Page 101 of Raspados & Regret

He laughs softly, and I feel it around me.

“Quiet,” I mumble.

“Oh, now you care?”

I kiss his shoulder quickly and pull back. “Yeah, about your mom finding us like this because of your loud mouth.”

“Sure. My mom.”

I lift my head enough to look at him, and his face is soft. No glasses, his hair a mess. His mouth swollen from mine, and his neck marked. Eyes bright with something he’s not saying and cum drying on his stomach and chest—smeared where my hand had been.

I probably look the same.

Carefully, I start to pull out⁠—

“Wait.” Elías catches my wrist.

I freeze, and he looks down at himself—at the mess between us, the cum painting his skin—and then back at me. His eyes are dark and unreadable.

“Have you ever tasted it?” he asks softly.

I blink. “What?”

“Cum.” His voice is barely a whisper. “Have you ever tasted it?”

My face heats. “Yeah, when I was going down on you.”

“I mean cum, not precum.”

I shake my head, and he holds my gaze. Then he looks down at his own stomach, at the white streaks drying there, and back at me.

Something in his expression shifts. Challenge. Invitation. Want.

I look down at him, at the mess we made. At the evidence of what I did to him, what he took from me, and what he gave.

I shift a little and lean down. My tongue touches his chest, and I lick upward—slow, deliberate, gathering him on my tongue.

He tastes like salt and musk and something uniquely him.

His taste bursts on my tongue, and I groan.

The sound vibrates against his skin, and he shudders, his hand flying to my hair, gripping tight.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck, Fabián⁠—”

I lick again, cleaning him and marking him in a different way. My own cum fills his ass, but his—his is on my tongue, in my mouth, and I’m swallowing him down with a groan that sounds like surrender. When I lift my head, his eyes are wide, blown, as if I’ve done something obscene and holy at once.

“You—” he starts, then stops, throat working.

I kiss him so he can taste himself on my tongue, and he moans into my mouth, pulling me closer, his legs still wrapped around my waist like he can’t bear to let me go.

“Eres perfecto,” he whispers against my lips. “Fucking perfect.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything at all.

I just hold him and let him hold me and try to remember how to breathe.

Carefully, I pull out, and we both shiver. I want to say something. Anything. My brain gives me nothing useful. I look down between us—at the mess, the cum drying on his stomach and mine, the wetness on his thighs, the evidence of what we did.