Page 137 of Raspados & Regret

My stomach tightens. “Elías.”

He leans in and licks the metal. Barely.

A small touch, and the trailer wall becomes the only thing keeping me upright. “Jesus.”

He looks up through his lashes. “You’re gonna need him. So if I were you, I’d start praying.”

Then his mouth closes around me, and my palm hits the wall.

Hard.

The stacked cups rattle again.

Elías pulls back immediately, glaring. “Quiet.”

“Yeah, okay.” I roll my eyes. “You’re just gonna suck me off, and I’m supposed to be quiet.”

“And you have to be normal about it.”

“I have never been less normal in my life.”

His eyes flash, then he takes me in his mouth again.

Deeper.

Hot.

Wet.

Silver and tongue and the soft scrape of his mouth around the piercing. My whole body goes rigid because nothing in my life prepared me for this. Not women. Not hands. Not the internet. Not my own imagination in a shop bathroom with his Instagram open and shame sweating down my back.

None of it.

I have had blowjobs before.

Good ones.

Bad ones.

Ones I remember fondly and ones I remember because I survived them. None of them prepared me for Elías Cárdenas on his knees in a raspado trailer with a tongue ring and a fucking attitude problem.

His tongue slides along the underside of me, the silver ball catching against the barbell in my dick. My knees nearly give out, and he hums. The vibration lights up every nerve I own.

My hand flies to his hair before I can stop it, and he pulls off with a wet sound, eyes sharp. “What did I say?”

“Sorry,” I pant. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

His eyebrows rise, and I swallow hard.

“Can I?”

The anger in his face melts for half a second, and I fall even harder for his softness. Then he reaches up, grabs my wrist, and puts my hand in his hair.

“Don’t push.”

“I won’t,” I promise.

“Don’t make me loud.”