Page 92 of Raspados & Regret

He lifts his arms.

I pull the Raiders shirt over his head.

For a second, all I can do is stare.

Elías Cárdenas, naked except for boxer briefs and glasses, is standing in front of me in a room that smells like laundry, summer heat, and him.

He is beautiful.

Not pretty like people say in comments. Not cute like he hates.

Beautiful in a way that makes me mad because there is no joke to hide behind. Brown skin. Silver chains resting against his chest. The hickeys on his neck. A thin line of hair below his navel that I want to follow with my tongue. Strong thighs. Hard in his underwear, obvious and thick and real, the fabric straining.

A man.

A man I want.

Nothing in me breaks, but something inside me unlocks.

His mouth shifts. “You’re staring.”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Good staring or crisis staring?”

I let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Both.”

He nods like that makes sense. “Fair.”

Then he takes my hand and places it on his chest.

His heartbeat punches against my palm.

Fast.

Not just me.

I step closer and kiss him again, slower this time, my hand sliding down his body because he put it there and because I want to. Over the chest. Ribs. Stomach. The trail of hair. He shivers when I reach the waistband of his underwear.

“Can I?” I ask.

His eyes flare.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Please.”

Please.

That word from his mouth nearly puts me on my knees again. I tug his underwear down, and he steps out of them.

My brain goes quiet. Like every loud, stupid thing inside me finally shuts up so I can feel. Elías is naked in front of me, breathing hard, mouth parted, hands hanging at his sides like he is fighting not to cover himself. He’s still hard, heavy against his thigh, and I can see the veins, the dark head, and the way it thickens as I watch.

I touch his hip, then his thigh. Then I wrap my hand around him. He’s hot. Silky. Weightier than I expected. He throbs in my palm, and when I stroke once, experimentally, his eyes close and he bites his lower lip hard.

The sound he makes is tiny—almost nothing.