Page 177 of Raspados & Regret

The thing he can say in public, private, market lights, truck shadows, or anywhere, and I still feel it like the first time.

I turn my head. “You keep saying that like I’m not already hard.”

His smile brushes my jaw. “Maybe I just like reminding you.”

The lock clicks, and I shove the door open, and we get inside, kick it shut behind us, drop the leftovers on the little table by the door, and turn on him. His back hits the door before he can inhale. That taunting little laugh breaks into a gasp.

“You wore those shorts on purpose.”

“Obviously.” He rolls his eyes.

“You bent over all night on purpose.”

“Also obviously.”

“You let me tell the entire market I love you while wearing the sluttiest little shorts in Alameda County.”

His eyes go dark. “Did you like it?”

I drop to my knees and his mouth parts. “Fabián.”

“What?” I hook my fingers in the waistband of the yellow shorts. Then I lean in and catch the fabric with my teeth.

His whole body locks.

I look up at him from my knees.

“You told me I wouldn’t.”

His hands fly to my head. “Oh, fuck.”

I bite down and tug.

The shorts slide low on his hips, but not enough.

He’s already hard under them, the outline of him making my mouth water, and my jaw clenches because I spent the whole market watching him move in these little yellow disasters while he acted like he didn’t know exactly what they were doing to me.

I tug again with my teeth.

Lower.

His breath shakes. “Papi⁠—”

“No.” I pull back just enough to speak, fingers working the waistband now. “Don’t ‘papi’ me like you didn’t plan this.”

“I did plan this.” The honesty hits low.

I yank the shorts down his thighs.

He steps out of one side and leaves the other caught around his ankle like evidence. His briefs follow because patience is dead and buried. His dick springs free, hard and heavy, and I press my mouth to the inside of his thigh first.

He groans.

“Fabián.”

“You wanted me like this?” I ask.

“Yes.”