Page 93 of Raspados & Regret

It hits me like a punch.

“Don’t do that,” I whisper.

His eyes open. “Do what?”

“Hide it.”

His smile flickers. “My mom’s asleep.”

“I know.”

His hand comes up and covers my mouth for half a second. “Then don’t make me loud.”

I kiss his palm.

He inhales sharply, then looks down at my sweats. “My turn.”

My stomach drops, but I nod. Elías scrambles off the bed and kneels in front of me.

Holy fuck.

No.

Not holy.

Nothing about the way he looks up at me is holy.

Or maybe it is. Maybe this is a church I never knew how to enter.

His fingers hook in my waistband but pause. “Still okay?”

I nod, and his brow lifts.

Right, words. “Yes,” I whisper.

He pulls my sweats down, my underwear going with them, and my dick springs free, hard and heavy, and the silver catches the lamplight. Elías freezes.

Completely.

His eyes go wide behind his glasses, then his gaze snaps up to mine. “Fabián.”

“What?”

He looks back down, then up again. “You’ve been walking around with a barbell through your dick and a crop top?”

Heat climbs my neck. “It’s not⁠—”

“Oh, it definitely is.” He reaches out, hovering, his hand shaking slightly. “Can I?”

I nod and his fingers touch the metal—warm, then cool. He rolls it gently, and my hips jerk so hard I nearly knee him in the chin.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, that’s evil.”

“Don’t—”

“That’s why you’re always angry.” He’s grinning now, delighted and wrecked. “You’re carrying around industrial-grade slut hardware and pretending to be straight.”

“I’m not straight.”