I stashed in there earlier. He clicks the lid open and lets the liquid drip between my cheeks, then I hear him stroke himself a few times before he pushes in.
Slowly.
“Ahh, fuck… oh God.” My breath punches out. I grip the sheets, teeth sinking into my lip. Emiliano’s hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back just enough to make me feel owned.
“Ahí estás,” he whispers. “Good boy… taking me so prettily.”
I try to argue, but it just turns into a broken sound, and he starts moving, slow at first, dragging it out like he wants me to feel every inch of him.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans. “Siempre… acting like you hate me, but your body…” He thrusts deeper. “Tu cuerpo me quiere.”
I pant, my voice shaking. “Shut up.”
“Make me,” he throws back, and then he drives in harder.
The bed creaks underneath us, and my whole spine shudders.
Emiliano laughs low against my ear. “There’s that mouth.”
I flip him off without looking. He catches my wrist and pins it to the mattress. My pulse jumps, but not from fear.
“Mine,” he murmurs. “Because I love you. Because I want you. Mine, like, I can’t imagine my life without you.”
His pace tightens, hard and controlled. The kind of pace that has my vision blurring and my pride splintering. He reaches around, wraps his hand around my cock, and strokes in time with his thrusts.
“Fuck!”
Emiliano’s voice drops, Spanish turning filthy and sweet all at once.
“Así… such a good boy… mírame… take it… qué rico te sientes… tan bonito para mí…”
I’m shaking, right on the edge.
He knows it, so he slows down suddenly, just to be cruel. I whimper and immediately hate myself for it.
Emiliano chuckles. “Aw. You’re close.”
“Don’t,” I gasp, trying to sound angry.
He kisses my shoulder blade softly, then bites lightly. “Tell me what you want.”
I swallow, throat burning. “I want you to—fuck—stop teasing.”
Emiliano laughs. “No.”
He thrusts deep, then pulls back, then deep again, keeping me right there, right at the edge.
“Say my name,” he orders. “Like you mean it.”
“Emiliano,” I choke.
“Más,” he growls.
I’m trembling. “Mili, p-please—”
“Fuck,” he murmurs, satisfied. “I love hearing this sassy fucking mouth beg for me.”
I’m seconds from breaking when I hear him suck in a sharp breath.
He’s close too. I can feel it in the way his hips stutter once.
In the way his hand tightens around me. The way his breath goes ragged and something inside me snaps.
Control.
I shove up on my elbows and twist my head just enough to glare back at him.
“You think you’re finishing like this?” I rasp.
Emiliano’s eyes flash, dark and hungry. “Sí.”
I bare my teeth. “Think again.”
He pauses, breathing hard. “Cobre…”
“Flip. Now,” I pant, voice shaking.
His mouth curls, giving me the sass I give him turned up tenfold. “You’re bossy when you’re fucked open.”
“Shut up,” I snap. “On your back.”
“Make me.”