Summary: Joel’s been taking extra late night shifts patrolling and with you working in the mornings you barely see him. Joel comes back from patrol early one night and can’t miss the opportunity to show you how much he misses you.
Warnings: 18+ SMUT, no use of Y/N, back story of how reader and Joel met, Ellie and Sarah are mentioned, age gap (not specified), soft!Joel (he’s so in love 🥲), also slight dom!Joel, soft!reader, somnophilia, wet hair Joel (don’t argue that’s a warning in itself), slight pain kink? (seriously blink and you’ll miss it), dirty talk, pet names, F!masturbation, M!maturbation, Joel’s hung (obvs), F!oral receiving, P in V, unprotected sex (wrap it up!), creampie.
Hi everyone! It’s been a few weeks since I’ve posted a story on here, unfortunately work life is taking up most of my time. But here we are! I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! Lots of love 🤍🫶
The past few weeks had been beyond exhausting, returning home from a long and draining days work had quickly become the worst part of your day. Having to spend hours finishing up all of your end of day tasks at the coffee shop to then walk back to your shared home with just the sound of your inner voice echoing through the empty halls and your heavy boots treading across the old wooden floor of your front room. The space that surrounded you the moment your tired body entered the house would constantly remind you that it was going to be another wasted evening spent on your own. You hated how isolated it made you feel when it was just yourself there, the familiar furniture and décor dispersed in front of you feeling somewhat unknown to you when the silence enveloped it, making that anxious knot to tighten inside your chest and a state of loneliness to cloud it’s way into your thoughts.
This should the time where you’d get back from a long and stressful shift at work with that well known feeling of security bubbling within yourself, knowing that Joel and Ellie would be at home patiently waiting for you. They were always there, ready to listen to everything that you needed to express, filling them both in with the gossip and nonsense that happened while you were on shift. They always knew just what to say and do to bring back that spark and rinse away those anxiety-ridden emotions that scattered your mind.
But instead, you were stuck in your own line of thoughts once again, neither of them to be seen as your gaze wonders over the structure of your front room, the silence that surrounds you becoming almost too much to bare, the space abruptly putting your life on a complete standstill.
Your home wasn’t much, but with all the effort you and Joel had put into it was all so worth it, you adored the way it had turned out; Ellie’s paintings that filled up the emptiness on the walls and Joel’s guitar sitting in the corner, you could still hear the sound of strumming as it lingered in the air, the vibrations being felt on your skin, causing your chest to tighten.
This repetitive routine had been the bane of your life for the past month; getting home from work feeling completely and utterly worn out and it getting even worse when you’d forget that you’d be on your own once you got there. You’d start doing a few chores around the house to make up time, again, still on your own, have a shower that you’d hope would wash away the constant stress off your skin, and ending the day by getting into bed, which was supposed to be shared with one other but at the moment, he was never there.
Ellie would show up from time to time, always coming by for a quick catch up to see how you and Joel were getting on. Ever since she’d met Dina you’d see less of her around the house. She was finally becoming more like her true herself again which was so incredible to see, adoring the way she had settled in. But that didn’t stop you from missing her dearly, her personality filling up so much of the space in the house.
You glance at the clock on your bedside table, sighing to yourself as you notice it’s just hit midnight, the days going by in the blink of an eye. You’d just had your shower, wrapping a soft towel around your chest, your bare calves hit the back of the wooden frame as you sit on the edge of the bed, finishing off with lightly moisturising your freshly cleaned skin.
You’d usually be asleep by now but you wanted to stay up in hopes of hearing those familiar footsteps walking up the stairs and into your bedroom, desperately needing to see that face that would instantly take that heavy weight off your shoulders. Hoping to see that particular smile that would always make you weak at the knees and that southern, deep drawl filling your ears. But right now, the sound of your never ending doubts were still lingering on but somehow even louder this time, awakening the memory that you were in fact, still alone.
Ever since Joel had made his way into your small world it had become the best thing that could’ve happened to you. This house may give you security and a roof over your head but it was Joel and Ellie who made it a home, them being apart of your life was completely unexpected but the greatest circumstance you’d ever come across. You were so grateful that Jackson had brought you together. Being the one on shift that day when Joel walked into the coffee shop for the first time was a blessing in disguise. The memory bringing a smile to your face.
3 months ago 🍃🍃🍃
When you arrived in Jackson you never expected it to be so hard for you to adjust to. Being there for almost a year and you’d still struggle to be around people, your anxiety always getting the best of you. You didn’t have many people in the town that you’d consider close friends and you knew that was your fault, knowing that you should be put yourself out there but still hadn’t developed the courage to. The memories of your life before Jackson was hard to go back too, the harsh thoughts of how you’d survived the outside world continuously haunting you, but yet you’d still battle with getting used to being around a community that supported one another as much as the people of Jackson did. The job at the coffee shop definitely gave you that extra boost of confidence that you needed, meeting so many new faces that walked through the doors and being able to talk and create friendships with all different types of people that you’d serve throughout the day. You started to feel like you were finally getting somewhere with life in Jackson, that heavy weight gradually lifting off your shoulders.
The moment Joel walked through the doors you’d never felt more sure of anything.
The sound of the entrance door opening turned your attention away from the task you were currently occupied with, ready to prepare yourself for your very first customer of the day. At first glance you couldn’t help the tightness coursing it’s way through your chest, your breath hitching in your throat from just his sheer presence in the room, his demeanour instantly making you flustered.
The initial thought that came to your mind was that you hadn’t seen him around before, at this point you knew almost everyone in Jackson so he could’ve possibly been a newcomer. You could tell by his stance that he felt uncomfortable in this sort of environment; his hands were shoved down his two front pockets and his attention was held on the ground below him, his hefty boots creaking across the floor. Your glance made its way to his frame first; he was extremely broad, his shoulders were wide and were enveloped in a thick brown coat, the attire definitely looked too tight for his vast frame. From what you could see his upper arms looked thick and muscular and he wore distressed blue jeans that hugged his thighs so deliciously. You couldn’t stop your eyes from wondering up his body and as the second you took in his facial features you couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped your lips.
He was attractive, probably the most attractive man you’d ever seen; he had a strong facial structure, his nose shaping the rest of his face so perfectly. His stubble and thick curly hair both held soft streaks of grey, showing you that he was definitely much older than yourself and someone you definitely shouldn’t be looking at in the way that you were. His features held a ruggedness to it, revealing that he’d unquestionably been through a rough life, dealing with the pain of the world he’d now been living in for the past few decades. He looked intimidating; his facial expressions showing nothing but disapproval, but yet he had the softest brown eyes, the contrast between the two was so striking to you. The moment his stare locked onto yours you couldn’t help but feel weak, him bringing an unknown feeling out of you. The reaction should make you nervous but instead it excited you massively.
“Mornin’, uh— just a black americano, no sugar please.”
He looked like a pure black americano type of guy, no milk added to it and no sugar to sweeten it, his order matching his look perfectly. You wished he ordered something more adventurous so you could see him for longer, stare at him for as long as he’d let you, with his broad frame and well structured face. He was captivating.
If it was just an americano he wanted, then you were going to make it the best fucking americano he’d ever have.
Even with his lack of vocabulary, the second his voice left his lips you were a goner, sounding so deep and husky with a slight southern twist to it. You tried to hide your disappointed when he didn’t share another word as he waited there awkwardly for you to make his coffee. His uneasy stance made you softly smirk, yeah you thought— he definitely wasn’t used be being around people. Your breath would get stuck in your throat when his touch would subtly graze yours, his warmth radiating back onto you as he retrieved the hot cup of coffee from your hands. You noticed his hands were much bigger than yours, with scars scattering the ridges of his knuckle, making the cup look so small and delicate in his grasp, causing your body to shiver. The anticipation of possibly seeing this mystery man walking into your work again was becoming the best part of you shift. Even if the interaction wasn’t long, you couldn’t help the butterflies to flutter deep down inside your stomach, his absence still lingering in the air.
You saw him everyday after that, victory coursing through your veins knowing that he liked your coffee that much that he needed it every morning from the second he took that very first sip. He’d waltz in at the same time each day, he’d order the same coffee and nothing more. But as each day went on you’d notice his shoulders weren’t as tight as they were the first time he walked in, that short vocabulary of his had now expanded and he’d now sit on one of the tables in the far corner instead of leaving straight away with his coffee in his hands. Seeing him sit there in his own little world and watching his face relax with each sip of his drink made pride fill your chest. Possibly knowing that you’d given him that little taste of a life full of content, a world where there wasn’t an apocalypse, no worries to cage his thoughts.
You were surprised that after a few weeks of serving him he finally found the confidence to tell you his name. “My names Joel, Joel Miller.” Fuck the name matched him so perfectly. It sounded strong when it flowed seamlessly off his lips, suiting his persona to a tee.
You imagined what he was like when he’d open himself up to the people he held closest to him, maybe under that harsh exterior held a man who deeply cared about the friends and family members in his life. What would he be like with you if he got to know you more? Would he let himself be vulnerable with you? Would he maybe be open in having some sort of relationship with someone in his new life? Was he even that type of guy?
Everyday you wished that he thought about you the way you constantly thought about him.
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“Just go there brother. She makes a great cup of coffee, the best in town I put my hand on my heart.” Tommy’s sat opposite Joel in the cafeteria, the both of them delving into their breakfast. “Come on, when was the last time y’had a decent cup of coffee?”
Joel groans at his younger brother. He hated to admit it but he fucking missed drinking a decent cup of coffee. Before the outbreak he’d never miss having one in the morning with his breakfast, the sharp taste instantly calming his grubby mood. Joel hated mornings, and even 20 years later it hadn’t changed, it always being the worst part of his day. Tommy knew deep down that Joel’s issue wasn’t giving the coffee a try but the fact that he’d have to interact with people other than Tommy and Ellie.
Joel definitely wasn’t a people person.
“Go there tomorrow morning, she’s usually quiet on wednesdays so you don’t have to worry about seein’ anyone. Need to get y’self out there Joel. She ain’t gonna bite y’head off.”
Tommy knew how to persuade his brother with almost anything. Joel was a stubborn guy, and was exactly the same when he was younger. Some things just simply never change. All he needed to do was pester him every second of the day until he couldn’t take it anymore, it pissed Joel off massively but knew it always worked.
Joel simply huffs, “fuck sake Tommy fine. I’ll go tomorrow but that’s it! One time only, probably ain’t as nice as y’say.”
Tommy smirks, “mmm we’ll see brother, we’ll see.”
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Of course Tommy was right, he was always fucking right. The second the coffee hit his tastebuds he knew he’d never go another day without it. The flavour was strong, sweet but had that earthy bitterness to it. Fuck it tasted so good, reminded him of being back home in Texas, waking up in the morning with Sarah sat by his side as she ate her pancakes. The memory should hurt but yet gave him a sense of warmth inside, a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time. But what Joel never expected was that the moment he walked into the coffee shop that morning is when he’d first get acquainted with you.
He couldn’t help but notice how beautiful you were; your skin looked so soft and radiant as the sun coming in from the windows rested on top of it. Your hair was tied up in a bun that framed your face to perfection. You had the most welcoming smile and you were so polite, even at the very beginning when he knew he could’ve been more kinder himself. Joel started to become nervous around you and at some points you even made him flustered, your overall attitude bringing something new out of him.
You were both complete opposites, initially that’s what Joel liked about it. Joel fed off your radiance, reminding him that this fucked up world was only fucked up if only he wanted it to be, maybe Jackson wasn’t as bad as he thought it was.
The more Joel stopped by at the coffee shop he soon realised that the coffee wasn’t the main reason he went, but in fact he wanted to see you.
He needed to see you.
Joel had to be blind to not notice the way you looked at him, the way your eyes would linger longer than they should and cringe when you’d get caught by his stare, your reaction making him smirk softly to himself. Joel had his fair share of women coming up to him every once in a while and heard all the comments about him; ‘Have ya seen Tommy’s brother? Shit he’s good looking,’ or ‘wouldn’t mind if he took me home.’ Don’t get him wrong he secretly didn’t mind the attention but Joel simply never had the time or in fact had any sort of interest for it, kindly rejecting there offers. It wasn’t until you came into his life that Joel started to question himself and his own beliefs. He knew his feelings were reciprocated but just didn’t think he was brave enough to do something about it.
A couple weeks later Joel eventually made a final decision and thought, fuck it.
Finally getting the balls to ask you out and doing it in Joel’s complete out of practice way, he’d offer you to do something outside of work, with him. It had been too long since Joel had ever been put in this type of situation, knowing he was a little rusty in the dating department. Your reaction to his words may have been a look of surprise but he knew deep down that you’ve wanted him to say that for a while. A few outings with each other would then turn into daily meets up, trying to accompany each others time tables so you could spend as much time as you could together without work getting in the way.
Joel had thought he’d lost that romantic side of himself decades ago, believing an apocalypse wasn’t really the place to find or do something like that, his only goal being survival and simply not getting killed. But somehow knowing that you’d felt that way about him sparked that unknown desire back into him, needing you in a way he never needed anyone before.
Present Day 🍃🍃🍃
The memories of the past few months with Joel should bring content and happiness to you, but right now the thoughts are only making it harder to swallow the feeling of lose from your throat. The coldness from the night air silently flows through the gap of your opened window, the coolness bringing you back to reality, goosebumps rising on the skin of your arms that are holding the towel up close to your chest.
You know Joel couldn’t help it and you’d never place any blame of him. There had been some suspicious tracks leading to Jackson, so Tommy needed a few extra people to assist with patrol duty but didn’t have the amount of hands or participants to cope, leaving Joel to take up more shifts and even longer days than he’d usually do. You and Joel both knew he needed to calm down, knowing he wasn’t the young man he once was but you knew he felt a need to prove to Tommy that he was still capable, wanting to help out the people of the community as much as he could.
To keep you and Ellie safe.
The routine wasn’t going to be going on for much longer, just until the tension outside Jackson had calmed down and that they knew that it was safe to go back to normal. Then Joel could go back to his normal schedule, a schedule where he was spending every evening and night with you, it being his favourite way to end his long days and you being the last thing he sees before sleep takes over his limp body.
This thought is what makes you go on. Knowing that you’d soon get him back all to yourself. Once you’ve finished moisturising you grab some fresh pants from the top drawer of your bedside table and pick out one of Joel’s flannels to wear from the wardrobe. No matter how many times you’d wash it you could still smell his musky scent on the material, bringing the collar up to your nose and inhaling deeply as the smell of Joel envelopes your nostrils. You lie on top of the covers and close your eyes, picturing Joel’s body lying next to yours whilst he cages you in his big arms, his stubble scratching the side of your jaw. The image of him behind your eyelids and his scent surrounds your body completely, feeling the sudden wetness pool in between your legs, aching for his touch.
You miss him so much it hurts. It had been been a while since you’d both been intimate with one another and as each day goes by the feeling deep in your core intensifies, yearning for release.
Your one hand travels down your stomach and dips under your panties which have quickly become soaked with your arousal. You start gliding two of your digits through your soaked folds, covering them in your sweet release. Your breath hitches in your throat as your fingers gently travel up and swirl around your sensitive bundle of nerves, lightly moving them in small figure eights. You picture Joel above you, watching your chest rise and fall rapidly as you imagine it’s his calloused fingers instead of yours. His digits were much thicker and longer, reaching up inside you like no other and pulling orgasm upon orgasm from your aching cunt. You imagine the words he’d whisper to you; his warm mouth against your ear as he tells you how good you are for him and how well you’re taking what he gives you. The moment you slip two of your fingers in your dripping heat you know you’ll be close to coming, already feeling that tight knot in your lower stomach. Your mouths agape as small, breathless whimpers escape your lips, the tip of your fingers hitting your g-spot. As your one hand fucks your deprived cunt your other moves under yours— Joel’s flannel to caress your breasts, your skin feeling hot from the touch of your fingers travelling up your body. Your palms and fingers start massaging the skin of my breast, tweaking your nipples to add to the intense pleasure you’re giving yourself. Joel loved your breasts, you’d imagine him giving them as much attention as he could, swirling his tongue around each nipple, sucking on the skin and making sure he leaves marks on each part his lips touch.
He knew the small purple blemishes across your skin showed you who you really belonged to, and he knew you secretly loved it, being claimed by him.
Your breathing becomes frantic, “yes Joel right there—,” the image of Joel behind your eyelids and your hand in between your legs is so intensifying and without any warning you’re coming all over your fingers, feeling the inside of your walls pulsing around the soaked digits. Joel’s name leaves your lips as a state of euphoria completely takes over your body, your legs twitching from the immense pleasure. You continue to fuck yourself through your high, needing to feel as much pleasure as you can. You can hear Joel’s praises ringing in your ear like he’s there with you in the room.
You’re such a good girl f’me aren’t you.
Fuck I feel your pussy clenching my fingers baby.
She’s so desperate f’me isn’t she.
Can’t wait to feel you come around my cock.
Even though your fingers would slowly fade that aching between your legs you knew it wouldn’t take long for it to creep it’s way back into your core, Joel being the only one to satisfy the craving completely.
Once you’ve come down from your high the quiet and darkness surrounds you once again. You wanted to wait up for Joel but you can’t stop the silence making it’s way back into your thoughts, needing the sleep to course your mind in hopes of getting a few hours peace from the weeks of stress you’ve unintentionally given yourself.
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Joel should have been back home from patrol duty hours ago. For the past month, patrolling had been tough for everyone involved, and it had quickly become much more strict in its rules, making people more aware of the threats surrounding Jackson and the area outside the town. With the danger being so high risk, Joel knew what he had to do and what he needed to do to support the team. Jackson welcomed him and Ellie with open arms, so he knew he had to do as much as possible to give back to the community.
However, this came with its disadvantages; it felt like it had been forever and a day since he had been with you and spent a day with you. He knew this routine was excessive and too much to handle for a man his age, but his pride was too high, and Joel was a man who could never accept defeat. Being unable to be with you, let alone even see you, made his chest feel tight, restricting as the sensation would knock the air out of his lungs. He knew that being so distant from each other was breaking you even more than it was himself.
Joel quietly dropped his dirty boots at the entrance door of his and yours shared home, sighing in relief as he took in the familiarity of the four walls that have brought him so many fond memories over the past few months—all memories of you.
Slowly he tip toes his way through the front room and then up the stairs, the groans of the ancient wood under his feet echoing through the house with each step he took. It wasn’t hard for Joel to be noisy, his broad frame making it difficult to walk in the house when you lay sleeping upstairs, the sound of a pin drop ringing through the thin walls would easily be picked up let alone his large steps.
Before entering the bedroom Joel makes his way into the bathroom, his body caked in mud head to toe, suddenly craving the feel of hot water over his shoulders, untying those stiff knots in his muscles from the long day he’s endured. Knowing the heat from the water would instantly bring him relief and satisfaction.
Joel wants nothing more than to get into bed with you and wrap his arms around your small form as he falls into a deep slumber, feeling the dainty movements of your chest rising and falling against him, hearing you let out soft, content sighs while you lay sleeping.
But at the same time he wanted to be selfish, he wanted to wake you up, missing the sound of your voice, missing the way you’d look up at him with such love and affection whilst you’d caress his rough skin with the softness of your fingertips.
It had been too fucking long since he’d felt the warmth of your cunt perfectly wrapped around his cock. He misses the way you’d fall and crumble underneath his frame, the desperate pleads leaving your plump lips, begging him to make you come.
And by the way his cock instantly touches the middle of his abdomen with just the sheer thought of you imprinted on his mind, he knows exactly what he needs to do.
Joel’s woken up too many times with the other half of the bed completely empty, the dip in the mattress still visible from where your body rested just hours before. He’d immediately move his body over to your side, inhaling in your pillow as the smell of your shampoo would fill his senses, causing his cock to strain against the band of his tight boxers, his pre-come painting the material.
Joel never expected that you’d bring out that side of him that he believed was long gone, never requiring the release of another women’s touch to help his urges, his hand doing just what he needed for that ache in his cock to go away. However the more he saw of you and started spending most of his time with you he couldn’t help the attraction he felt for you, imagining your body underneath him as he filled you completely. He’d picture your pussy fluttering around his cock as you’d come around him, the desperate whimpers leaving your lips as he’d continue to thrust his hips into you, chasing his own release.
Soon Joel’s hand wasn’t enough, his own fist not itching that certain ache inside him that would once do the trick. He wanted more and simply couldn’t get you out of his mind, needing you to help take away that burning desire that he kept hidden from you.
Once Joel had his shower he’d finish freshening himself up; brushing his teeth, running his fingers through his wet hair, sleeking it back and putting on clean boxers, which have abruptly become tighter than usual from his erection that’s still very prominent. After that he’d make his way into your shared bedroom, gently pushing the door open and popping his head through. Your frame resting on the top of the sheets finally coming into his view, lying on the bed alone, the image making his chest ache.
He lightly moves his frame to his side of the bed and lies his body down beside you, the weight that’s suddenly been taken off his feet makes him sigh in content, the hours of standing in the same designated spot started to build up tension, the stinging in the bottom of his shins finally starting to ease away.
Joel looks over at your sleeping form, his sight adjusting to the darkness of the room as the light from outside creeps in through the gap of the curtains, a soft smile shaping across his features just from the look of you.
You were facing away from him; your top half covered in one of his flannels that just hanged above the very tops of you thighs, the smooth skin of your legs being on show making Joel’s cock harden even more under his boxers, his palm pushing down on his erection causing him to groan from the friction.
He tries his hardest not to wake you, bringing his fingers up to the ends of the flannel to gently move the material up so it lands in the middle of you spine, giving Joel a view of your back, your ass covered in the daintiest underwear.
Joel shifts his body so it rests above you, every move he takes becoming so delicate, hoping not to stir you as you still sleep underneath him, showing him no signs of being disrupted by his actions. Both of his hands dig into the mattress, caging your body so it’s in between him. He watches your expression intently, your features still holding that peaceful expression. Your breathing is still soft and in rhythm, giving Joel the heads up to carry on.
Joel’s eyes glance their way down to the middle of your back, ever so lightly brushing the back of his knuckles against the smooth skin, tracing over the dent of your spine and over the sides of your rib cage. His touch descends further down until his calloused fingers touch the top of your underwear, fiddling with the fabric as it sticks tightly to your skin.
This wasn’t going to be enough. If it was his decision Joel would’ve ripped the material off of you completely and stuffed you full of himself in the matter of seconds, his cock being too deprived of your touch for far too long. But somehow seeing you still deep in sleep, being completely oblivious to his actions made him want to take his time, knowing that any moment you were going to wake up to the surprise of him over you. He wanted you to see how much he deeply missed you, show you how much he cared.
Joel’s too far gone and know he can’t control his urges, softly gliding two of his digits across the curves of you cheeks until they meet there designated target. The material of your underwear is already damp against his fingers as he rubs the outside of you pussy, teasing your clit with the roughness of his fingertips.
He can’t help but softy express his inner thoughts to himself, “fuck y’so wet baby.” His one hand gently moves to your right leg, caressing the exposed skin and bending it up slightly so his eyes can see more of you, slowly moving his body down, peering his eyes at the place where he knows your body craves him the most.
The centre of your underwear is ruined, your arousal seeping through the thin material, turning them a much deeper colour. Joel holds in a deep breath from the sight, bringing his one hand down to the waistband of his boxers, freeing his now red, glistening head from its confines, the night air hitting his tip making him hiss from the sensitivity.
Before he carries on, Joel’s leaning his body over and turning on the beside lamp, the sudden light surrounding the room, showing more of you to him. He moves his face down towards you so his back is curved as he starts peppering your back with light kisses, bringing his lips across to every inch of you he can see, the softness of your skin against his stubble causes you to stir in your sleep, a silent moan leaving your throat as Joel continues to assault your back with his mouth.
Joel doesn’t give a shit that his touch has abruptly woken you up, his lips causing your body to jump from the intrusion. “J-Joel? S’that you? What are y’doing?”
Fuck he’s missed your voice, the faint sound just slightly above a whisper filling his ears as you try to adjust to what’s going on around you, Joel’s moans vibrate against your back from the words that have just glided off your tongue.
“Shh it’s just me baby, just lie real still— fuck I’ve missed you so much.”
Joel picks at more of his flannel so more of your skin is exposed to him. You lift up your chest to help him ease it off you so it rests just over your shoulder blades, already feeling that desire you felt just hours before rise back up within yourself, and knowing it’s Joel who’s going to ease it away causes more wetness to pool in your underwear.
His lips feel soft and warm on your back, gliding across your skin sure to leave marks wherever they touch as small but sharp gasps start leaving your mouth from the feel. Unintentionally you start bucking your hips up towards him, hoping to give him the heads up that even though you’ve just woken up, you already are so desperate to have any part of him inside you.
Even if the movements barely there, Joel never misses anything.
“She wants me so bad doesn’t she. Don’t worry baby, I’ll give you what y’need.”
He knows exactly what to say to have you withering under him, his husky southern drawl always bringing that immense pleasure out of you with just the simplest of words or touches, and right now he had you right where he wanted you.
“P-please Joel, missed you— need you.”
His lips curve up against your arched back, quivering as a deep chuckle rolls off his tongue. “I know darlin’ it’s been so long, wanna take my time with ya so be patient. Can y’do that? Be a good girl f’me.”
Even though you’re aching for his touch, you know you both want this to last as long as it can, wanting to show Joel how well behaved you’ll be for him and knowing that he loves this submissive side of you. He’ll never be able to process how easy it is for you to become a melting mess underneath him, boosting his confidence.
You slowly nod your head, “yes Joel, I’ll be good f’you.”
He hums softly at your words, “I know y’will baby, always being so good f’me aren’t you.” Joel continues with his actions as he watches the side of your face that’s plushed against the soft material of your pillow. You look down at him with the upmost admiration, mouth agape while his name leaves your lips.
“Fuck Joel please— I.” The way he looks right now is a sight that you’ll never forget, it’s been so long since you’ve actually been able to take your time and admire him for all he’s worth; his wide shoulders hold a slight sheen to them, tanned and covered is small dispersed freckles, his hairs still wet from the shower which has been slicked back with his fingers giving you a full view of his strong facial features. His looks alone is enough to have you putting in his hands, needing to feel him on your skin, “please touch me.”
Joel was so fucking beautiful and he didn’t even have to do anything.
“I am touchin’ you baby, jus’ relax— lemme take my time, wanna look after you.” Slowly lifting up so he’s back on his knees Joel’s grabs the band of your underwear and pulls them down your legs, the material leaving goosebumps across you skin, the temptation of his touch quickly building up inside your core.
Once Joel removes your underwear off of you completely he wastes no time in touching your cunt finally without anything in the way, a deep guttural moan flying from his throat, “shit darlin’ fuck— missed your pussy so much.” He’s panting above you, relishing in the warmth your skin gives off, the heat travelling all the way down to his cock as it pulses against his stomach. “Such a pretty pussy.”
Joel lightly moves his thick fingers across your lips and up to your clit, covering his digits with your release, preparing you, getting you ready for him.
Joel can feel himself crumbling, his body reacting so strongly to you, “fuck darlin” you’re so wet, I need a taste it’s been s’long.”
Joel doesn’t give you enough time to answer as he’s flipping you onto your side, one leg placed straight on the bed and the other he’s pushing up towards your chest, keeping it locked in place and manoeuvring his own body so he’s leaning on his shoulder while his heads placed straight under your pulsing core. His gaze is on your wet cunt, so close to his face as he looks at it with hunger in his eyes, ready to eat it up like it’s his last meal.
The moment his tongue flicks over your clit your whole body jerks up towards his mouth, your one hand reaching into his wet hair, pulling at the strands while he pleasures you with his mouth. He winces at the tight pull, his lips quivering against you which only spurs on the intensity of your upcoming orgasm.
“Shit baby—missed how fucking sweet you taste.”
Joel can feel his tip that’s still popping out of the material of his boxers leaking on the skin just under his belly button. Usually Joel is capable of holding his urges in while he gives you what you desperately need, pulling orgasms effortlessly from you with just his mouth and fingers and always being able to leave his throbbing cock alone as it aches for some sort of touch, easily suppressing the pain until he’s gifted with the wet feeling of your walls soaking him to the brim.
But it’s been too damn long, too long since he’s had you in his arms in such a close and intimate way, your sweetened release coating his tongue as he fucks you with the muscle. His other hand reaches down to pull his cock fully out of his boxers, wrapping his hand around his girth while he fucks his fist, his fingers wet from touching your greedy cunt just moments ago. He has to pause for a moment as he moves his mouth off of you, the touch of his hand stopping his rhythm for just a second, but quickly returning his attention straight back to you.
“Yes Joel fuck—right t-there don’t stop please don’t stop.” Your whimpers were like a harmony to Joel’s ears, high in pitch and so soft as you open yourself up completely to him. Joel’s groans and the wet sounds of yours and his arousal echos around the bedroom walls, beckoning him towards his own release, needing you to come all over his mouth first.
And you are going to— it’s right there, your orgasms right on the edge ready to consume you, you just need that feeling of fullness to fill your neglected walls. “Mmm fuck J-Joel, need your fingers please- need them so bad.”
Who would Joel be if he denied you of the action when you asked him so politely. He’d give you anything you wanted from him if he’d hear those perfect words asking him so nicely for permission.
“Always so polite f’me darlin.” His hand instantly pulls off his cock, abandoning his own pleasure and moving them up to your pulsating heat, filling you with two thick fingers so his knuckles touch the outside of your entrance, curling them inside you, hitting that spot that he knows will have you seeing euphoric stars in a matter of seconds.
Fuck you were so beautiful. Back arched and head thrown backwards as your hips continue to rub against Joel’s mouth, using him to chase that release that’s right there on the edge, his nose catching perfectly on your clit sending shockwaves all the way down towards your toes. His eyes gaze at every inch of skin that’s visible to him; your face, your waist and the way your chest rises and falls in quick pants, locking the image permanently into his memory.
While still using his fingers, Joel’s quickly takes his lips off of you, yourself whining from the loss of his tongue. “Take the flannel off baby, let me see those perfect tits n’ I’ll make you come.”
His mouths back on yours in an instant, watching you with sinful eyes as both of your shaky hands start to unbutton his flannel and begin rolling it off one shoulder, revealing the curve of your breasts to him and to the thick air, your nipples hardening from the cool temperature in the room.
Joel’s hand that holds a tight grasp on your bent leg moves to your chest, kneading your breast and pinching your nipples in between his fingers, feeling your walls clench around his hand from his touch. He knows if he carries on he’ll have you coming in no time.
He switches from licking up your juices to sucking forcefully on your swollen bundle of nerves, flicking the tip of his tongue over the hood as your thighs start to twitch uncontrollably, knowing exactly what motions he needs to do to have you coming all over his mouth.
You look down at him, droplets of sweat forming between the creases of your brow, “fuck Joel r-right there I’m gonna come, please-e.”
His eyes are glued on your face, “go on baby, that’s it you can come, come all over my fingers— lemme taste you.”
The orgasm that crashes over you has the air knocking out of your lungs, you whole body shaking vigorously as Joel’s holds you down into the mattress, relishing in the tightness of your cunt gushing more release onto his hand and catching as much of the honey nectar into his mouth, never missing a drop of it as he savours the taste that he’s been deprived of for too long.
Your legs squeeze around Joel’s head, caging him in, no where for him to escape as you use his mouth and fingers to prolong the pure ecstasy riding through your veins, your skin becoming hot to the touch. Your walls contract against his rough digits, Joel’s muffled moans being silenced by your thighs, looking up towards you as pleasure washes over your face.
“That’s it baby use my mouth, wanna taste all of it.” You can feel him everywhere; his stubble scratching the inside of your trembling thighs while he continues to lap and lick and slurp through your folds for as long as you’ll let him, until your prying him away from the sensitivity.
Joel’s rolls your limp frame so you’re back to lying on your stomach once again, bringing his body that was once under you back above you, quickly removing last remaining material off his legs leaving him completely naked, his cock hanging down so he’s touching the curve of your cheeks.
He gives his cock a few pumps with his first, his wetness covering him entirely. His heads quick to respond to his touch, droplets of come trickling down until it makes contact with the skin of you ass, the liquid reflecting in the light from the beside lamp. Joel moves his body so his chest makes contact with the curve of your back, his face so deep in your hair and his lips ghosting over your ear.
“God I’ve missed how you’ve tasted baby, been too damn long since I’ve had you. Y’gonna let me fuck you now? Fuck— I need to feel your pussy wrapped round me.”
You buck up your hips into him, Joel’s breathless moans singing in your ear, your action giving him the go ahead, wanting, needing to be filled by him, missing the way his thick cock would pulse inside you.
“Yes please Joel, w-want it so bad.”
Joel kisses your sweet spot, “want it so bad huh, been s’long since you’ve been stuffed full of my cock hasn’t it?” Joel’s weight is held up by his one arm, his palm digging into the mattress below whilst he rubs the head of his cock through your soaked folds and nudging the tip of your clit, the rubbing of his thickness resulting in breathless gasps to leave both of your lips. “Relax f’me baby, I’ll give it to ya.”
He loves to tease you. Knowing very well that you secretly love it too; the anticipation, the excitement, the unknown of what his next steps will be. Teasing meant he could take his sweet time with you, he could savour every part of you that he could get his hands on, your taste and touch lingering on his skin for days after.
He nudges his cock at your entrance ever so carefully. Just enjoying the feel of the outer part of your pussy while it soaks him everywhere, his thickness gilding so easily through your glistening folds.
“Can feel your pussy tryin’ to suck me in baby, wanna—fuck—need to take my time with ya’ sweetheart.”
He thrusts his hips forward so his groin comes into contact with the soft skin of your cheeks, continuing to stroke his cock in between your legs and tease your entrance, your thighs that are pushed so close together squeezing his cock even more.
The anticipation roaring through your whole body is too much to handle, longing to feel what you’ve been wanting the most from these agonising few weeks you’ve endured.
Lifting your hips at the perfect time with the pace that Joel has set with his teasing causes his entire cock to fill you to the hilt, surprised gasps leaving both of your mouths as you finally feel him deep inside you, your pussy trying to adjust to his length.
“F-fuck Joel—“ The amount of wetness between your legs makes it so easy for him to glide smoothly inside you, also helping with your walls that are trying to accompany his huge size.
Joel could’ve come right there in that moment from the sudden feeling of your walls tightly wrapped around him. “Oh my g— oh fuck baby. Christ you’re so tight, always so fuckin’ tight.”
Joel knew he was a lot bigger than the average man, and with you being much smaller than him he knew it would be difficult for you to adjust to his size. The moment his thick head would prod at your entrance he’d immediately crave the glimpse of slight discomfort in your appearance, mouth agape and your pussy struggling to take him all in, his cock stretching you out, he could come just from the look on your face.
He doesn’t move once he’s inside you, waiting a few moments to help you get used to him. His one hand moves to your side, caressing the skin on your arm, “no matter how many times I fuck this pretty pussy she always struggles to take me doesn’t she. Shit darlin’ you’re so perfect.”
He’s so deep inside you, the weight of him pushing you down into the bed as tears start to well in your eyes as he begins to set a slow but hard pace, your teeth biting down on the pillow to muffle your moans.
He moves the strands of hair that have obstructed his view of the emotions that scatter your face, needing to see ever look of pleasure that roles across your features while his thrusts pick up behind you.
“Don’t y’dare hide from me, wanna hear ya baby— tell me how good my cocks makin’ you feel.”
He grunts into your hair, inhaling in the scent of your skin, your fresh shampoo filling his senses while he sets a blistering pace behind you, his chest flushed again your back, fitting perfectly together as you spine curves into shape with his soft stomach.
“F-feels s’good Joel—fuck I’ve missed you inside me oh my god— you’re so big.”
A devilish chuckle escapes his lips, “I know baby but you can take it can’t ya, this pussy was fuckin’ made f’me.”
“Joel please—“ he feels fucking everywhere; his whole being filling all your senses, giving you everything as his tip continues to hit that spot deep inside you that only he knows how to reach, his thickness never failing to miss that point that has you gasping for air and your whole body curling from the depths of his thrust, he never misses:
Every. Single. Time.
“C’here baby.” Joel’s lifting himself onto his knees in an instant, bringing your flushed body with it, his cock never leaving your cunt as he maintains that secure motion. The ridges of your walls hug him so tightly as he brings you closer to your orgasm.
You arms fly into his hair as his wide arms cage you in, wrapping them around your upper body whilst he holds you up so closely to him, feeling the hot air leave his nostrils whilst he switches between sucking and kissing the crease of your neck, exposing more skin for him to continue his marking.
Once Joel’s finishes his assault on your neck he brings his lips up to yours, finally feeling the plumpness of your own against his, instantaneously moulding your tongues together. You can still taste yourself on his lips while he moans into your mouth, the act releasing more of your arousal around Joel’s cock. It’s messy and desperate, the both of you making up for lost time.
Your whole body is putty in his grasp, turning into jello as he holds you up against him, well aware that you’d fall face down if Joel didn’t hold you up like he is. The sound of skin slapping on skin consumes the thick air around your sweltering bodies, the heat leaving thick sheens of sweat against your skin, sticking your bodies together like glue.
“Go on darlin, need to feel ya come for me. Fucking show me how good I’m makin’ you feel.”
You bring one of Joel’s hands that’s encased around you up to your mouth, pushing two of his digits past your lips so you can coat them nicely in your saliva, swirling your tongue around them. Joel can’t take his eyes off you as he watches you take his fingers to the back of your throat and back out of your mouth with a ‘pop’.
“Rub my c-clit Joel— need it s’bad.” His hand begins it’s travel across your hot skin, gliding down until it lands in between your legs, rubbing your puffy clit with his fingers, enticing you closer to your release.
Your head lands against the top of his shoulder, “fuck Joel yes— I’m so close—fuck Joel I’m gonna come, please let me come.”
His eyes screw shut, your filthy words effecting him more than he wanted them too, bringing that tight knot in his stomach straight up to the surface, ready to be relieved in a matter of seconds.
Joel’s voice sounds so desperate, breathless pants brushing the sides of your face, “you can come baby, fuck— come f’me.”
Your second orgasm hits and the intensity is unmatched to anything you’ve ever felt in your entire life. Your legs start to shake and toes curl and you can feel your insides throb and gush around Joel’s thickness. Joel’s humming in your ear is hard to pick up on as your release fills your whole body, the ringing in your ears and white sparks behind your eyelids sending you into another dimension.
“Fuckin’ good girl that’s it you’re doing so well f’me— shit darlin’ y’gonna make me come.”
Pleasure soon subsides into overstimulation as you come down from your high, your body been given that unbelievable pleasure and satisfaction. Joel’s hips soon start to stutter behind you, losing that rhythm he held onto so strongly, ready to fill you up with his release.
“Please Joel come inside me, wanna feel you fill me up—missed being full of you.”
He grabs your jaw, easily fitting it into his palm as he brings your lips back onto his, watching you as you come back down to reality. He eyes don’t leave yours as his cock jumps inside of you, lips trembling as your pussy pulls him in. “Fuck,” he mumbles into your mouth, “fuck I’m coming,” you reattached your lips, his grunts being silenced by your mouth as he hits his peak and spurts of his hot come fill up into your velvety walls, milking him of everything he’s worth. He comes hard; the force of it knocking the air straight out of his lungs.
Joel’s hold on you tightens, his thrusts gradually fading down until he shields himself inside you, not ready to feel the loss of your pussy just yet, keeping you close and flushed up against him.
Once his lips leave yours Joel can take the moment to bring the air back into his chest, his gaze locking onto every feature that’s plastered across your face, reading your expressions as pure bliss continues to wash over you.
“You okay darlin’?” He hugs you even tighter, forever appreciating these tender moments with you. “Fuckin’ hell I’ve missed you.”
You nudge your nose against his, the biggest grin landing across your face. “I’m okay Joel— I’ve missed too— so much.”
Joel plants kisses all across your shoulder, pulling himself out of you slowly, wincing as the change in temperature hits him. He already misses the way your pussy wrapped it’s way around him, never feeling anything like it before. He makes his way over to the bedside drawer, pulling out a towel to clean you both up.
One you’ve both freshened up, Joel’s pulling you across the bed so you’re flushed against him, your body moulding into his so flawlessly as he lays on his side behind you.
“I’m sorry it’s been so long sweetheart I know it’s been hard f’you. It won’t be forever I promise y’that.”
Joel knows the right words to say to give you that sense of certainty, never being the one to break any promises he gives you, knowing that you’ll have him back all to yourself soon brings excitement to your chest.
“I know Joel I understand, just can’t wait to have you all to m’self again.”
His low chuckle vibrates against your cheek, he lays a quick kiss on your jaw. “Same here baby, I can’t wait either.”
🍃🍃🍃🍃🍃
The sunrise beaming through the gaps of the blinds awakens Joel out of his deep sleep, blinding him from his view. Your warm skin is still pushed up against his chest, the sound of soft, content signs leaving your lips as sleep still consumes you. Joel looks down at your body, forgetting what it was like to have you so close to him instead of constantly waking up in an empty bed.
Knowing he had you to wake up to made the mornings Joel’s favourite time of day. You finally brought him that feeling of solace and safety that he’s been searching for most of his life.
Joel knew if he had you by his side, he was home.
🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍
Tysm for reading! Please let me know what you think!🤍🫶
“how to recognize AI in fanfic” — hey so this is another not-gentle reminder that AI stole from us. it’s using OUR words and OUR sentences and OUR styles.
writing “long” paragraphs is not a sign of AI — it’s a common narrative choice many writers make both in fanfiction and in traditionally published novels, and AI stole it from us.
using an em dash is not a sign of AI. it’s a stylistic sentence choice that’s been an option in place of commas and semicolons for a very long time, and AI stole it from us.
long sentence structures are not a sign of AI, but are yet another stylistic choice writers often make to create a cadence and tone that mimics the flow of poetry, and AI stole it from us.
“YA narrative breaks”? i don’t even know what the fuck this means, but i can guarantee that AI stole it from us.
italics are once again a stylistic choice that many writers love to use to create emphasis, and it’s a more stylistically acceptable and traditional form of emphasis than bold or underline text. oh, and just to be extra clear: AI STOLE IT FROM US.
stop creating fandom witch hunts over AI when you know fuck all about what it means to sit and write a story, and to spend hours fiddling with sentence structure and dialogue to get the exact right tone. writers will stop writing out of fear that their work “sounds like AI” — IT DOESNT! AI STOLE FROM US! AI SOUNDS LIKE US! — and after a while, all that will be available on AO3 is shitty AI-generated fanfiction.
because yeah, people are going to continue to use AI to write fanfiction whether you “call them out” or not. but making a laughable thread on X that uses asinine criteria is not going to fix that problem. it will just push the real writers out because people will accuse them of using AI when they haven’t, and they will (rightfully) stop writing for spaces that attack them.
teachers and lecturers think they can reliably spot AI but they can't. Even though AI is used extensively in student essays. Human estimates of LLM writing also over identify writers with English as a second or additional language and neurodivergent writers. You WILL fuck this up if you play AI witch finder general.
I suggest
Do fandom fannishly.
firstly - If you don't like a fic then just close it.
Comment and talk to writers. Do rec lists to share fic. Make art for people's fic. Arrange prompts and games. Ask people who like it for requests. Send pleasant asks. Give praise.
If you hate AI then love the humans. Stop treating fic like a product and you will get far fewer fakes.
Ask authors about their writing process!! Ask, "How did you come up with that wording? What made you think of that metaphor?" Actual human writers LOVE these questions, so much that we often post ask games on Tumblr to invite readers to ask them (and then get no asks).
Don't phrase them as a "gotcha," of course; ask the way you would if you were completely confident the fic was written by a human. And if you get an answer like "I honestly don't remember" or "it just popped into my head," that doesn't necessarily mean it's AI. But if you get a weird meandering story about a train of idiosynctatic associations, you can be pretty damn sure the author was human.
domestic fluff with ben "benny" miller... lord, call me the scuderia the way I want to spoil this man with all the ferraris his heart desires.
pairing: benny miller x gender neutral reader (first person, no y/n)
warnings: vaguely-described nudity, suggestive themes. no gender-explicit language used but "honey" used as a pet name.
w/c: 632 (short & sweet!)
a/n: wrote this a while ago but it's been sitting in my drafts so I figured I'd just throw it out here. enjoy, xoxo.
I groan quietly as I arch my back off the dark surface of the bed, stretching my arms and legs as I come to. I blink my eyes open, seeing the rest of the room is still dark. The soft pattering of rain can be heard outside the window, from behind the curtains. The clock on the bedside table reads “9:27.” It’s not too early, not too late. It’s a nice Saturday morning, meaning no work for me or Benny.
I glance over at him. He’s still asleep. I just watch the rise and fall of his chest, examining every curve of his body like I’ve never seen it before. The sheet is draped over him diagonally, from bare shoulder to bare hip. It’s a heavenly sight, as I stare at the Adonis that lays asleep before me. His eyebrows furrow gently in his unconscious state, and he rustles a little, moving one of his arms to rest on top of his stomach. My eyes trace over his side profile, gaze running over the ridge of his forehead, grazing the bridge of his nose, fluttering over his lips, and gliding against his jawline.
I shiver a little, my body becoming suddenly aware of the cold beginning to penetrate the thin sheet we have on the bed. The rain outside continues to pelt the roof and window. It’s nice, though. I gently slip out from under the covers, letting my legs swing off the bed and my feet touch the floor. I walk over and gently move the curtain to peek outside, not letting it go too far so the rings don’t make a noise against the pole. It’s overcast, the sky a light grey, and the droplets of water hitting every conceivable surface outside not sheltered by something else. I sigh quietly, pursing my lips and shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
I don’t realize how long I stand there, just watching the rain pour down from above, until I hear Benny. He comes up behind me, gently putting his hands on my arms. It startles me for a second, before I sink comfortably into his touch.
His voice is raspy and deep as he chuckles at my surprise. “Hey, honey. How’d you sleep?”
I hum back as I continue looking out the window. “Was fine. Waking up next to you is always a treat, though.”
“I didn’t get that pleasure,” He frowns gently, leaning his head down to press a warm kiss to the side of my neck. “Didn’t know where you went until I looked at the curtains. Thought there might’ve been a ghost behind ‘em. Found somethin’ better though.”
I laugh quietly, turning my head to the side so I can peck his cheek. He snakes his arms around my sides so they can meet in the middle and rest around my stomach while resting his chin on my shoulder.
“What’d you want to do today, Ben?” I ask, bringing a hand up to caress his cheek while letting the other fall on top of his arms, gently interlacing my cold fingers with his warm ones.
“Was thinkin’ I’d just take care of you.” He hums lowly into my ear, turning to kiss my neck again. “In more ways than one.”
“I think I’d like that.” I chuckle and lean further into his embrace.
He begins to straighten his posture as I let my head fall back against his chest, and I look up at him. I turn around in his arms, so we’re chest-to-chest, and I move up to press a kiss to his jaw. His arms fall to come back around my hips, and he gently grasps the bare skin in his warm hands.
being told to take that cock while you’re pinned and getting fucked is so hot cause it’s not an ask or praise, it’s an outright demand. they’re inside you, pounding your cunt so hard and slamming into you that you can barely catch your breath and you quite literally have no choice but to take it. the phrase is a mockery, made to remind you to lay there and submit, let your cunt do what it does best
That's what I tell people when they ask why Frankie Morales knows my drink order better than I do. Or why the quiet man with the soulful eyes finally loosens up in my presence.
Just friends.
That's what I tell myself when he calls me on his drive home because he saw a sunset and thought I'd like it. When he leaves little voice messages that say absolutely nothing important but still do.
When he texts me that he made it home. As if I was waiting to know. As if he knows I was.
Just friends.
When he remembers things nobody else does. The anniversary that makes me quiet. The song I always skip. The way thunderstorms make me nervous. The fact that I need the TV on to sleep when my head gets too loud. That I am the only person who knows about the ghosts he carries like luggage.
Just friends.
When I find myself looking for his truck before I even get out of my car at any gathering. When a room feels wrong until he's in it. When something good happens and his name appears in my mind before anyone else's. When no one apart from me knows the shape of his loneliness.
Just friends.
When he says my name in that soft, careful way he does that makes my stomach flip. Like he's holding something fragile. Something far more than words. And when I say his, his eyes crinkle in a laugh bright enough to feel like sunlight.
Just friends.
Until one night we're sharing a bed because life has a funny sense of humor and we're adults who can handle it, right ?
Just friends.
With a pillow between us that feels like a whole ocean. I fall asleep facing the wall and he falls asleep facing the other direction. Until somewhere in the middle of the night, while the world is quiet enough to tell the truth, our bodies betray us.
Just two tired people reaching for comfort.
And when we both wake with only the sun as our witness, neither of us moves. His arm is still around my waist. My hand is still curled against his chest. Neither of us says a word.
Because suddenly just friends feels like the biggest lie we've ever told. And yet neither of us is brave enough to call it anything else.
This is a little different than what I usually write, but my bestie @rhapsodyofdarkness gently nudged(read: bullied) me into publishing this, so there you go.
Oh God this is so beautiful 😭😭😭😭 I want to read a whole novel on these two. I want a trilogy. Fuck, give me a movie. I just want to inject this shit right into my veins. Friends to lovers with Frankie omfg 😭😍
POV: 1st (f!Reader)
Rating: Explicit. 18+ ONLY.
Summary: A messy post-breakup bonfire turns into years of unspoken tension finally boiling over with Santi.
Word Count: 11.3k
Content/Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, mention of cheating/past breakup with unnamed character, emotional baggage, friends to lovers, mutual pining, drinking, drunk confessions, praise, oral sex (f receiving), PiV sex, Santiago "Eyes On Me" Garcia
A/N: Inspired by the song “Believe It” by Jared Benjamin, which was inspired by the “My house. My chair. My woman” scene in Fourth Wing. This has been living rent-free in my head for a while. There’s just something about the thought of Santi on his knees worshipping the absolute fuck out of you.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are deeply appreciated.
Masterlist
The others left not too long ago.
Frankie was the first to go, clapping Santi on the shoulder on his way out. Will and Benny followed soon after, tossing lazy goodbyes over their shoulders as they headed for the front yard. When the gate shut behind them, it was just the two of us left.
We didn't move from our spots by the pit. The fire had settled into a steady, low hum, its smoke hanging heavy in the space between us. Scattered bottles littered the ground, the lingering wreckage of a good night built on loud laughter and the familiar chaos of old friends.
Now, it’s quieter, the silence stretching tight like it’s waiting to snap. Santi is sitting in his chair, one arm draped lazily on the armrest, the other loosely holding the bottle in his lap. Yet nothing about him feels relaxed. He’s studying me, steady and unreadable, like he’s trying to figure me out while waiting for me to be the first one to give.
I keep my gaze fixed on the center of the pit, watching a piece of oak split open and spill fresh glowing embers into the ash. I think I’m hiding it well, the hollow ache in my chest, the humiliation, the exhaustion of trying to figure out where it all went wrong.
But Santi knows how to read me.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he finally speaks, his voice barely carrying over the steady hum of crickets.
I offer a simple shrug in response, looking down and wiping away the condensation on my drink with my thumb. “Just thinking.”
He exhales, disbelieving, before he shifts, easing out of his sluggish sprawl and into a more focused stance, elbows settling onto his knees.
“You’ve been staring a hole into that log for thirty minutes,” he says. “And I know you. When you get this deep in your head, it’s never about anything good.”
He sets his drink down between us with a quiet click.
“Talk to me,” he urges, his voice softening.
The fire pops, sending a brief scatter of sparks up into the night. I follow them instead of looking at him.
“Come on. I’m starting to think the fire’s better company than me. My ego can’t take that kind of hit.”
A tiny, reluctant smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “I’m sure your ego will do just fine, Santiago.”
I finally glance at him, a weak challenge slipping through.
“Keep looking at me like that and it might actually survive the night,” he responds, a faint, teasing glint in his eyes easing some of the weight in my chest.
I press my lips together, fighting a smile. “If your ego gets any bigger, it’s going to need its own chair.”
Santi lets out a low, huffed laugh, the sound rumbling deep in his chest and breaking clean through the quiet. A smile traces his mouth as he settles back, easing into his seat like the tension has drained out of him. One elbow hangs off loosely as he folds his hands, lazy confidence returning to his posture.
“There she is,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling. “My little smartass.”
Something in my chest twists at how easily he says it.
But the humor quickly fades, and what’s left between us turns heavier again.
Santi knows about the breakup. He knows I’ve been drowning in the aftermath, moving around our group like I’m afraid I’ll crack if anyone looks too closely. He hasn’t pushed, and I haven’t offered much, but he’s been there anyway, in the small ways that don’t feel small at all. In the way he kept handing me drinks without asking. The way he stepped in before anyone else could crowd me. How he just let me exist without making it a thing.
The awareness of it sits heavy in my throat.
“It’s embarrassing,” I admit quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
“What is?” he prods, quick but quiet.
“That I’m still upset over somebody who clearly didn’t care about me that much.”
My ex-boyfriend hangs between us in the silence that follows, his name unspoken but still somehow taking up space in the air.
Santi’s expression settles differently. The joking version of him is gone in an instant, like it never quite belonged in this part of the conversation anyway.
“He cheated on you,” he says flatly. “You’re allowed to be upset.”
I let out a small breath, too quick to mean anything.
“I mean... yeah,” I mutter, trying to shrug it off like it’s nothing. “It’s just one of those things. It happens.”
I swallow, thumb picking at the edge of the label of my drink.
“Or maybe it doesn’t just happen,” I add quieter, the words turning on me before I can stop them. “Maybe I made it easy to do it. I don’t know. People don’t usually just…do that unless something’s missing.”
“You really think that’s why he cheated?” he asks, brows drawn tight in a way that makes the question sound less like curiosity and more like disbelief.
Heat creeps up my neck. I squirm in my chair, suddenly aware of my hands, my face, the way I’m sitting like I’ve said things I shouldn’t have out loud.
“That’s not how that works,” he says firmly. “And you know it.”
“Do I?” I try, like I can deflect my way out of the truth.
“Yes.”
There’s no hesitation in the word. It lands hard between us.
“You were not the problem,” he adds. “Not even close.”
A quiet, disbelieving huff slips through my nose, like I don’t quite know what to make of that.
“He cheated on you,” he repeats matter-of-factly. “That’s on him.” He pauses, his jaw tightening like he’s holding back more words than he needs. “Not you.”
I look down at my bottle, turning it slowly in my hands like the motion can give me somewhere to put this. Heat crawls up the back of my neck again, slower this time, heavier, like I’ve been caught doing something I didn’t realize was visible.
“He blew it because of his own shit. Not because you were lacking.”
My fingers tighten around the glass. I hate how immediate the instinct is to argue, to find a crack in it, to make it somehow less absolute.
“And I’m not going to sit here and watch you carry that,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You don’t get to take the blame for his mess.”
My eyes flick away from him again, like I can physically avoid the point if I don’t look straight at it.
“I know you're hurting, but you're too smart for this,” he adds. “You're sharp, you're funny without trying, and you usually see right through bullshit.”
My throat tightens a little, but I keep my face still, giving him nothing except my attention.
I force a dry, awkward chuckle, shaking my head because I don't know what else to do with a compliment like that. It feels completely misplaced. But he doesn't laugh with me. He shakes his head once, his expression shifting like he knows he shouldn’t be saying what he’s about to say.
“Seriously. Half the time you walk into a room, I forget what the hell I was saying.”
My breath catches slightly, and I hate that it does.
“And yeah, most people wouldn’t know what to do with you,” he continues, voice tightening. “Because you don’t fit into whatever easy little box they’re looking for. But that’s their problem, not yours.”
A strange, uneasy warmth flickers through me.
“If you were with me…”
He exhales through his nose, like he almost doesn’t want to finish the thought, but does anyway.
“You wouldn’t be sitting here talking about yourself like this. Because I’d make damn sure you felt like you’re enough.”
The words land differently. He seems to realize it too. His jaw flexes, like he’s irritated by how honest it came out.
“All I’m saying is… Don't start letting his mistakes make you doubt who you are. You are more than enough.”
For a second, I don’t know what to do with the feeling that follows. It’s too warm, too sudden, like my body reacts before I can decide what I’m supposed to make of it. My heartbeat stumbles, then picks up again in a way I absolutely refuse to examine too closely.
So, I default to the only thing I trust in moments like this.
A small, shaky breath of laughter slips out of me. “You sound like a damn motivational poster.”
His mouth quirks. “Yeah?” He leans back a fraction, still watching on me. “Want me to put it on a sunset background for you? I could print it out. Frame it. Hang it on a wall so every time you walk past it you get a little boost.”
That does it.
A real laugh breaks through this time. It’s small, reluctant, but honest. It cuts the tension clean in half, like a thread finally snapping.
I shake my head, still smiling. “Please don’t.”
“I’m thinking bold font,” he continues. “Maybe cursive if I’m feeling dramatic. ‘You are more than enough.’” He gestures vaguely like he’s already hanging it up. “Right above the TV. Or your bed. Somewhere you can’t escape it. Maybe then it’ll sink into that pretty little head of yours how completely, undeniably enough you are.”
I laugh again, sharper this time.
“You are so drunk,” I say, pointing lightly at him. “You are absolutely not allowed to be in charge of decorating my house while you’re drunk.”
He looks offended in the most performative way possible. “What? I’m still sober.”
“Mhm,” I hum, still smiling. “Sober people don’t design inspirational poster walls for their emotionally damaged friends. So, please, for the love of God, leave the interior designing to the experts.”
“I wouldn't say I'm drunk enough for interior design,” he argues, pausing to take a slow sip of his beer. “But for this? Yeah. I’m at the perfect level.”
Shaking my head, I tilt my face up toward the stars, searching for a distraction in the dark sky. Anywhere that isn’t him. Because with Santi, it always feels like everything is one breath away from tipping into something else neither of us is pretending to control.
“Promise me something.”
“Hm?” I look in his direction out of the corner of my eye.
“You’re never going to let anyone make you feel small ever again,” he says, his voice dropping into a rough whisper. “You hear me? You like this, with your guard down, it looks too damn good on you.”
His words settle in me in a way I don’t immediately have words for. I don’t let myself react to how much I feel them.
“That could absolutely go on a poster,” I say, pointing at him lightly. “‘Never let anyone make you feel small.’ Maybe you should run some of these by Will.”
That earns a quiet exhale of laughter from him.
“I’m serious,” he says, like my deflection didn’t even register.
“So am I,” I counter back. “Can you imagine Will rolling up to a recruitment assembly with motivational posters like that? He’d make it maybe two minutes before someone dragged him off stage. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to see that.”
Santi shakes his head. He’s watching me like he means it in a way that isn’t just playful anymore.
“It’s kind of unfair, you know.”
“What is?” I ask, my laughter dying.
“How you sit there like you don’t know what you do to people,” he replies. “Like you don’t realize what you do when you walk into a room. Everything changes a little.”
My stomach flips. I go still without meaning to and force my gaze down to the bottle still in my hand, trying to focus on anything but him. Because I can feel it, this thin, dangerous edge beneath the moment, the sense that if either of us leans too far into this, we won’t just be talking anymore.
“Oh, stop,” I say teasingly, reaching for distance. “That’s how you flirt with everyone.”
“Not everyone,” he replies immediately.
I give him a slow, exaggerated look of disbelief. “Please. I’ve seen girls line up for your attention.”
“They’re interested,” he says flatly. “I’m not.”
I tilt my head. “Sure.”
The word comes out slow and skeptical, dragged out by the alcohol buzzing warmly through my system.
His eyes narrow a little. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shrug, taking another sip. “Nothing. Just figured if you keep taking girls home, there must be a thing or two you like about them.”
Santi huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“They’re easy,” he replies. “No pressure. No expectations. Everybody knows what it is.”
“Mm.” I glance at him over the rim of my beer. “Because God forbid anything be serious.”
His face goes still in a different way.
“You think I can’t do serious?” he asks quietly.
I hesitate just a second too long. In that empty beat, the truth catches up to me. I know Santi too well to doubt him. His loyalty is a heavy, fierce thing. He can keep promises. But he already means too damn much to me. Taking a risk on anyone else is one thing, but with Santi, the stakes are too high. If I were to ever let myself believe him and it somehow falls apart, it’ll ruin me.
“I can do serious,” he assures me after a beat, voice lower now, steadier in that way that means he’s actually thinking before he speaks. “I just don’t want to waste it.”
“Right,” I say lightly.
“I just… I’m waiting,” he finally reiterates, quieter. “That’s all.”
I blink at him, caught a little off guard by how serious he sounds. “Waiting for what?”
His attention holds mine a second too long, the firelight cutting sharp lines across his face, his stubble, mouth, the steady set of his jaw all softened and deepened by the glow, like he’s not in any rush to look away.
“The right girl.”
My stomach flips, a dizzying reaction to the beer and the sheer weight of his attention. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing left in the entire world, a focus so intense it leaves nowhere to hide. I force a rough laugh, trying to shake the feeling before it takes root.
“Oh my God,” I snort softly, sinking back into my chair. “Who are you and what have you done with Santiago Garcia?”
A slow grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “He’s around here somewhere.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “And what exactly are you looking for in this right girl?”
The question comes out lighter than I mean for it to, teasing almost, but there’s a tightness curled underneath it. Because part of me wants to hear his answer more than I should, and the other part is already bracing for it. Afraid he’ll describe someone I could never be. Afraid he won’t.
He sinks back into the chair, loose-limbed and quiet, but his dark eyes remain pinned to mine.
“Someone who doesn’t take shit from anyone. And definitely not from me.”
I huff out a laugh. “Well, that already eliminates at least eighty percent of the population.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his mouth.
“She’d call me on my bullshit the second I earned it,” he says.
Another laugh. “So, you're looking for someone to keep you in line.”
His mouth twitches. “That's not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
“Pretty sure it's not.”
“All of you assholes need someone to keep you in line. Otherwise, things quickly become a total shitshow. And frankly, I’m tired of bailing all of you out of trouble.”
He holds my gaze for a second, his expression deadpan, before the tough-guy act cracks. A low laugh rumbles out of him. “Fair.”
I lean back, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “What else?”
“Probably a bit of a spitfire,” he says. “Smart mouth. Doesn’t back down. And doesn’t fall apart when things get hard.”
He pauses, like he’s deciding how honest he wants to be.
“Okay, sometimes she does,” he says, his voice dropping low, a trace of rough amusement in his chest. “But not for long. She’s too damn proud to let anyone think they broke her, or that she can’t handle her own shit.”
“Tough girl,” I murmur, the corner of my mouth tugging upward. “Sounds like she’d be a pain in the ass. You sure you can handle that?”
A quiet laugh slips out of him. “Yeah. I think I could.”
My gaze holds his a beat too long before I look away. “We’ll see about that.”
“I hope we do,” he replies, voice lower, the words lingering between us.
“Is that all?”
A faint breath of a laugh slips out of him, like he’s trying to keep it light and failing a little.
“She’s beautiful,” he says, the admission coming out quiet and rough, like he couldn't have held it back if he tried. He looks down at his beer for a split second, then right back up.
“But she’s completely blind to it,” he continues, his tone absolute. “It’s the kind of beautiful where she’s just going about her day, totally oblivious, until someone actually says it out loud. And then she just looks at you like you're speaking a different language.”
“Right. A gorgeous girl to make gorgeous babies,” I say, tossing him a dry smile. “Classic. I should have known that was on the checklist.”
Santi blinks once, then lets out a short, surprised laugh, more air than sound.
“Wait,” he says, leaning back a fraction like he’s recalibrating. “Are you saying that I’m gorgeous?”
There’s a flicker in his expression, something quick and unguarded before he reins it back in.
My eyes widen slightly when I realize what I just fed him.
“Slow your roll, Santiago,” I say immediately, cutting my eyes toward the fire to break the connection. “The kid's only hope is getting her genetics.”
“Damn,” he swears, shaking his head a little like he’s trying to shake the comment off. “Maybe my ego won’t survive tonight after all.”
I take a long, slow sip of my beer, letting the cold glass press against my bottom lip while I try to ignore the heat crawling up my neck.
“Well, whoever she is, she sounds exhausting.”
“She’s worth it,” he says, the words rough and certain in the quiet yard. “Trust me.”
The answer comes too fast. Too honest. Naturally, I deflect.
“You know,” I say, pointing at him, “most normal people would’ve just said ‘blonde’ or ‘brunette’ by now.”
His mouth curves slowly, eyes warm with amusement.
“Yeah, probably,” he replies. “But I don’t think the right person can be narrowed down to hair color.”
I release a small, skeptical hum. “That’s a very philosophical answer for a casual conversation.”
A quiet laugh slips out of him. “You asked.”
I exhale through my nose, lifting my bottle like I can toast the sentiment away.
“Well, I hope you find her. And I hope she’s prepared. Sounds like she’s got a whole lot to live up to.”
My words are meant to steer us back, but it doesn’t work.
Santi just watches me, his head tilted slightly, the firelight carving shadows under his cheekbones that make him look older, wearier, and more intense than usual. He lets the awkward silence hang there for a beat, letting my attempt to defuse the moment drift away like smoke, before he finally speaks.
“That’s the problem,” he murmurs, his dark eyes locking onto mine so intensely it almost makes my breath catch. “She doesn't get that she's been enough since day one.” He holds the silence, his voice falling to a rough whisper. “You really don't see it, do you?”
The fire pops, a sharp crack that sounds like a gunshot in the sudden, suffocating stillness. I freeze, my hand halfway to my mouth, the beer forgotten as the words settle over us.
I wait for the punchline, for the grin, the wink, the smooth deflection that turns this back into a joke, a tease between friends who have known each other for too long. But it doesn’t come.
Santi just stays there, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that feels almost physical. The lazy, charming facade he usually wears has completely vanished.
"Santi," I breathe out, the word barely more than a whisper. My heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Don't."
"Don't what?" he asks, seeming as though he isn’t going to back down. "Don't say it out loud? We've been dancing around this for years, and tonight you’re sitting here wondering why you weren't enough for some asshole who never deserved to breathe the same air as you. I'm done watching you do that to yourself."
I swallow hard, my grip tightening around the neck of my beer bottle until my knuckles turn white. "We're friends, Santi. The group-"
"I don't give a damn about the group," he interrupts, his tone fierce but steady. He sets his own bottle down on the table between us, entirely focused on me now. "And I haven't looked at you like just a friend in a very long time. You know that. Deep down, you do. And don't lie to me—I know you feel it, too."
The honesty of it feels like a physical blow. The safety net of our banter is completely gone, stripped away by a few words spoken in the quiet of the night. I look down at my lap, unable to hold his gaze any longer because it feels too exposing, like he's looking right into the bruised, aching parts of my soul.
"I can't do this right now," I utter, my voice trembling slightly. "My head is a mess, Santi. I'm still... I'm still trying to fix what he broke."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him move. He abandons his chair and crouches in front of me instead, closing the space between us. He doesn’t touch me, he knows better than to push that boundary, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him, steady and unavoidable.
“Then let me help you carry it,” he murmurs. “I’m not asking you to jump into anything. I’m not asking you to just… get over it. I’m just telling you where I am. Where I’ve been. So, when you finally look up, you don’t have to wonder who’s still here.”
I finally lift my head, my eyes searching his face. The shadows do nothing to hide the absolute sincerity in his expression. There’s no game here. No clever lines designed to get a girl into bed. Just Santi, completely raw and uncovered.
"Why haven’t you ever said anything before?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
A faint, wry smile touches his lips, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Because you were always with someone else. Then you were with him. And as much as it killed me to watch, you were trying to make it work. I wasn't going to mess up your life just because I wanted you. But he threw you away. And I'll be damned before I let anyone else make you feel like you're the one who failed."
A single tear slips free, hot against my cold cheek. I wipe it away quickly, annoyed by my own vulnerability.
Santi’s hand twitches on the armrest of my chair, a clear instinct to reach out and brush the dampness from my skin, but he restrains himself, keeping his unspoken promise not to crowd me. The self-control itself speaks volumes. It shows a level of care that I haven't experienced in a very long time.
The silence returns, but it’s entirely different now, moving from the suffocating weight of my own misery to the electric, terrifying hum of a line that has just been permanently crossed.
Santi watches me, waiting out my shock.
"You're lying," I whisper, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I shake my head, backing my shoulders deeper into the wooden chair, trying to create distance that doesn't exist. "You’re just... you’re being nice. You see me drowning and you’re trying to throw me a lifeline, but this isn't funny, Santi."
"Do I look like I'm joking?" His voice is dead serious, devoid of the usual easy cadence that makes everyone draw toward him. "I don't lie to you. I never have.”
"Everyone lies," I snap, a sudden flash of defense mechanism flaring up to protect the raw, bruised parts of my chest. "He said he loved me. He promised he’d never hurt me. He swore up and down that I was the only one, and look where that got me. Sitting by a dying fire, feeling like a ghost in my own life."
"I am not him," Santi says, each word a deliberate strike. "I don't make promises I can't keep. If I tell you you're the only thing I'm looking at, I mean it. If I tell you I'm going to be here, I'm not going anywhere. I promise you, if you give me a chance-"
"Stop. Just stop with the promises." I cut him off, a sharp, ragged breath leaving me. I look away, staring blindly at the edge of the brick firepit because looking at the sincerity in his eyes hurts too much. "I don't care about promises. I don't believe them anymore. They're just sentences people say to get what they want in the moment."
I squeeze my eyes shut, my throat tight and burning.
"I'm sorry, but I’m tired of words, Santi. I am so damn tired of them."
The confession hangs in the cool night air. I expect him to defend himself, to give me another speech, or to pull back into his usual protective layer of sarcasm. Instead, the yard goes completely still.
When I finally open my eyes and risk a glance back at him, the frustration on his face has cracked open, revealing something desperate. He’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s dying to solve, like he’d tear his own chest open if it meant giving me a reason to trust him.
"Then tell me what to do," he begs, his deep voice carrying a rare, vulnerable edge. He reaches out, his hand hovering in the space between us for a heartbeat before he lets his fingers rest lightly against the edge of my knee, just a fraction of contact, but it feels like lightning. “How can I make you believe me?”
I swallow, trying to find the version of myself that knows how to joke this off, but it’s inconveniently missing.
“Santi,” I start, but it comes out quieter than I mean it to.
His thumb moves slightly, not pushing, not pulling, just there, waiting.
“Look. If you need space,” he says, voice gone rough around the edges now, “I’ll give it to you. You want me gone? Fine. You want to act like this was a mistake? I’ll play along.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, bitter and tired all at once, dragging a hand over his mouth before looking at me again.
“But if you’re asking me what I want…” His gaze lifts to mine, steady and unflinching. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Another pause, smaller this time, like he’s deciding whether to cross a line he can’t uncross.
“You want me to prove it?” he asks, his voice dropping into a rough, low growl that makes my chest ache. He looks at me like he wants to shake me, or kiss me, or both. “Fine. Tell me what you need, and I’m there. You want me to follow you anywhere? Done. You want me on my knees? Just say the damn word. I will do whatever it takes to make you believe me.”
His hand doesn’t move away. It stays there, warm and grounding on the denim of my jeans.
An aching sob catches in my throat, and I swallow it down, my eyes swimming as I finally look straight at him. I want to believe him. Every broken, exhausted piece of me wants to lean into the warmth he’s offering and stop fighting the current. I want to believe that someone could look at me and see everything he just described.
Because beneath all my panic, a stubborn voice in the back of my mind refuses to let me lie to myself. I’m afraid of the risk, yes, but I am not afraid of him. For all his massive size and lethal capability, Santi is the only person alive who makes me feel entirely safe. I know with absolute certainty that he would burn the world down before he ever let a single scratch come to me.
"No more words,” I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of it. I look down at his hand on my knee, then back up to his gaze.
Santi freezes.
“Don't talk about it anymore. Just show me.”
For a long, agonizing beat, he doesn’t move. The easy confidence, the absolute certainty that usually radiates from him, falters. His jaw works, a muscle twitching violently under his stubble as he looks at me. He searches my eyes, his own dark and swirling with a sudden conflict. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Santiago Garcia hesitate, and the sheer weight of it makes my breath hitch.
Finally, he swallows.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his hand tightening just a fraction against my knee. “Because you need to understand something. If I cross this line with you, that’s it for me. No going back to how it was. I’m not playing games with you, cariño, so don’t try to play with me.”
“I’m sure,” I reply, and I mean it down to my bones. I slide my hand over his where it rests on my knee, feeling the rough warmth of his skin. “I want to believe you, Santi. I do. I'm tired of running from it. I'm tired of pretending I don't want this.”
I reach down, my fingers wrapping around his wrist, feeling the heavy, unsteady thrum of his pulse under my palm. For a second, he just looks at me like he’s trying to figure out if I really mean it, or if I’m about to pull away again the second it gets too real.
When I tug his hand upward, he lets me. He just follows, slow, like he’s giving me the space to set the terms myself. My grip tightens a fraction, not letting him slip out of it.
“So, if I’m really the one you’re waiting for…,” I whisper, turning his hand over in mine and pressing his palm flat against my chest. My heart is hammering against his skin, frantic and uneven, but I hold his hand there anyway. “No more pretty words. I've heard them all before. If you want me to believe you, Santi... Prove it.”
It’s then that I finally look at him.
“Show me I’m all that you need.”
The hesitation snaps.
Santi reaches out, his large hands anchoring against the sides of my face. His palms are warm, rough, and completely steady against my burning skin. He gently tilts my head and brushes his thumb over my cheekbone, catching a stray tear before it can fall.
He doesn't have to say a word. The fierce, consuming focus in his eyes tells me everything.
Then, he leans in, and the space between us vanishes.
When his mouth finds mine, it’s a crash of heat and absolute certainty, a silent vow pressed against my lips that completely takes the air from my lungs. It’s fierce, hungry, and so deeply possessive it makes my head spin.
My hands act on their own, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer because the sudden rush of warmth is the only thing keeping me anchored.
Santi groans into the kiss, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates straight through my chest. One of his hands slides down from my face, his fingers tangling in my hair to hold me steady, while his other hand moves to the back of my neck, his thumb anchoring my jaw. He kisses me like he’s trying to rewrite every lie I’ve ever been told, tracing the seam of my lips with a desperation that leaves no room for doubt.
Every defense mechanism I’ve spent weeks building up simply disintegrates.
And then, as abruptly as it began, he pulls back just an inch. The breath leaves him in a ragged, uneven rush against my lips.
The dark, heated look in his eyes takes over completely, swallowing any trace of hesitation. The tough, unyielding soldier vanished, replaced by a raw, single-minded focus that zeroes in on me like he’s been waiting for this exact command his entire life. The transformation is terrifying and absolute. It’s the look of a man who would burn the world down if I asked him to or kneel in the ashes to worship me if that’s what I needed.
The movement is fluid, controlled, his knees hitting the ground. He doesn't break eye contact for a second, his gaze locked on mine as he settles there, a supplicant at my altar.
He is massive, a wall of muscle and coiled power, and yet he looks completely disarmed like this. Stripped of his defenses, he's looking up at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the entire world.
He places his hands on my knees, his palms warm and rough through the denim. The heat of them sinks into my skin, branding me. He rests them there, waiting.
For a moment, I only stare at him, stunned by the sight of Santi on his knees before me. This is a man who commands rooms, who leads teams into hell and back, and here he is, kneeling in the dirt at my feet. The power rush is heady, dizzying, making the blood pound in my ears.
He waits, letting me take this in, letting me see him like this.
Slowly, his hands begin to move. They slide up my thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight up my spine. He's taking his time, exploring the terrain like he's memorizing it, his touch reverent but demanding.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked, vibrating against my skin.
"Worship me," I breathe, the command barely a whisper.
Santi’s eyes darken further, the pupils swallowing the iris until there’s almost nothing left. A low, ragged sound tears from his throat, something halfway between a groan and a growl, and he surges forward.
His hands slide from my knees to my hips, fingers hooking into the belt loops of my jeans to drag me to the very edge of the chair. I gasp at the sudden movement, my back arching as he pulls me flush against him, his face burying itself in the space between my legs.
He inhales deeply, like he’s trying to breathe me in, memorize my scent, and the sheer intimacy of the action makes my head spin.
"Fuck," he grits out, the word muffled against the denim. "You smell so fucking good.”
His hands move to the button of my jeans with practiced ease, popping it open and dragging the zipper down with agonizing slowness. The sound of the teeth parting is deafening in the quiet night. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my jeans and panties both, pulling them down my legs in one rough tug.
I lift my hips to help him, unable to look away from the sight of him, on his knees, doing exactly what I asked. The cool night air hits my heated skin, raising goosebumps, but his hands are there a second later, warm and grounding on my bare thighs.
He doesn’t give me a moment to feel exposed. He leans in immediately, his broad shoulders spreading my knees wider, forcing me open to the night air and his gaze. The firelight catches the sharp planes of his face as he dips his head, his breath hot against my inner thigh.
“Santi,” I gasp, my fingers flying to his hair, threading through the thick, dark curls.
He hums against my skin, a low, vibrating sound that sends a shockwave of electricity straight to my core. He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, then higher, his lips tracing a slow, torturous path up the sensitive skin of my thigh. He isn’t rushing. Every press of his mouth feels like a brand, staking a claim in the most tender way possible.
He works his way higher, his mouth leaving a trail of fire against my inner thighs. The scrape of his day-old stubble is a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips, sending shivers racing up my spine that have nothing to do with the chill in the air. He takes his time, mapping the terrain with a reverence that makes my chest ache, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of skin he’s been denied for so long.
When he finally reaches the apex of my thighs, he pauses. He pulls back just enough to look up at me, his eyes burning with a dark, fierce intensity. The sight of him, strong and unshakeable Santi, kneeling between my legs, looking at me like I’m the only holy thing left in the world, is almost enough to undo me right there.
“Look at you.”
The air between us is electric, charged with the weight of the moment. His eyes are pools of molten heat, filled with a raw, undisguised hunger that makes my breath hitch. He doesn't look away, his stare pinning me in place as he leans in, his breath ghosting over my exposed, aching flesh.
"You’re a fucking goddess," he murmurs, the words a dark rasp against my skin.
He seals his mouth over me with a desperate, hungry groan that vibrates through my entire body, his tongue flattening against my clit with a firm, pressured stroke.
My back bows off the chair, a broken cry tearing from my throat as my fingers tighten in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, but he doesn’t flinch. If anything, the pain seems to spur him on. He growls low against me, the sound rough and possessive, his hands gripping my thighs with bruising force to hold me open for him.
He eats me like he’s starving.
His tongue moves with a devastating precision, curling and flicking in ways that make my vision blur. There is no hesitation, no tentative exploration, only a relentless, consuming rhythm. He alternates between broad, flat strokes that cover every inch of me and sharp, targeted flicks of his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves that sends shockwaves racing up my spine.
I can’t think. I can’t breathe. The only thing that exists is the heat of his mouth, the rough grip of his hands on my thighs, and the desperate, embarrassing sounds escaping my own throat.
He changes his angle, dragging his lower lip through my folds before suctioning his mouth around my clit, sucking hard. My hips jerk instinctively, chasing the friction, but his grip tightens, iron-clad, holding me exactly where he wants me. He hums against me, the vibration radiating through my pelvis, down my thighs, settling deep in my bones.
The pressure builds, a tight, coiling knot low in my belly that threatens to snap. His name falls from my lips like a chant, a broken prayer. He doubles down, sliding one hand from my thigh, his fingers teasing my entrance before thrusting inside, curling upward to find that spot that makes me see stars.
The dual sensation is too much. The fullness of his fingers, the ruthless suction of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble. It’s a sensory overload that shatters me.
"Santi, I-," I gasp, my thighs trembling violently around his ears.
He doesn't let up. If anything, he presses harder, his tongue flicking rapidly while his fingers curl inside me, hitting that perfect, devastating spot over and over again. The coil in my belly snaps, white-hot and blinding.
My orgasm tears through me with the force of a freight train. I cry out, my back arching violently off the chair as the pleasure overwhelms my senses, wiping out everything but the feel of his mouth and hands. My entire body shakes, the tension releasing in a rush that leaves me gasping for air, my vision spotting with black and white.
He works me through it, drawing out every aftershock until I’m a trembling, oversensitive mess, completely boneless against the chair. The relentless rhythm of his tongue finally slows, turning into soft, languid laps that soothe rather than consume, gently bringing me down from the high.
I sag back, my chest heaving, staring up at the starless sky as my heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I feel wrecked, utterly spent.
Santi presses one last, lingering kiss to the inside of my thigh, a tender contrast to the bruising grip of his hands just moments ago. Then, he pulls back slightly, but he doesn't stand. He rests his forehead against my knee, his own breathing ragged and uneven, the heat of it seeping into my sweat-slicked skin.
The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the ragged sound of our breathing. For a long moment, he stays there, forehead resting against my knee, grounding us both. The rough stubble of his jaw scrapes against my skin, a tangible reminder of the intensity of what just happened.
He pulls back to look up at me, his eyes tracing the lines of my face as if he’s committing this moment to memory. The look in his eyes is fierce, a dark, possessive glint that says I’m his, and he’s not letting me go.
Slowly, he rises to his feet. The movement is effortless, a display of raw power that steals the breath I’m still trying to catch. He looms over me, his silhouette blocking out the firelight, a giant in the darkness. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to.
He reaches down, his hands sliding under my arms, and lifts. He scoops me up against his chest like I weigh nothing at all, one arm hooked behind my knees and the other braced firmly against my back. My head lolls against his shoulder, my face burying in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him.
The transition from the cool night air to the house is instantaneous, the warmth of the interior wrapping around us as he kicks the door shut behind him. He moves through the hallway with a predatory grace, his steps sure and silent on the floorboards.
I’m loose-limbed and floating, my body still humming with the aftershocks, my face pressed against the steady thrum of his heartbeat. I don't look up to see where we're going. I just let him carry me, trusting him completely to take me where I need to be.
He kicks the door to his bedroom open and carries me inside. He deposits me on the bed with a controlled drop, the mattress dipping under my weight.
I look up at him, breathless, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across his frame. He stands at the edge of the bed, staring down at me with a hunger that makes my throat go dry.
Santi stands there, chest heaving, his eyes dragging over me with a slow perusal that feels like a physical touch. He’s taking me in, and the look on his face is pure, unfiltered sin. He reaches back, gripping the hem of his shirt, and peels it off in one fluid motion, tossing it aside without looking.
The moonlight catches the hard planes of his chest, the definition of his abs, the scars that map his history. He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost violent, all coiled strength and restrained power.
“Come here,” I breathe, reaching for him.
He just stands there, letting his eyes trace the line of my body like he’s memorizing a map he intends to conquer. The silence stretches until the weight of his stare becomes a physical thing, pressing me into the mattress.
“Patience,” he chides, though the rough edge to his voice betrays him. His hands go to his belt, the metal clinking in the quiet room as he undoes it, then the button of his jeans. “I’m not rushing this. Not now.”
Santi’s dark eyes never leave mine as his hands hook into the waist of his jeans, pushing the denim down over his hips. The fabric bunches around his thighs before he steps out of them completely, kicking them aside with a careless movement that underscores his absolute focus on me.
He stands completely bare before me. He is magnificent, all long, powerful lines, the muscle of his thighs and the sharp, tensed V-cut of his lower stomach leading down to the undeniable, rigid proof of how badly he wants me. There is nothing hidden anymore. The vulnerability of his nakedness is entirely eclipsed by the raw, dominant presence he commands just by standing there.
A low, involuntary gasp slips from my throat at the sheer sight of him.
A slow, dark smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it disappears just as quickly, replaced by that heavy-lidded, consuming lust that has been burning in his eyes. He steps toward the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking deeply under his weight as he settles a knee on the mattress, looming over me once more.
"You like what you see?" he murmurs, his deep voice scraping low in his chest as he crawls forward, positioning himself over my body. "Because it's all yours. Every single inch."
He braces himself on his forearms, caging me in, his weight settling heavily on top of me in a way that feels like an anchor. The friction of his skin against mine sends a fresh shockwave of heat through my system, waking up nerves that are already raw and oversensitive.
I arch my neck back into the pillow, my hands coming up to wrap around his biceps, feeling the hard, tensed muscle beneath my palms. . I look up into his eyes, dark and steady, weighted with something unreadable, the kind that feel like they see too much and say too little. I’m completely helpless against the pull of him, unable to look away.
"I've never seen anything more perfect," I whisper, my voice trembling but entirely honest. I slide my hands up to his shoulders, pulling him down just that fraction closer until his breath mixes with mine. "
"God, you are so beautiful," he growls, the words raspy and unpolished as he stares down at me. His gaze roves over my face like he’s trying to memorize every line, every flush of my skin in the dim light. "I've been going out of my mind wanting you like this. It’s always been you."
He doesn't wait for me to answer, his mouth dropping down to claim mine again.
This time, the kiss is deeper, slower, filled with a quiet reverence that leaves me entirely breathless. He parts my lips with a possessive assurance, tasting me fully, while his fingers tangle into my hair to tilt my head just right. The sheer warmth of him floods through me, drowning out the lingering cold of everything that came before, until there is nothing left but the weight of his body and the absolute certainty of his mouth against mine.
He shifts, his mouth trailing a path of burning heat down the line of my jaw, finding the sensitive spot just beneath my ear. A low, ragged breath escapes him before he buries his lips against my throat. He kisses me there, deep and possessive, his tongue tracing the frantic, erratic beat of my pulse until my entire body arches into his touch.
The contrast of his heavy, solid weight against me and the deliberate, torturous precision of his mouth sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to my core.
“Santi, please,” I gasp, my hips lifting off the mattress in a desperate, silent plea. I need him to fill the ache, to stop the trembling that hasn't ceased since he put his mouth on me.
He hovers over me, bracing his weight on one arm while the other slides between us. He grips himself and runs the length of his cock through my folds, coating himself in the wet heat he left there. The friction is maddening, a slow, deliberate drag that makes my hips jerk off the mattress, chasing the contact.
“Eyes on me,” he orders, his voice a rough scrape against the quiet.
I force my eyes open, meeting that dark, consuming gaze. He’s watching me with an unblinking intensity, tracking every flutter of my eyelashes, every ragged breath that tears through my lips.
He doesn't ask again. He lines himself up and pushes forward, sinking into me with a slow, deliberate thrust. The stretch is intense, a burning, full pressure that borders on too much, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't give me a chance to adjust to the invasion. He just keeps coming, burying himself deep until his hips are flush against mine and there is nowhere left to go.
A ragged sound tears from my throat, half-gasp, half-moan. My body bows off the mattress, instinctively trying to accommodate the sheer size of him, my hands flying to his shoulders to hold on.
He holds himself there, deep and impossibly still, letting my body adjust to the invasion, letting me feel every thick inch of him stretching me wide. His breath is hot against my neck, ragged and uneven, the only sign that the iron control he’s famous for is hanging by a thread.
“Breathe,” he raps against my skin, his hand coming up to cup the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive spot behind my ear. “Just breathe, cariño. I got you.”
I try to obey, forcing air into lungs that feel seized, my internal muscles fluttering around him as they try to accommodate his size. He groans low in his throat, a dark, broken sound, his hips jerking involuntarily against me.
Then, he begins to move. A steady, punishingly deep rhythm that feels designed to completely dismantle me from the inside out. It’s a takeover. He refuses to let me look away, his dark eyes locked onto mine in the dim light filtering through the window, forcing me to witness every hitch in his breath, every tightening of his jaw, as if he's carving his name into my skin.
He leans down, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his teeth grazing my collarbone as his pace quickens, the friction and heat spiraling out of control.
“You’re it for me,” he confesses brokenly, his voice cracking against my ear as he drives us both over the edge. “But you get to decide if I stay yours the same way you’re mine.”
The admission hangs in the air, heavier than the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. It’s a detonation in the quiet room, shattering whatever fragile walls we’ve been hiding behind. The raw honesty in his voice, the way it cracks on the words, undoes me completely.
My heart lurches, a jagged, painful beat that matches the rhythm of his hips. I dig my heels into the mattress, lifting to meet him, my hands threading into his hair to pull him closer, needing him to merge with me, to erase the line where he ends and I begin. The coil in my belly tightens to the breaking point, white-hot and desperate, pulled by the drag of his body and the gravity of his confession.
“I’m yours, Santi,” I gasp, his name a prayer on my lips. “I’m yours…and you’re mine.”
He lets out a shuddering breath against my neck, as if my words have physically disarmed him, stripping away the last of his composure. But instead of driving into me harder, as his coiled muscles suggest he might, he slows. He pulls back to look at me, his expression fierce, reverent, almost pained in its intensity.
He brings a hand between us, his calloused palm tracing the line of my jaw, his thumb dragging over my lower lip until I part for him. He leans down, pressing his lips to my forehead, then the tip of my nose, then my cheeks, scattering kisses like he’s trying to memorize my features by braille.
“Mine,” he repeats, agreeing with my declaration, making it a vow. He shifts his weight, sliding one arm under my waist to tilt my hips up, changing the angle so he brushes against a spot that makes me see stars. “I’m going to take such good fucking care of you.”
He starts to move again, but the rhythm has changed. The punishing pace is gone, replaced by a deliberate, devastating slowness. He’s worshiping me with his body, using every inch of himself to show me what he can’t say with words alone.
He presses his lips to my temple, then down to the hollow of my throat, his tongue darting out to taste the salt on my skin.
“Fuck,” he exhales quietly, like the words aren’t enough for what he means. “You’re so beautiful it’s not even fair.”
His hips roll in a shallow, grinding wave, hitting that deep, tender spot inside me over and over until I’m a writhing mess beneath him. He’s taking his time, dragging out every sensation, forcing me to feel every ridge, every vein, every thick inch of him as he strokes the fire higher. His hands roam my body, gripping my thighs, tracing the curve of my waist, tangling in my hair, holding me steady for his possession.
He shifts slightly, bringing one hand between us where we are joined, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves with unerring precision. The dual sensation of him filling me and the tight, circling pressure of his thumb is devastating. My back arches off the bed, a broken cry spilling from my lips as the pleasure spikes sharp and blinding.
“Let go for me,” he commands softly, his voice dark and rough against my ear. “I want to feel you fall apart.”
He doesn’t stop. He works me with a relentless, focused dedication, watching my face with that piercing gaze as the tension in my belly winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap. The pleasure builds to a crescendo, a white-hot wave that crashes over me, pulling me under. I cry out his name, my body clamping down around him as the orgasm rips through me, leaving me gasping and shaking in its wake.
The aftershocks are still rippling through me, turning my bones to liquid, when Santi withdraws. The sudden emptiness is a jarring loss, a cold void where he just was, but he doesn’t give me time to mourn the absence. His hands are on me instantly, gripping my hips with a firm, undeniable pressure.
“Turn over,” he rasps, the command rough but laced with that same dark reverence.
I’m too wrecked to do anything but obey. I roll onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow to muffle a sound that’s half-sob, half-moan. My body is humming, oversensitive, every nerve ending exposed. I feel the mattress dip as he moves behind me, the heat of his skin radiating against mine even before he touches me.
His hands grip my waist, rough and demanding, pulling me up until I’m on my hands and knees. The position leaves me vulnerable, my back arched and exposed to him, but the vulnerability only serves to heighten the anticipation. I feel the mattress shift as he moves in behind me, the heat of his thighs brushing against the backs of mine. He’s a furnace at my back, a wall of solid muscle and restrained aggression.
He doesn’t enter me immediately. He takes a moment to appreciate the view, his calloused palms running over the curve of my spine, tracing the dip of my lower back before gripping my ass firmly. His touch is possessive, kneading the flesh, branding me as his own.
“God, look at you,” he groans, the sound rough and low, vibrating against my skin. “Perfect like this. All for me.”
He leans down, the heat of his chest pressing against my back, molding us together. The hair on his chest tickles my skin, a sharp contrast to the steel-hard muscles beneath. He doesn't rush; he takes a moment to bracket my body with his, caging me in. One arm slides under my chest, pulling me back against him until my shoulder blades are flush with his pecs, while his other hand grips my hip, anchoring me in place.
I can feel the thud of his heart against my spine, a frantic rhythm that matches my own. His breath is hot against the sensitive shell of my ear, sending shivers down my neck even as the rest of me burns.
“Santi,” I whimper, my head falling back onto his shoulder, exposing my throat to him in a gesture of total surrender. “Please.”
He doesn't make me wait any longer. He lines himself up and sinks into me in one deep, fluid stroke, a possessive invasion that forces a broken cry from my lips. The angle is deeper this way, devastatingly so, and I grip the bedsheets, knuckles white, as he seats himself fully inside.
“I got you,” he growls against the sensitive skin of my neck, his voice vibrating through my chest.
He pulls back then enters me again in one smooth stroke, and this time the angle is deeper, devastatingly so. I cry out, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on the sheets, but he has me locked down. There is no escaping the intensity of him, the way he fills every inch of space, physical and otherwise.
The friction is maddening, a slow drag that pulls against every nerve ending. He’s more than fucking me. He’s imprinting himself on me, ensuring that every inch of my body remembers the shape of him. The arm across my chest is a steel band, his hand splayed wide over my sternum, feeling the frantic race of my heart.
He shifts his hips, changing the angle just enough to hit that spot that makes spots dance behind my eyelids, and a high, thin sound tears from my throat. His response is a low, dark chuckle that he presses directly into the sweat-slicked skin of my shoulder.
“You feel that?” he rasps, his teeth grazing the tendon where my neck meets my shoulder. “That’s where I belong. Deep inside you.”
He buries his face in the curve of my neck, inhaling me like I’m the only source of oxygen left in a burning room. The intimacy of this position is overwhelming. I can’t hide from him like this. I’m completely spread open, trapped against the hard wall of his chest, forced to feel every ragged breath he takes, every twitch of the muscles that are caging me in.
“Santi, please,” I sob, the sound broken and breathless. “It’s too much. I can’t-”
“You can,” he cuts me off fiercely, his hand sliding up from my chest to wrap around my throat, tilting my head back further. His grip is firm, possessive, anchoring me to him. “You were made for this. Made for me. Do you trust me?”
“I trust you.”
“Good,” he groans, the words breaking on a thrust that feels like a prayer. “I want to show you what you do to me, how completely you have me on my knees. Fuck, I’d do anything for you.” The words are punched out of him with every thrust, raw and desperate and terrifyingly loud in the quiet room. "I need you. I need you in a way I don’t really know what to do with.”
His grip on my throat tightens just enough to make my pulse hammer against his palm, a possessive, grounding pressure that sends a fresh shockwave of heat straight to my core. The vulnerability of the position, the sheer weight of him surrounding me, is intoxicating. I feel claimed, not just in my body but in the very air I breathe.
“Please,” I gasp, my voice breaking as he hits a spot that makes the room tilt on its axis.
“Please what?” He doesn't let up. If anything, the angle sharpens, grinding deep until I’m arching off the mattress, a broken moan tearing from my throat. “Tell me what you need, cariño.”
“I… I…” The words dissolve into a breathless whine, completely broken. My mind is a white void of pure sensation, wiped entirely clean of everything but the agonizingly perfect drag of his skin against mine. I let out a desperate whimper, helpless against the relentless rhythm that’s pushing me straight toward another precipice.
“Shh,” he breathes, the words a ragged promise against my neck. He seems to understand my incoherence better than I do. “I know.”
He slides his hand between our bodies. When his hand finds the swollen, aching heat between my legs, the slick friction of his touch is absolute electricity. A violent shockwave ripples through me, bucking my hips helplessly against him.
He shifts his hips, hitting a spot that makes my vision blur, and the sheer precision of it, the fact that he knows my body better than I know myself right now, makes my head spin. He's attuning himself to me, reading every tremor, every gasp like a map he’s memorized.
His lips graze the sensitive skin just below my ear, placing a kiss there that is tender, a stark contrast to the relentless rhythm of his hips. It’s a benediction, a silent vow spoken in the language of touch.
“I’m giving it to you,” he breathes, the words rough, pouring out of him like he’s been holding them back for a lifetime. “Everything you could ever want, it’s yours. Just say the word.”
"Give it to me, Santi," I gasp out, my voice raw and completely undone against his lips. "I'm yours. I believe you."
That breaks him. The rhythm shifts from that devastatingly slow torture to a desperate, driving cadence, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room, raw and rhythmic. He’s not holding anything back, pouring everything he is, every secret, every fear, every ounce of that desperate devotion he confessed, into the way he moves inside me. It’s frantic, almost violent in its intensity, a man running out of time trying to etch his soul into mine.
He keeps talking, a stream of praise and devotion that mixes with the ragged sounds of our exertion. He tells me I'm beautiful, that I'm his, that he's never felt anything like this in his life. Each word acts as a catalyst, wringing spasm after spasm from my exhausted body until I'm sobbing, completely undone by the sheer force of his devotion and the overwhelming, blinding pleasure of him.
A raw, ragged sob tears from my throat as the third climax crashes into me, harder and sharper than the first two. It blindsides me, a white-hot supernova that obliterates every thought, every doubt, every memory of the months spent feeling invisible. My body locks up, shaking violently beneath him, my inner muscles clamping around him like a vice.
I scream his name, my voice breaking as the pleasure turns almost painful in its intensity.
He growls low in his throat, a sound of pure satisfaction, and rides me through it. He doesn't stop the ruthless motion of his hips, doesn't stop the devastating circles of his fingers until I’m completely spent, collapsed and twitching against the mattress.
He follows me over the edge with a guttural groan that sounds like it’s been wrenched out of him, his rhythm finally stuttering and breaking. He buries himself to the hilt, holding there as his body bows, his hand blindly seeking mine on the mattress, pinning our fingers together and squeezing tight. He holds me with a reverence that borders on the divine, anchoring me through the intensity, ensuring that even in the midst of his own unraveling, I am cherished, safe, and held.
For a long, suspended moment, the world narrows down to the sound of our breathing, ragged, uneven, deafening in the quiet room. The air smells of sex and sweat and him, a scent that seems to imprint itself directly into my bloodstream.
He collapses over me, a sweat-slicked weight that presses me into the mattress, but he doesn't crush me. He catches himself on his elbows at the last second, burying his face in the crook of my neck as his body continues to shudder with the aftershocks.
His heart hammers against my spine, a heavy, frantic rhythm that matches the thumping in my own chest. We are a tangle of limbs, skin sticking to skin, the air around us thick and stifling in the best possible way.
For a long time, neither of us moves. The only sounds are the ragged intake of breath and the distant, muffled crackle of the fire pit dying outside the window. It’s like the world has stopped spinning, just for us, leaving us suspended in this bubble.
Eventually, he shifts his weight, rolling us onto our sides so he doesn't crush me, but he doesn't let go. He pulls me back into his chest, spooning me, his face buried in my hair. His arm is a possessive weight across my waist, his hand splayed flat against my stomach, holding me together.
I can feel his breath against the back of my neck, warm and uneven, slowly syncing with my own. The dim room feels smaller now, the shadows pressing in, but it doesn't feel claustrophobic. It feels like a bunker. Like the only safe place left on earth.
He presses a kiss to my shoulder, lingering there like he’s memorizing the taste of my skin. "You okay?”
I hum, turning my head just enough to catch his eye. The intensity from before is still there, but it’s softened now, melted into an unguarded warmth. It’s a look he rarely shows the world, reserved only for these quiet moments when the armor comes off.
"Yeah," I whisper, my throat feeling raw and used. "I'm more than okay."
The corner of his mouth kicks up, that familiar, crooked thing that used to make my stomach flip years ago and still manages to do a number on me now. He lifts his hand from my stomach, tracing the line of my jaw with a thumb that's rough and calloused, but gentle enough to make my eyes sting.
“I know you’re tired of words,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough vibration against my skin. “But I meant every fucking one of them. I’m not letting you go. I don’t care what it takes. I’m making sure you believe me.”
He pulls back just enough to search my eyes, his gaze dark and unwavering, daring me to look away. But I don't. A slow, challenging smirk tugs at my lips as a familiar heat begins to build all over again.
"You talk a big game, Santiago," I whisper, shifting back to feel the reassuring weight of his body. "I’m going to hold you to it.”
POV: 1st (f!Reader)
Rating: Explicit. 18+ ONLY.
Summary: A messy post-breakup bonfire turns into years of unspoken tension finally boiling over with Santi.
Word Count: 11.3k
Content/Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, mention of cheating/past breakup with unnamed character, emotional baggage, friends to lovers, mutual pining, drinking, drunk confessions, praise, oral sex (f receiving), PiV sex, Santiago "Eyes On Me" Garcia
A/N: Inspired by the song “Believe It” by Jared Benjamin, which was inspired by the “My house. My chair. My woman” scene in Fourth Wing. This has been living rent-free in my head for a while. There’s just something about the thought of Santi on his knees worshipping the absolute fuck out of you.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are deeply appreciated.
Masterlist
The others left not too long ago.
Frankie was the first to go, clapping Santi on the shoulder on his way out. Will and Benny followed soon after, tossing lazy goodbyes over their shoulders as they headed for the front yard. When the gate shut behind them, it was just the two of us left.
We didn't move from our spots by the pit. The fire had settled into a steady, low hum, its smoke hanging heavy in the space between us. Scattered bottles littered the ground, the lingering wreckage of a good night built on loud laughter and the familiar chaos of old friends.
Now, it’s quieter, the silence stretching tight like it’s waiting to snap. Santi is sitting in his chair, one arm draped lazily on the armrest, the other loosely holding the bottle in his lap. Yet nothing about him feels relaxed. He’s studying me, steady and unreadable, like he’s trying to figure me out while waiting for me to be the first one to give.
I keep my gaze fixed on the center of the pit, watching a piece of oak split open and spill fresh glowing embers into the ash. I think I’m hiding it well, the hollow ache in my chest, the humiliation, the exhaustion of trying to figure out where it all went wrong.
But Santi knows how to read me.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he finally speaks, his voice barely carrying over the steady hum of crickets.
I offer a simple shrug in response, looking down and wiping away the condensation on my drink with my thumb. “Just thinking.”
He exhales, disbelieving, before he shifts, easing out of his sluggish sprawl and into a more focused stance, elbows settling onto his knees.
“You’ve been staring a hole into that log for thirty minutes,” he says. “And I know you. When you get this deep in your head, it’s never about anything good.”
He sets his drink down between us with a quiet click.
“Talk to me,” he urges, his voice softening.
The fire pops, sending a brief scatter of sparks up into the night. I follow them instead of looking at him.
“Come on. I’m starting to think the fire’s better company than me. My ego can’t take that kind of hit.”
A tiny, reluctant smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “I’m sure your ego will do just fine, Santiago.”
I finally glance at him, a weak challenge slipping through.
“Keep looking at me like that and it might actually survive the night,” he responds, a faint, teasing glint in his eyes easing some of the weight in my chest.
I press my lips together, fighting a smile. “If your ego gets any bigger, it’s going to need its own chair.”
Santi lets out a low, huffed laugh, the sound rumbling deep in his chest and breaking clean through the quiet. A smile traces his mouth as he settles back, easing into his seat like the tension has drained out of him. One elbow hangs off loosely as he folds his hands, lazy confidence returning to his posture.
“There she is,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling. “My little smartass.”
Something in my chest twists at how easily he says it.
But the humor quickly fades, and what’s left between us turns heavier again.
Santi knows about the breakup. He knows I’ve been drowning in the aftermath, moving around our group like I’m afraid I’ll crack if anyone looks too closely. He hasn’t pushed, and I haven’t offered much, but he’s been there anyway, in the small ways that don’t feel small at all. In the way he kept handing me drinks without asking. The way he stepped in before anyone else could crowd me. How he just let me exist without making it a thing.
The awareness of it sits heavy in my throat.
“It’s embarrassing,” I admit quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
“What is?” he prods, quick but quiet.
“That I’m still upset over somebody who clearly didn’t care about me that much.”
My ex-boyfriend hangs between us in the silence that follows, his name unspoken but still somehow taking up space in the air.
Santi’s expression settles differently. The joking version of him is gone in an instant, like it never quite belonged in this part of the conversation anyway.
“He cheated on you,” he says flatly. “You’re allowed to be upset.”
I let out a small breath, too quick to mean anything.
“I mean... yeah,” I mutter, trying to shrug it off like it’s nothing. “It’s just one of those things. It happens.”
I swallow, thumb picking at the edge of the label of my drink.
“Or maybe it doesn’t just happen,” I add quieter, the words turning on me before I can stop them. “Maybe I made it easy to do it. I don’t know. People don’t usually just…do that unless something’s missing.”
“You really think that’s why he cheated?” he asks, brows drawn tight in a way that makes the question sound less like curiosity and more like disbelief.
Heat creeps up my neck. I squirm in my chair, suddenly aware of my hands, my face, the way I’m sitting like I’ve said things I shouldn’t have out loud.
“That’s not how that works,” he says firmly. “And you know it.”
“Do I?” I try, like I can deflect my way out of the truth.
“Yes.”
There’s no hesitation in the word. It lands hard between us.
“You were not the problem,” he adds. “Not even close.”
A quiet, disbelieving huff slips through my nose, like I don’t quite know what to make of that.
“He cheated on you,” he repeats matter-of-factly. “That’s on him.” He pauses, his jaw tightening like he’s holding back more words than he needs. “Not you.”
I look down at my bottle, turning it slowly in my hands like the motion can give me somewhere to put this. Heat crawls up the back of my neck again, slower this time, heavier, like I’ve been caught doing something I didn’t realize was visible.
“He blew it because of his own shit. Not because you were lacking.”
My fingers tighten around the glass. I hate how immediate the instinct is to argue, to find a crack in it, to make it somehow less absolute.
“And I’m not going to sit here and watch you carry that,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You don’t get to take the blame for his mess.”
My eyes flick away from him again, like I can physically avoid the point if I don’t look straight at it.
“I know you're hurting, but you're too smart for this,” he adds. “You're sharp, you're funny without trying, and you usually see right through bullshit.”
My throat tightens a little, but I keep my face still, giving him nothing except my attention.
I force a dry, awkward chuckle, shaking my head because I don't know what else to do with a compliment like that. It feels completely misplaced. But he doesn't laugh with me. He shakes his head once, his expression shifting like he knows he shouldn’t be saying what he’s about to say.
“Seriously. Half the time you walk into a room, I forget what the hell I was saying.”
My breath catches slightly, and I hate that it does.
“And yeah, most people wouldn’t know what to do with you,” he continues, voice tightening. “Because you don’t fit into whatever easy little box they’re looking for. But that’s their problem, not yours.”
A strange, uneasy warmth flickers through me.
“If you were with me…”
He exhales through his nose, like he almost doesn’t want to finish the thought, but does anyway.
“You wouldn’t be sitting here talking about yourself like this. Because I’d make damn sure you felt like you’re enough.”
The words land differently. He seems to realize it too. His jaw flexes, like he’s irritated by how honest it came out.
“All I’m saying is… Don't start letting his mistakes make you doubt who you are. You are more than enough.”
For a second, I don’t know what to do with the feeling that follows. It’s too warm, too sudden, like my body reacts before I can decide what I’m supposed to make of it. My heartbeat stumbles, then picks up again in a way I absolutely refuse to examine too closely.
So, I default to the only thing I trust in moments like this.
A small, shaky breath of laughter slips out of me. “You sound like a damn motivational poster.”
His mouth quirks. “Yeah?” He leans back a fraction, still watching on me. “Want me to put it on a sunset background for you? I could print it out. Frame it. Hang it on a wall so every time you walk past it you get a little boost.”
That does it.
A real laugh breaks through this time. It’s small, reluctant, but honest. It cuts the tension clean in half, like a thread finally snapping.
I shake my head, still smiling. “Please don’t.”
“I’m thinking bold font,” he continues. “Maybe cursive if I’m feeling dramatic. ‘You are more than enough.’” He gestures vaguely like he’s already hanging it up. “Right above the TV. Or your bed. Somewhere you can’t escape it. Maybe then it’ll sink into that pretty little head of yours how completely, undeniably enough you are.”
I laugh again, sharper this time.
“You are so drunk,” I say, pointing lightly at him. “You are absolutely not allowed to be in charge of decorating my house while you’re drunk.”
He looks offended in the most performative way possible. “What? I’m still sober.”
“Mhm,” I hum, still smiling. “Sober people don’t design inspirational poster walls for their emotionally damaged friends. So, please, for the love of God, leave the interior designing to the experts.”
“I wouldn't say I'm drunk enough for interior design,” he argues, pausing to take a slow sip of his beer. “But for this? Yeah. I’m at the perfect level.”
Shaking my head, I tilt my face up toward the stars, searching for a distraction in the dark sky. Anywhere that isn’t him. Because with Santi, it always feels like everything is one breath away from tipping into something else neither of us is pretending to control.
“Promise me something.”
“Hm?” I look in his direction out of the corner of my eye.
“You’re never going to let anyone make you feel small ever again,” he says, his voice dropping into a rough whisper. “You hear me? You like this, with your guard down, it looks too damn good on you.”
His words settle in me in a way I don’t immediately have words for. I don’t let myself react to how much I feel them.
“That could absolutely go on a poster,” I say, pointing at him lightly. “‘Never let anyone make you feel small.’ Maybe you should run some of these by Will.”
That earns a quiet exhale of laughter from him.
“I’m serious,” he says, like my deflection didn’t even register.
“So am I,” I counter back. “Can you imagine Will rolling up to a recruitment assembly with motivational posters like that? He’d make it maybe two minutes before someone dragged him off stage. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to see that.”
Santi shakes his head. He’s watching me like he means it in a way that isn’t just playful anymore.
“It’s kind of unfair, you know.”
“What is?” I ask, my laughter dying.
“How you sit there like you don’t know what you do to people,” he replies. “Like you don’t realize what you do when you walk into a room. Everything changes a little.”
My stomach flips. I go still without meaning to and force my gaze down to the bottle still in my hand, trying to focus on anything but him. Because I can feel it, this thin, dangerous edge beneath the moment, the sense that if either of us leans too far into this, we won’t just be talking anymore.
“Oh, stop,” I say teasingly, reaching for distance. “That’s how you flirt with everyone.”
“Not everyone,” he replies immediately.
I give him a slow, exaggerated look of disbelief. “Please. I’ve seen girls line up for your attention.”
“They’re interested,” he says flatly. “I’m not.”
I tilt my head. “Sure.”
The word comes out slow and skeptical, dragged out by the alcohol buzzing warmly through my system.
His eyes narrow a little. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shrug, taking another sip. “Nothing. Just figured if you keep taking girls home, there must be a thing or two you like about them.”
Santi huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“They’re easy,” he replies. “No pressure. No expectations. Everybody knows what it is.”
“Mm.” I glance at him over the rim of my beer. “Because God forbid anything be serious.”
His face goes still in a different way.
“You think I can’t do serious?” he asks quietly.
I hesitate just a second too long. In that empty beat, the truth catches up to me. I know Santi too well to doubt him. His loyalty is a heavy, fierce thing. He can keep promises. But he already means too damn much to me. Taking a risk on anyone else is one thing, but with Santi, the stakes are too high. If I were to ever let myself believe him and it somehow falls apart, it’ll ruin me.
“I can do serious,” he assures me after a beat, voice lower now, steadier in that way that means he’s actually thinking before he speaks. “I just don’t want to waste it.”
“Right,” I say lightly.
“I just… I’m waiting,” he finally reiterates, quieter. “That’s all.”
I blink at him, caught a little off guard by how serious he sounds. “Waiting for what?”
His attention holds mine a second too long, the firelight cutting sharp lines across his face, his stubble, mouth, the steady set of his jaw all softened and deepened by the glow, like he’s not in any rush to look away.
“The right girl.”
My stomach flips, a dizzying reaction to the beer and the sheer weight of his attention. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing left in the entire world, a focus so intense it leaves nowhere to hide. I force a rough laugh, trying to shake the feeling before it takes root.
“Oh my God,” I snort softly, sinking back into my chair. “Who are you and what have you done with Santiago Garcia?”
A slow grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “He’s around here somewhere.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “And what exactly are you looking for in this right girl?”
The question comes out lighter than I mean for it to, teasing almost, but there’s a tightness curled underneath it. Because part of me wants to hear his answer more than I should, and the other part is already bracing for it. Afraid he’ll describe someone I could never be. Afraid he won’t.
He sinks back into the chair, loose-limbed and quiet, but his dark eyes remain pinned to mine.
“Someone who doesn’t take shit from anyone. And definitely not from me.”
I huff out a laugh. “Well, that already eliminates at least eighty percent of the population.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his mouth.
“She’d call me on my bullshit the second I earned it,” he says.
Another laugh. “So, you're looking for someone to keep you in line.”
His mouth twitches. “That's not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
“Pretty sure it's not.”
“All of you assholes need someone to keep you in line. Otherwise, things quickly become a total shitshow. And frankly, I’m tired of bailing all of you out of trouble.”
He holds my gaze for a second, his expression deadpan, before the tough-guy act cracks. A low laugh rumbles out of him. “Fair.”
I lean back, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “What else?”
“Probably a bit of a spitfire,” he says. “Smart mouth. Doesn’t back down. And doesn’t fall apart when things get hard.”
He pauses, like he’s deciding how honest he wants to be.
“Okay, sometimes she does,” he says, his voice dropping low, a trace of rough amusement in his chest. “But not for long. She’s too damn proud to let anyone think they broke her, or that she can’t handle her own shit.”
“Tough girl,” I murmur, the corner of my mouth tugging upward. “Sounds like she’d be a pain in the ass. You sure you can handle that?”
A quiet laugh slips out of him. “Yeah. I think I could.”
My gaze holds his a beat too long before I look away. “We’ll see about that.”
“I hope we do,” he replies, voice lower, the words lingering between us.
“Is that all?”
A faint breath of a laugh slips out of him, like he’s trying to keep it light and failing a little.
“She’s beautiful,” he says, the admission coming out quiet and rough, like he couldn't have held it back if he tried. He looks down at his beer for a split second, then right back up.
“But she’s completely blind to it,” he continues, his tone absolute. “It’s the kind of beautiful where she’s just going about her day, totally oblivious, until someone actually says it out loud. And then she just looks at you like you're speaking a different language.”
“Right. A gorgeous girl to make gorgeous babies,” I say, tossing him a dry smile. “Classic. I should have known that was on the checklist.”
Santi blinks once, then lets out a short, surprised laugh, more air than sound.
“Wait,” he says, leaning back a fraction like he’s recalibrating. “Are you saying that I’m gorgeous?”
There’s a flicker in his expression, something quick and unguarded before he reins it back in.
My eyes widen slightly when I realize what I just fed him.
“Slow your roll, Santiago,” I say immediately, cutting my eyes toward the fire to break the connection. “The kid's only hope is getting her genetics.”
“Damn,” he swears, shaking his head a little like he’s trying to shake the comment off. “Maybe my ego won’t survive tonight after all.”
I take a long, slow sip of my beer, letting the cold glass press against my bottom lip while I try to ignore the heat crawling up my neck.
“Well, whoever she is, she sounds exhausting.”
“She’s worth it,” he says, the words rough and certain in the quiet yard. “Trust me.”
The answer comes too fast. Too honest. Naturally, I deflect.
“You know,” I say, pointing at him, “most normal people would’ve just said ‘blonde’ or ‘brunette’ by now.”
His mouth curves slowly, eyes warm with amusement.
“Yeah, probably,” he replies. “But I don’t think the right person can be narrowed down to hair color.”
I release a small, skeptical hum. “That’s a very philosophical answer for a casual conversation.”
A quiet laugh slips out of him. “You asked.”
I exhale through my nose, lifting my bottle like I can toast the sentiment away.
“Well, I hope you find her. And I hope she’s prepared. Sounds like she’s got a whole lot to live up to.”
My words are meant to steer us back, but it doesn’t work.
Santi just watches me, his head tilted slightly, the firelight carving shadows under his cheekbones that make him look older, wearier, and more intense than usual. He lets the awkward silence hang there for a beat, letting my attempt to defuse the moment drift away like smoke, before he finally speaks.
“That’s the problem,” he murmurs, his dark eyes locking onto mine so intensely it almost makes my breath catch. “She doesn't get that she's been enough since day one.” He holds the silence, his voice falling to a rough whisper. “You really don't see it, do you?”
The fire pops, a sharp crack that sounds like a gunshot in the sudden, suffocating stillness. I freeze, my hand halfway to my mouth, the beer forgotten as the words settle over us.
I wait for the punchline, for the grin, the wink, the smooth deflection that turns this back into a joke, a tease between friends who have known each other for too long. But it doesn’t come.
Santi just stays there, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that feels almost physical. The lazy, charming facade he usually wears has completely vanished.
"Santi," I breathe out, the word barely more than a whisper. My heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Don't."
"Don't what?" he asks, seeming as though he isn’t going to back down. "Don't say it out loud? We've been dancing around this for years, and tonight you’re sitting here wondering why you weren't enough for some asshole who never deserved to breathe the same air as you. I'm done watching you do that to yourself."
I swallow hard, my grip tightening around the neck of my beer bottle until my knuckles turn white. "We're friends, Santi. The group-"
"I don't give a damn about the group," he interrupts, his tone fierce but steady. He sets his own bottle down on the table between us, entirely focused on me now. "And I haven't looked at you like just a friend in a very long time. You know that. Deep down, you do. And don't lie to me—I know you feel it, too."
The honesty of it feels like a physical blow. The safety net of our banter is completely gone, stripped away by a few words spoken in the quiet of the night. I look down at my lap, unable to hold his gaze any longer because it feels too exposing, like he's looking right into the bruised, aching parts of my soul.
"I can't do this right now," I utter, my voice trembling slightly. "My head is a mess, Santi. I'm still... I'm still trying to fix what he broke."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him move. He abandons his chair and crouches in front of me instead, closing the space between us. He doesn’t touch me, he knows better than to push that boundary, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him, steady and unavoidable.
“Then let me help you carry it,” he murmurs. “I’m not asking you to jump into anything. I’m not asking you to just… get over it. I’m just telling you where I am. Where I’ve been. So, when you finally look up, you don’t have to wonder who’s still here.”
I finally lift my head, my eyes searching his face. The shadows do nothing to hide the absolute sincerity in his expression. There’s no game here. No clever lines designed to get a girl into bed. Just Santi, completely raw and uncovered.
"Why haven’t you ever said anything before?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
A faint, wry smile touches his lips, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Because you were always with someone else. Then you were with him. And as much as it killed me to watch, you were trying to make it work. I wasn't going to mess up your life just because I wanted you. But he threw you away. And I'll be damned before I let anyone else make you feel like you're the one who failed."
A single tear slips free, hot against my cold cheek. I wipe it away quickly, annoyed by my own vulnerability.
Santi’s hand twitches on the armrest of my chair, a clear instinct to reach out and brush the dampness from my skin, but he restrains himself, keeping his unspoken promise not to crowd me. The self-control itself speaks volumes. It shows a level of care that I haven't experienced in a very long time.
The silence returns, but it’s entirely different now, moving from the suffocating weight of my own misery to the electric, terrifying hum of a line that has just been permanently crossed.
Santi watches me, waiting out my shock.
"You're lying," I whisper, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I shake my head, backing my shoulders deeper into the wooden chair, trying to create distance that doesn't exist. "You’re just... you’re being nice. You see me drowning and you’re trying to throw me a lifeline, but this isn't funny, Santi."
"Do I look like I'm joking?" His voice is dead serious, devoid of the usual easy cadence that makes everyone draw toward him. "I don't lie to you. I never have.”
"Everyone lies," I snap, a sudden flash of defense mechanism flaring up to protect the raw, bruised parts of my chest. "He said he loved me. He promised he’d never hurt me. He swore up and down that I was the only one, and look where that got me. Sitting by a dying fire, feeling like a ghost in my own life."
"I am not him," Santi says, each word a deliberate strike. "I don't make promises I can't keep. If I tell you you're the only thing I'm looking at, I mean it. If I tell you I'm going to be here, I'm not going anywhere. I promise you, if you give me a chance-"
"Stop. Just stop with the promises." I cut him off, a sharp, ragged breath leaving me. I look away, staring blindly at the edge of the brick firepit because looking at the sincerity in his eyes hurts too much. "I don't care about promises. I don't believe them anymore. They're just sentences people say to get what they want in the moment."
I squeeze my eyes shut, my throat tight and burning.
"I'm sorry, but I’m tired of words, Santi. I am so damn tired of them."
The confession hangs in the cool night air. I expect him to defend himself, to give me another speech, or to pull back into his usual protective layer of sarcasm. Instead, the yard goes completely still.
When I finally open my eyes and risk a glance back at him, the frustration on his face has cracked open, revealing something desperate. He’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s dying to solve, like he’d tear his own chest open if it meant giving me a reason to trust him.
"Then tell me what to do," he begs, his deep voice carrying a rare, vulnerable edge. He reaches out, his hand hovering in the space between us for a heartbeat before he lets his fingers rest lightly against the edge of my knee, just a fraction of contact, but it feels like lightning. “How can I make you believe me?”
I swallow, trying to find the version of myself that knows how to joke this off, but it’s inconveniently missing.
“Santi,” I start, but it comes out quieter than I mean it to.
His thumb moves slightly, not pushing, not pulling, just there, waiting.
“Look. If you need space,” he says, voice gone rough around the edges now, “I’ll give it to you. You want me gone? Fine. You want to act like this was a mistake? I’ll play along.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, bitter and tired all at once, dragging a hand over his mouth before looking at me again.
“But if you’re asking me what I want…” His gaze lifts to mine, steady and unflinching. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Another pause, smaller this time, like he’s deciding whether to cross a line he can’t uncross.
“You want me to prove it?” he asks, his voice dropping into a rough, low growl that makes my chest ache. He looks at me like he wants to shake me, or kiss me, or both. “Fine. Tell me what you need, and I’m there. You want me to follow you anywhere? Done. You want me on my knees? Just say the damn word. I will do whatever it takes to make you believe me.”
His hand doesn’t move away. It stays there, warm and grounding on the denim of my jeans.
An aching sob catches in my throat, and I swallow it down, my eyes swimming as I finally look straight at him. I want to believe him. Every broken, exhausted piece of me wants to lean into the warmth he’s offering and stop fighting the current. I want to believe that someone could look at me and see everything he just described.
Because beneath all my panic, a stubborn voice in the back of my mind refuses to let me lie to myself. I’m afraid of the risk, yes, but I am not afraid of him. For all his massive size and lethal capability, Santi is the only person alive who makes me feel entirely safe. I know with absolute certainty that he would burn the world down before he ever let a single scratch come to me.
"No more words,” I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of it. I look down at his hand on my knee, then back up to his gaze.
Santi freezes.
“Don't talk about it anymore. Just show me.”
For a long, agonizing beat, he doesn’t move. The easy confidence, the absolute certainty that usually radiates from him, falters. His jaw works, a muscle twitching violently under his stubble as he looks at me. He searches my eyes, his own dark and swirling with a sudden conflict. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Santiago Garcia hesitate, and the sheer weight of it makes my breath hitch.
Finally, he swallows.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his hand tightening just a fraction against my knee. “Because you need to understand something. If I cross this line with you, that’s it for me. No going back to how it was. I’m not playing games with you, cariño, so don’t try to play with me.”
“I’m sure,” I reply, and I mean it down to my bones. I slide my hand over his where it rests on my knee, feeling the rough warmth of his skin. “I want to believe you, Santi. I do. I'm tired of running from it. I'm tired of pretending I don't want this.”
I reach down, my fingers wrapping around his wrist, feeling the heavy, unsteady thrum of his pulse under my palm. For a second, he just looks at me like he’s trying to figure out if I really mean it, or if I’m about to pull away again the second it gets too real.
When I tug his hand upward, he lets me. He just follows, slow, like he’s giving me the space to set the terms myself. My grip tightens a fraction, not letting him slip out of it.
“So, if I’m really the one you’re waiting for…,” I whisper, turning his hand over in mine and pressing his palm flat against my chest. My heart is hammering against his skin, frantic and uneven, but I hold his hand there anyway. “No more pretty words. I've heard them all before. If you want me to believe you, Santi... Prove it.”
It’s then that I finally look at him.
“Show me I’m all that you need.”
The hesitation snaps.
Santi reaches out, his large hands anchoring against the sides of my face. His palms are warm, rough, and completely steady against my burning skin. He gently tilts my head and brushes his thumb over my cheekbone, catching a stray tear before it can fall.
He doesn't have to say a word. The fierce, consuming focus in his eyes tells me everything.
Then, he leans in, and the space between us vanishes.
When his mouth finds mine, it’s a crash of heat and absolute certainty, a silent vow pressed against my lips that completely takes the air from my lungs. It’s fierce, hungry, and so deeply possessive it makes my head spin.
My hands act on their own, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer because the sudden rush of warmth is the only thing keeping me anchored.
Santi groans into the kiss, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates straight through my chest. One of his hands slides down from my face, his fingers tangling in my hair to hold me steady, while his other hand moves to the back of my neck, his thumb anchoring my jaw. He kisses me like he’s trying to rewrite every lie I’ve ever been told, tracing the seam of my lips with a desperation that leaves no room for doubt.
Every defense mechanism I’ve spent weeks building up simply disintegrates.
And then, as abruptly as it began, he pulls back just an inch. The breath leaves him in a ragged, uneven rush against my lips.
The dark, heated look in his eyes takes over completely, swallowing any trace of hesitation. The tough, unyielding soldier vanished, replaced by a raw, single-minded focus that zeroes in on me like he’s been waiting for this exact command his entire life. The transformation is terrifying and absolute. It’s the look of a man who would burn the world down if I asked him to or kneel in the ashes to worship me if that’s what I needed.
The movement is fluid, controlled, his knees hitting the ground. He doesn't break eye contact for a second, his gaze locked on mine as he settles there, a supplicant at my altar.
He is massive, a wall of muscle and coiled power, and yet he looks completely disarmed like this. Stripped of his defenses, he's looking up at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the entire world.
He places his hands on my knees, his palms warm and rough through the denim. The heat of them sinks into my skin, branding me. He rests them there, waiting.
For a moment, I only stare at him, stunned by the sight of Santi on his knees before me. This is a man who commands rooms, who leads teams into hell and back, and here he is, kneeling in the dirt at my feet. The power rush is heady, dizzying, making the blood pound in my ears.
He waits, letting me take this in, letting me see him like this.
Slowly, his hands begin to move. They slide up my thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight up my spine. He's taking his time, exploring the terrain like he's memorizing it, his touch reverent but demanding.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked, vibrating against my skin.
"Worship me," I breathe, the command barely a whisper.
Santi’s eyes darken further, the pupils swallowing the iris until there’s almost nothing left. A low, ragged sound tears from his throat, something halfway between a groan and a growl, and he surges forward.
His hands slide from my knees to my hips, fingers hooking into the belt loops of my jeans to drag me to the very edge of the chair. I gasp at the sudden movement, my back arching as he pulls me flush against him, his face burying itself in the space between my legs.
He inhales deeply, like he’s trying to breathe me in, memorize my scent, and the sheer intimacy of the action makes my head spin.
"Fuck," he grits out, the word muffled against the denim. "You smell so fucking good.”
His hands move to the button of my jeans with practiced ease, popping it open and dragging the zipper down with agonizing slowness. The sound of the teeth parting is deafening in the quiet night. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my jeans and panties both, pulling them down my legs in one rough tug.
I lift my hips to help him, unable to look away from the sight of him, on his knees, doing exactly what I asked. The cool night air hits my heated skin, raising goosebumps, but his hands are there a second later, warm and grounding on my bare thighs.
He doesn’t give me a moment to feel exposed. He leans in immediately, his broad shoulders spreading my knees wider, forcing me open to the night air and his gaze. The firelight catches the sharp planes of his face as he dips his head, his breath hot against my inner thigh.
“Santi,” I gasp, my fingers flying to his hair, threading through the thick, dark curls.
He hums against my skin, a low, vibrating sound that sends a shockwave of electricity straight to my core. He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, then higher, his lips tracing a slow, torturous path up the sensitive skin of my thigh. He isn’t rushing. Every press of his mouth feels like a brand, staking a claim in the most tender way possible.
He works his way higher, his mouth leaving a trail of fire against my inner thighs. The scrape of his day-old stubble is a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips, sending shivers racing up my spine that have nothing to do with the chill in the air. He takes his time, mapping the terrain with a reverence that makes my chest ache, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of skin he’s been denied for so long.
When he finally reaches the apex of my thighs, he pauses. He pulls back just enough to look up at me, his eyes burning with a dark, fierce intensity. The sight of him, strong and unshakeable Santi, kneeling between my legs, looking at me like I’m the only holy thing left in the world, is almost enough to undo me right there.
“Look at you.”
The air between us is electric, charged with the weight of the moment. His eyes are pools of molten heat, filled with a raw, undisguised hunger that makes my breath hitch. He doesn't look away, his stare pinning me in place as he leans in, his breath ghosting over my exposed, aching flesh.
"You’re a fucking goddess," he murmurs, the words a dark rasp against my skin.
He seals his mouth over me with a desperate, hungry groan that vibrates through my entire body, his tongue flattening against my clit with a firm, pressured stroke.
My back bows off the chair, a broken cry tearing from my throat as my fingers tighten in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, but he doesn’t flinch. If anything, the pain seems to spur him on. He growls low against me, the sound rough and possessive, his hands gripping my thighs with bruising force to hold me open for him.
He eats me like he’s starving.
His tongue moves with a devastating precision, curling and flicking in ways that make my vision blur. There is no hesitation, no tentative exploration, only a relentless, consuming rhythm. He alternates between broad, flat strokes that cover every inch of me and sharp, targeted flicks of his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves that sends shockwaves racing up my spine.
I can’t think. I can’t breathe. The only thing that exists is the heat of his mouth, the rough grip of his hands on my thighs, and the desperate, embarrassing sounds escaping my own throat.
He changes his angle, dragging his lower lip through my folds before suctioning his mouth around my clit, sucking hard. My hips jerk instinctively, chasing the friction, but his grip tightens, iron-clad, holding me exactly where he wants me. He hums against me, the vibration radiating through my pelvis, down my thighs, settling deep in my bones.
The pressure builds, a tight, coiling knot low in my belly that threatens to snap. His name falls from my lips like a chant, a broken prayer. He doubles down, sliding one hand from my thigh, his fingers teasing my entrance before thrusting inside, curling upward to find that spot that makes me see stars.
The dual sensation is too much. The fullness of his fingers, the ruthless suction of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble. It’s a sensory overload that shatters me.
"Santi, I-," I gasp, my thighs trembling violently around his ears.
He doesn't let up. If anything, he presses harder, his tongue flicking rapidly while his fingers curl inside me, hitting that perfect, devastating spot over and over again. The coil in my belly snaps, white-hot and blinding.
My orgasm tears through me with the force of a freight train. I cry out, my back arching violently off the chair as the pleasure overwhelms my senses, wiping out everything but the feel of his mouth and hands. My entire body shakes, the tension releasing in a rush that leaves me gasping for air, my vision spotting with black and white.
He works me through it, drawing out every aftershock until I’m a trembling, oversensitive mess, completely boneless against the chair. The relentless rhythm of his tongue finally slows, turning into soft, languid laps that soothe rather than consume, gently bringing me down from the high.
I sag back, my chest heaving, staring up at the starless sky as my heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I feel wrecked, utterly spent.
Santi presses one last, lingering kiss to the inside of my thigh, a tender contrast to the bruising grip of his hands just moments ago. Then, he pulls back slightly, but he doesn't stand. He rests his forehead against my knee, his own breathing ragged and uneven, the heat of it seeping into my sweat-slicked skin.
The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the ragged sound of our breathing. For a long moment, he stays there, forehead resting against my knee, grounding us both. The rough stubble of his jaw scrapes against my skin, a tangible reminder of the intensity of what just happened.
He pulls back to look up at me, his eyes tracing the lines of my face as if he’s committing this moment to memory. The look in his eyes is fierce, a dark, possessive glint that says I’m his, and he’s not letting me go.
Slowly, he rises to his feet. The movement is effortless, a display of raw power that steals the breath I’m still trying to catch. He looms over me, his silhouette blocking out the firelight, a giant in the darkness. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to.
He reaches down, his hands sliding under my arms, and lifts. He scoops me up against his chest like I weigh nothing at all, one arm hooked behind my knees and the other braced firmly against my back. My head lolls against his shoulder, my face burying in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him.
The transition from the cool night air to the house is instantaneous, the warmth of the interior wrapping around us as he kicks the door shut behind him. He moves through the hallway with a predatory grace, his steps sure and silent on the floorboards.
I’m loose-limbed and floating, my body still humming with the aftershocks, my face pressed against the steady thrum of his heartbeat. I don't look up to see where we're going. I just let him carry me, trusting him completely to take me where I need to be.
He kicks the door to his bedroom open and carries me inside. He deposits me on the bed with a controlled drop, the mattress dipping under my weight.
I look up at him, breathless, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across his frame. He stands at the edge of the bed, staring down at me with a hunger that makes my throat go dry.
Santi stands there, chest heaving, his eyes dragging over me with a slow perusal that feels like a physical touch. He’s taking me in, and the look on his face is pure, unfiltered sin. He reaches back, gripping the hem of his shirt, and peels it off in one fluid motion, tossing it aside without looking.
The moonlight catches the hard planes of his chest, the definition of his abs, the scars that map his history. He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost violent, all coiled strength and restrained power.
“Come here,” I breathe, reaching for him.
He just stands there, letting his eyes trace the line of my body like he’s memorizing a map he intends to conquer. The silence stretches until the weight of his stare becomes a physical thing, pressing me into the mattress.
“Patience,” he chides, though the rough edge to his voice betrays him. His hands go to his belt, the metal clinking in the quiet room as he undoes it, then the button of his jeans. “I’m not rushing this. Not now.”
Santi’s dark eyes never leave mine as his hands hook into the waist of his jeans, pushing the denim down over his hips. The fabric bunches around his thighs before he steps out of them completely, kicking them aside with a careless movement that underscores his absolute focus on me.
He stands completely bare before me. He is magnificent, all long, powerful lines, the muscle of his thighs and the sharp, tensed V-cut of his lower stomach leading down to the undeniable, rigid proof of how badly he wants me. There is nothing hidden anymore. The vulnerability of his nakedness is entirely eclipsed by the raw, dominant presence he commands just by standing there.
A low, involuntary gasp slips from my throat at the sheer sight of him.
A slow, dark smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it disappears just as quickly, replaced by that heavy-lidded, consuming lust that has been burning in his eyes. He steps toward the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking deeply under his weight as he settles a knee on the mattress, looming over me once more.
"You like what you see?" he murmurs, his deep voice scraping low in his chest as he crawls forward, positioning himself over my body. "Because it's all yours. Every single inch."
He braces himself on his forearms, caging me in, his weight settling heavily on top of me in a way that feels like an anchor. The friction of his skin against mine sends a fresh shockwave of heat through my system, waking up nerves that are already raw and oversensitive.
I arch my neck back into the pillow, my hands coming up to wrap around his biceps, feeling the hard, tensed muscle beneath my palms. . I look up into his eyes, dark and steady, weighted with something unreadable, the kind that feel like they see too much and say too little. I’m completely helpless against the pull of him, unable to look away.
"I've never seen anything more perfect," I whisper, my voice trembling but entirely honest. I slide my hands up to his shoulders, pulling him down just that fraction closer until his breath mixes with mine. "
"God, you are so beautiful," he growls, the words raspy and unpolished as he stares down at me. His gaze roves over my face like he’s trying to memorize every line, every flush of my skin in the dim light. "I've been going out of my mind wanting you like this. It’s always been you."
He doesn't wait for me to answer, his mouth dropping down to claim mine again.
This time, the kiss is deeper, slower, filled with a quiet reverence that leaves me entirely breathless. He parts my lips with a possessive assurance, tasting me fully, while his fingers tangle into my hair to tilt my head just right. The sheer warmth of him floods through me, drowning out the lingering cold of everything that came before, until there is nothing left but the weight of his body and the absolute certainty of his mouth against mine.
He shifts, his mouth trailing a path of burning heat down the line of my jaw, finding the sensitive spot just beneath my ear. A low, ragged breath escapes him before he buries his lips against my throat. He kisses me there, deep and possessive, his tongue tracing the frantic, erratic beat of my pulse until my entire body arches into his touch.
The contrast of his heavy, solid weight against me and the deliberate, torturous precision of his mouth sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to my core.
“Santi, please,” I gasp, my hips lifting off the mattress in a desperate, silent plea. I need him to fill the ache, to stop the trembling that hasn't ceased since he put his mouth on me.
He hovers over me, bracing his weight on one arm while the other slides between us. He grips himself and runs the length of his cock through my folds, coating himself in the wet heat he left there. The friction is maddening, a slow, deliberate drag that makes my hips jerk off the mattress, chasing the contact.
“Eyes on me,” he orders, his voice a rough scrape against the quiet.
I force my eyes open, meeting that dark, consuming gaze. He’s watching me with an unblinking intensity, tracking every flutter of my eyelashes, every ragged breath that tears through my lips.
He doesn't ask again. He lines himself up and pushes forward, sinking into me with a slow, deliberate thrust. The stretch is intense, a burning, full pressure that borders on too much, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't give me a chance to adjust to the invasion. He just keeps coming, burying himself deep until his hips are flush against mine and there is nowhere left to go.
A ragged sound tears from my throat, half-gasp, half-moan. My body bows off the mattress, instinctively trying to accommodate the sheer size of him, my hands flying to his shoulders to hold on.
He holds himself there, deep and impossibly still, letting my body adjust to the invasion, letting me feel every thick inch of him stretching me wide. His breath is hot against my neck, ragged and uneven, the only sign that the iron control he’s famous for is hanging by a thread.
“Breathe,” he raps against my skin, his hand coming up to cup the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive spot behind my ear. “Just breathe, cariño. I got you.”
I try to obey, forcing air into lungs that feel seized, my internal muscles fluttering around him as they try to accommodate his size. He groans low in his throat, a dark, broken sound, his hips jerking involuntarily against me.
Then, he begins to move. A steady, punishingly deep rhythm that feels designed to completely dismantle me from the inside out. It’s a takeover. He refuses to let me look away, his dark eyes locked onto mine in the dim light filtering through the window, forcing me to witness every hitch in his breath, every tightening of his jaw, as if he's carving his name into my skin.
He leans down, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his teeth grazing my collarbone as his pace quickens, the friction and heat spiraling out of control.
“You’re it for me,” he confesses brokenly, his voice cracking against my ear as he drives us both over the edge. “But you get to decide if I stay yours the same way you’re mine.”
The admission hangs in the air, heavier than the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. It’s a detonation in the quiet room, shattering whatever fragile walls we’ve been hiding behind. The raw honesty in his voice, the way it cracks on the words, undoes me completely.
My heart lurches, a jagged, painful beat that matches the rhythm of his hips. I dig my heels into the mattress, lifting to meet him, my hands threading into his hair to pull him closer, needing him to merge with me, to erase the line where he ends and I begin. The coil in my belly tightens to the breaking point, white-hot and desperate, pulled by the drag of his body and the gravity of his confession.
“I’m yours, Santi,” I gasp, his name a prayer on my lips. “I’m yours…and you’re mine.”
He lets out a shuddering breath against my neck, as if my words have physically disarmed him, stripping away the last of his composure. But instead of driving into me harder, as his coiled muscles suggest he might, he slows. He pulls back to look at me, his expression fierce, reverent, almost pained in its intensity.
He brings a hand between us, his calloused palm tracing the line of my jaw, his thumb dragging over my lower lip until I part for him. He leans down, pressing his lips to my forehead, then the tip of my nose, then my cheeks, scattering kisses like he’s trying to memorize my features by braille.
“Mine,” he repeats, agreeing with my declaration, making it a vow. He shifts his weight, sliding one arm under my waist to tilt my hips up, changing the angle so he brushes against a spot that makes me see stars. “I’m going to take such good fucking care of you.”
He starts to move again, but the rhythm has changed. The punishing pace is gone, replaced by a deliberate, devastating slowness. He’s worshiping me with his body, using every inch of himself to show me what he can’t say with words alone.
He presses his lips to my temple, then down to the hollow of my throat, his tongue darting out to taste the salt on my skin.
“Fuck,” he exhales quietly, like the words aren’t enough for what he means. “You’re so beautiful it’s not even fair.”
His hips roll in a shallow, grinding wave, hitting that deep, tender spot inside me over and over until I’m a writhing mess beneath him. He’s taking his time, dragging out every sensation, forcing me to feel every ridge, every vein, every thick inch of him as he strokes the fire higher. His hands roam my body, gripping my thighs, tracing the curve of my waist, tangling in my hair, holding me steady for his possession.
He shifts slightly, bringing one hand between us where we are joined, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves with unerring precision. The dual sensation of him filling me and the tight, circling pressure of his thumb is devastating. My back arches off the bed, a broken cry spilling from my lips as the pleasure spikes sharp and blinding.
“Let go for me,” he commands softly, his voice dark and rough against my ear. “I want to feel you fall apart.”
He doesn’t stop. He works me with a relentless, focused dedication, watching my face with that piercing gaze as the tension in my belly winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap. The pleasure builds to a crescendo, a white-hot wave that crashes over me, pulling me under. I cry out his name, my body clamping down around him as the orgasm rips through me, leaving me gasping and shaking in its wake.
The aftershocks are still rippling through me, turning my bones to liquid, when Santi withdraws. The sudden emptiness is a jarring loss, a cold void where he just was, but he doesn’t give me time to mourn the absence. His hands are on me instantly, gripping my hips with a firm, undeniable pressure.
“Turn over,” he rasps, the command rough but laced with that same dark reverence.
I’m too wrecked to do anything but obey. I roll onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow to muffle a sound that’s half-sob, half-moan. My body is humming, oversensitive, every nerve ending exposed. I feel the mattress dip as he moves behind me, the heat of his skin radiating against mine even before he touches me.
His hands grip my waist, rough and demanding, pulling me up until I’m on my hands and knees. The position leaves me vulnerable, my back arched and exposed to him, but the vulnerability only serves to heighten the anticipation. I feel the mattress shift as he moves in behind me, the heat of his thighs brushing against the backs of mine. He’s a furnace at my back, a wall of solid muscle and restrained aggression.
He doesn’t enter me immediately. He takes a moment to appreciate the view, his calloused palms running over the curve of my spine, tracing the dip of my lower back before gripping my ass firmly. His touch is possessive, kneading the flesh, branding me as his own.
“God, look at you,” he groans, the sound rough and low, vibrating against my skin. “Perfect like this. All for me.”
He leans down, the heat of his chest pressing against my back, molding us together. The hair on his chest tickles my skin, a sharp contrast to the steel-hard muscles beneath. He doesn't rush; he takes a moment to bracket my body with his, caging me in. One arm slides under my chest, pulling me back against him until my shoulder blades are flush with his pecs, while his other hand grips my hip, anchoring me in place.
I can feel the thud of his heart against my spine, a frantic rhythm that matches my own. His breath is hot against the sensitive shell of my ear, sending shivers down my neck even as the rest of me burns.
“Santi,” I whimper, my head falling back onto his shoulder, exposing my throat to him in a gesture of total surrender. “Please.”
He doesn't make me wait any longer. He lines himself up and sinks into me in one deep, fluid stroke, a possessive invasion that forces a broken cry from my lips. The angle is deeper this way, devastatingly so, and I grip the bedsheets, knuckles white, as he seats himself fully inside.
“I got you,” he growls against the sensitive skin of my neck, his voice vibrating through my chest.
He pulls back then enters me again in one smooth stroke, and this time the angle is deeper, devastatingly so. I cry out, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on the sheets, but he has me locked down. There is no escaping the intensity of him, the way he fills every inch of space, physical and otherwise.
The friction is maddening, a slow drag that pulls against every nerve ending. He’s more than fucking me. He’s imprinting himself on me, ensuring that every inch of my body remembers the shape of him. The arm across my chest is a steel band, his hand splayed wide over my sternum, feeling the frantic race of my heart.
He shifts his hips, changing the angle just enough to hit that spot that makes spots dance behind my eyelids, and a high, thin sound tears from my throat. His response is a low, dark chuckle that he presses directly into the sweat-slicked skin of my shoulder.
“You feel that?” he rasps, his teeth grazing the tendon where my neck meets my shoulder. “That’s where I belong. Deep inside you.”
He buries his face in the curve of my neck, inhaling me like I’m the only source of oxygen left in a burning room. The intimacy of this position is overwhelming. I can’t hide from him like this. I’m completely spread open, trapped against the hard wall of his chest, forced to feel every ragged breath he takes, every twitch of the muscles that are caging me in.
“Santi, please,” I sob, the sound broken and breathless. “It’s too much. I can’t-”
“You can,” he cuts me off fiercely, his hand sliding up from my chest to wrap around my throat, tilting my head back further. His grip is firm, possessive, anchoring me to him. “You were made for this. Made for me. Do you trust me?”
“I trust you.”
“Good,” he groans, the words breaking on a thrust that feels like a prayer. “I want to show you what you do to me, how completely you have me on my knees. Fuck, I’d do anything for you.” The words are punched out of him with every thrust, raw and desperate and terrifyingly loud in the quiet room. "I need you. I need you in a way I don’t really know what to do with.”
His grip on my throat tightens just enough to make my pulse hammer against his palm, a possessive, grounding pressure that sends a fresh shockwave of heat straight to my core. The vulnerability of the position, the sheer weight of him surrounding me, is intoxicating. I feel claimed, not just in my body but in the very air I breathe.
“Please,” I gasp, my voice breaking as he hits a spot that makes the room tilt on its axis.
“Please what?” He doesn't let up. If anything, the angle sharpens, grinding deep until I’m arching off the mattress, a broken moan tearing from my throat. “Tell me what you need, cariño.”
“I… I…” The words dissolve into a breathless whine, completely broken. My mind is a white void of pure sensation, wiped entirely clean of everything but the agonizingly perfect drag of his skin against mine. I let out a desperate whimper, helpless against the relentless rhythm that’s pushing me straight toward another precipice.
“Shh,” he breathes, the words a ragged promise against my neck. He seems to understand my incoherence better than I do. “I know.”
He slides his hand between our bodies. When his hand finds the swollen, aching heat between my legs, the slick friction of his touch is absolute electricity. A violent shockwave ripples through me, bucking my hips helplessly against him.
He shifts his hips, hitting a spot that makes my vision blur, and the sheer precision of it, the fact that he knows my body better than I know myself right now, makes my head spin. He's attuning himself to me, reading every tremor, every gasp like a map he’s memorized.
His lips graze the sensitive skin just below my ear, placing a kiss there that is tender, a stark contrast to the relentless rhythm of his hips. It’s a benediction, a silent vow spoken in the language of touch.
“I’m giving it to you,” he breathes, the words rough, pouring out of him like he’s been holding them back for a lifetime. “Everything you could ever want, it’s yours. Just say the word.”
"Give it to me, Santi," I gasp out, my voice raw and completely undone against his lips. "I'm yours. I believe you."
That breaks him. The rhythm shifts from that devastatingly slow torture to a desperate, driving cadence, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room, raw and rhythmic. He’s not holding anything back, pouring everything he is, every secret, every fear, every ounce of that desperate devotion he confessed, into the way he moves inside me. It’s frantic, almost violent in its intensity, a man running out of time trying to etch his soul into mine.
He keeps talking, a stream of praise and devotion that mixes with the ragged sounds of our exertion. He tells me I'm beautiful, that I'm his, that he's never felt anything like this in his life. Each word acts as a catalyst, wringing spasm after spasm from my exhausted body until I'm sobbing, completely undone by the sheer force of his devotion and the overwhelming, blinding pleasure of him.
A raw, ragged sob tears from my throat as the third climax crashes into me, harder and sharper than the first two. It blindsides me, a white-hot supernova that obliterates every thought, every doubt, every memory of the months spent feeling invisible. My body locks up, shaking violently beneath him, my inner muscles clamping around him like a vice.
I scream his name, my voice breaking as the pleasure turns almost painful in its intensity.
He growls low in his throat, a sound of pure satisfaction, and rides me through it. He doesn't stop the ruthless motion of his hips, doesn't stop the devastating circles of his fingers until I’m completely spent, collapsed and twitching against the mattress.
He follows me over the edge with a guttural groan that sounds like it’s been wrenched out of him, his rhythm finally stuttering and breaking. He buries himself to the hilt, holding there as his body bows, his hand blindly seeking mine on the mattress, pinning our fingers together and squeezing tight. He holds me with a reverence that borders on the divine, anchoring me through the intensity, ensuring that even in the midst of his own unraveling, I am cherished, safe, and held.
For a long, suspended moment, the world narrows down to the sound of our breathing, ragged, uneven, deafening in the quiet room. The air smells of sex and sweat and him, a scent that seems to imprint itself directly into my bloodstream.
He collapses over me, a sweat-slicked weight that presses me into the mattress, but he doesn't crush me. He catches himself on his elbows at the last second, burying his face in the crook of my neck as his body continues to shudder with the aftershocks.
His heart hammers against my spine, a heavy, frantic rhythm that matches the thumping in my own chest. We are a tangle of limbs, skin sticking to skin, the air around us thick and stifling in the best possible way.
For a long time, neither of us moves. The only sounds are the ragged intake of breath and the distant, muffled crackle of the fire pit dying outside the window. It’s like the world has stopped spinning, just for us, leaving us suspended in this bubble.
Eventually, he shifts his weight, rolling us onto our sides so he doesn't crush me, but he doesn't let go. He pulls me back into his chest, spooning me, his face buried in my hair. His arm is a possessive weight across my waist, his hand splayed flat against my stomach, holding me together.
I can feel his breath against the back of my neck, warm and uneven, slowly syncing with my own. The dim room feels smaller now, the shadows pressing in, but it doesn't feel claustrophobic. It feels like a bunker. Like the only safe place left on earth.
He presses a kiss to my shoulder, lingering there like he’s memorizing the taste of my skin. "You okay?”
I hum, turning my head just enough to catch his eye. The intensity from before is still there, but it’s softened now, melted into an unguarded warmth. It’s a look he rarely shows the world, reserved only for these quiet moments when the armor comes off.
"Yeah," I whisper, my throat feeling raw and used. "I'm more than okay."
The corner of his mouth kicks up, that familiar, crooked thing that used to make my stomach flip years ago and still manages to do a number on me now. He lifts his hand from my stomach, tracing the line of my jaw with a thumb that's rough and calloused, but gentle enough to make my eyes sting.
“I know you’re tired of words,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough vibration against my skin. “But I meant every fucking one of them. I’m not letting you go. I don’t care what it takes. I’m making sure you believe me.”
He pulls back just enough to search my eyes, his gaze dark and unwavering, daring me to look away. But I don't. A slow, challenging smirk tugs at my lips as a familiar heat begins to build all over again.
"You talk a big game, Santiago," I whisper, shifting back to feel the reassuring weight of his body. "I’m going to hold you to it.”
POV: 1st (f!Reader)
Rating: Explicit. 18+ ONLY.
Summary: A messy post-breakup bonfire turns into years of unspoken tension finally boiling over with Santi.
Word Count: 11.3k
Content/Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, mention of cheating/past breakup with unnamed character, emotional baggage, friends to lovers, mutual pining, drinking, drunk confessions, praise, oral sex (f receiving), PiV sex, Santiago "Eyes On Me" Garcia
A/N: Inspired by the song “Believe It” by Jared Benjamin, which was inspired by the “My house. My chair. My woman” scene in Fourth Wing. This has been living rent-free in my head for a while. There’s just something about the thought of Santi on his knees worshipping the absolute fuck out of you.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are deeply appreciated.
Masterlist
The others left not too long ago.
Frankie was the first to go, clapping Santi on the shoulder on his way out. Will and Benny followed soon after, tossing lazy goodbyes over their shoulders as they headed for the front yard. When the gate shut behind them, it was just the two of us left.
We didn't move from our spots by the pit. The fire had settled into a steady, low hum, its smoke hanging heavy in the space between us. Scattered bottles littered the ground, the lingering wreckage of a good night built on loud laughter and the familiar chaos of old friends.
Now, it’s quieter, the silence stretching tight like it’s waiting to snap. Santi is sitting in his chair, one arm draped lazily on the armrest, the other loosely holding the bottle in his lap. Yet nothing about him feels relaxed. He’s studying me, steady and unreadable, like he’s trying to figure me out while waiting for me to be the first one to give.
I keep my gaze fixed on the center of the pit, watching a piece of oak split open and spill fresh glowing embers into the ash. I think I’m hiding it well, the hollow ache in my chest, the humiliation, the exhaustion of trying to figure out where it all went wrong.
But Santi knows how to read me.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he finally speaks, his voice barely carrying over the steady hum of crickets.
I offer a simple shrug in response, looking down and wiping away the condensation on my drink with my thumb. “Just thinking.”
He exhales, disbelieving, before he shifts, easing out of his sluggish sprawl and into a more focused stance, elbows settling onto his knees.
“You’ve been staring a hole into that log for thirty minutes,” he says. “And I know you. When you get this deep in your head, it’s never about anything good.”
He sets his drink down between us with a quiet click.
“Talk to me,” he urges, his voice softening.
The fire pops, sending a brief scatter of sparks up into the night. I follow them instead of looking at him.
“Come on. I’m starting to think the fire’s better company than me. My ego can’t take that kind of hit.”
A tiny, reluctant smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “I’m sure your ego will do just fine, Santiago.”
I finally glance at him, a weak challenge slipping through.
“Keep looking at me like that and it might actually survive the night,” he responds, a faint, teasing glint in his eyes easing some of the weight in my chest.
I press my lips together, fighting a smile. “If your ego gets any bigger, it’s going to need its own chair.”
Santi lets out a low, huffed laugh, the sound rumbling deep in his chest and breaking clean through the quiet. A smile traces his mouth as he settles back, easing into his seat like the tension has drained out of him. One elbow hangs off loosely as he folds his hands, lazy confidence returning to his posture.
“There she is,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling. “My little smartass.”
Something in my chest twists at how easily he says it.
But the humor quickly fades, and what’s left between us turns heavier again.
Santi knows about the breakup. He knows I’ve been drowning in the aftermath, moving around our group like I’m afraid I’ll crack if anyone looks too closely. He hasn’t pushed, and I haven’t offered much, but he’s been there anyway, in the small ways that don’t feel small at all. In the way he kept handing me drinks without asking. The way he stepped in before anyone else could crowd me. How he just let me exist without making it a thing.
The awareness of it sits heavy in my throat.
“It’s embarrassing,” I admit quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
“What is?” he prods, quick but quiet.
“That I’m still upset over somebody who clearly didn’t care about me that much.”
My ex-boyfriend hangs between us in the silence that follows, his name unspoken but still somehow taking up space in the air.
Santi’s expression settles differently. The joking version of him is gone in an instant, like it never quite belonged in this part of the conversation anyway.
“He cheated on you,” he says flatly. “You’re allowed to be upset.”
I let out a small breath, too quick to mean anything.
“I mean... yeah,” I mutter, trying to shrug it off like it’s nothing. “It’s just one of those things. It happens.”
I swallow, thumb picking at the edge of the label of my drink.
“Or maybe it doesn’t just happen,” I add quieter, the words turning on me before I can stop them. “Maybe I made it easy to do it. I don’t know. People don’t usually just…do that unless something’s missing.”
“You really think that’s why he cheated?” he asks, brows drawn tight in a way that makes the question sound less like curiosity and more like disbelief.
Heat creeps up my neck. I squirm in my chair, suddenly aware of my hands, my face, the way I’m sitting like I’ve said things I shouldn’t have out loud.
“That’s not how that works,” he says firmly. “And you know it.”
“Do I?” I try, like I can deflect my way out of the truth.
“Yes.”
There’s no hesitation in the word. It lands hard between us.
“You were not the problem,” he adds. “Not even close.”
A quiet, disbelieving huff slips through my nose, like I don’t quite know what to make of that.
“He cheated on you,” he repeats matter-of-factly. “That’s on him.” He pauses, his jaw tightening like he’s holding back more words than he needs. “Not you.”
I look down at my bottle, turning it slowly in my hands like the motion can give me somewhere to put this. Heat crawls up the back of my neck again, slower this time, heavier, like I’ve been caught doing something I didn’t realize was visible.
“He blew it because of his own shit. Not because you were lacking.”
My fingers tighten around the glass. I hate how immediate the instinct is to argue, to find a crack in it, to make it somehow less absolute.
“And I’m not going to sit here and watch you carry that,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You don’t get to take the blame for his mess.”
My eyes flick away from him again, like I can physically avoid the point if I don’t look straight at it.
“I know you're hurting, but you're too smart for this,” he adds. “You're sharp, you're funny without trying, and you usually see right through bullshit.”
My throat tightens a little, but I keep my face still, giving him nothing except my attention.
I force a dry, awkward chuckle, shaking my head because I don't know what else to do with a compliment like that. It feels completely misplaced. But he doesn't laugh with me. He shakes his head once, his expression shifting like he knows he shouldn’t be saying what he’s about to say.
“Seriously. Half the time you walk into a room, I forget what the hell I was saying.”
My breath catches slightly, and I hate that it does.
“And yeah, most people wouldn’t know what to do with you,” he continues, voice tightening. “Because you don’t fit into whatever easy little box they’re looking for. But that’s their problem, not yours.”
A strange, uneasy warmth flickers through me.
“If you were with me…”
He exhales through his nose, like he almost doesn’t want to finish the thought, but does anyway.
“You wouldn’t be sitting here talking about yourself like this. Because I’d make damn sure you felt like you’re enough.”
The words land differently. He seems to realize it too. His jaw flexes, like he’s irritated by how honest it came out.
“All I’m saying is… Don't start letting his mistakes make you doubt who you are. You are more than enough.”
For a second, I don’t know what to do with the feeling that follows. It’s too warm, too sudden, like my body reacts before I can decide what I’m supposed to make of it. My heartbeat stumbles, then picks up again in a way I absolutely refuse to examine too closely.
So, I default to the only thing I trust in moments like this.
A small, shaky breath of laughter slips out of me. “You sound like a damn motivational poster.”
His mouth quirks. “Yeah?” He leans back a fraction, still watching on me. “Want me to put it on a sunset background for you? I could print it out. Frame it. Hang it on a wall so every time you walk past it you get a little boost.”
That does it.
A real laugh breaks through this time. It’s small, reluctant, but honest. It cuts the tension clean in half, like a thread finally snapping.
I shake my head, still smiling. “Please don’t.”
“I’m thinking bold font,” he continues. “Maybe cursive if I’m feeling dramatic. ‘You are more than enough.’” He gestures vaguely like he’s already hanging it up. “Right above the TV. Or your bed. Somewhere you can’t escape it. Maybe then it’ll sink into that pretty little head of yours how completely, undeniably enough you are.”
I laugh again, sharper this time.
“You are so drunk,” I say, pointing lightly at him. “You are absolutely not allowed to be in charge of decorating my house while you’re drunk.”
He looks offended in the most performative way possible. “What? I’m still sober.”
“Mhm,” I hum, still smiling. “Sober people don’t design inspirational poster walls for their emotionally damaged friends. So, please, for the love of God, leave the interior designing to the experts.”
“I wouldn't say I'm drunk enough for interior design,” he argues, pausing to take a slow sip of his beer. “But for this? Yeah. I’m at the perfect level.”
Shaking my head, I tilt my face up toward the stars, searching for a distraction in the dark sky. Anywhere that isn’t him. Because with Santi, it always feels like everything is one breath away from tipping into something else neither of us is pretending to control.
“Promise me something.”
“Hm?” I look in his direction out of the corner of my eye.
“You’re never going to let anyone make you feel small ever again,” he says, his voice dropping into a rough whisper. “You hear me? You like this, with your guard down, it looks too damn good on you.”
His words settle in me in a way I don’t immediately have words for. I don’t let myself react to how much I feel them.
“That could absolutely go on a poster,” I say, pointing at him lightly. “‘Never let anyone make you feel small.’ Maybe you should run some of these by Will.”
That earns a quiet exhale of laughter from him.
“I’m serious,” he says, like my deflection didn’t even register.
“So am I,” I counter back. “Can you imagine Will rolling up to a recruitment assembly with motivational posters like that? He’d make it maybe two minutes before someone dragged him off stage. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to see that.”
Santi shakes his head. He’s watching me like he means it in a way that isn’t just playful anymore.
“It’s kind of unfair, you know.”
“What is?” I ask, my laughter dying.
“How you sit there like you don’t know what you do to people,” he replies. “Like you don’t realize what you do when you walk into a room. Everything changes a little.”
My stomach flips. I go still without meaning to and force my gaze down to the bottle still in my hand, trying to focus on anything but him. Because I can feel it, this thin, dangerous edge beneath the moment, the sense that if either of us leans too far into this, we won’t just be talking anymore.
“Oh, stop,” I say teasingly, reaching for distance. “That’s how you flirt with everyone.”
“Not everyone,” he replies immediately.
I give him a slow, exaggerated look of disbelief. “Please. I’ve seen girls line up for your attention.”
“They’re interested,” he says flatly. “I’m not.”
I tilt my head. “Sure.”
The word comes out slow and skeptical, dragged out by the alcohol buzzing warmly through my system.
His eyes narrow a little. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shrug, taking another sip. “Nothing. Just figured if you keep taking girls home, there must be a thing or two you like about them.”
Santi huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“They’re easy,” he replies. “No pressure. No expectations. Everybody knows what it is.”
“Mm.” I glance at him over the rim of my beer. “Because God forbid anything be serious.”
His face goes still in a different way.
“You think I can’t do serious?” he asks quietly.
I hesitate just a second too long. In that empty beat, the truth catches up to me. I know Santi too well to doubt him. His loyalty is a heavy, fierce thing. He can keep promises. But he already means too damn much to me. Taking a risk on anyone else is one thing, but with Santi, the stakes are too high. If I were to ever let myself believe him and it somehow falls apart, it’ll ruin me.
“I can do serious,” he assures me after a beat, voice lower now, steadier in that way that means he’s actually thinking before he speaks. “I just don’t want to waste it.”
“Right,” I say lightly.
“I just… I’m waiting,” he finally reiterates, quieter. “That’s all.”
I blink at him, caught a little off guard by how serious he sounds. “Waiting for what?”
His attention holds mine a second too long, the firelight cutting sharp lines across his face, his stubble, mouth, the steady set of his jaw all softened and deepened by the glow, like he’s not in any rush to look away.
“The right girl.”
My stomach flips, a dizzying reaction to the beer and the sheer weight of his attention. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing left in the entire world, a focus so intense it leaves nowhere to hide. I force a rough laugh, trying to shake the feeling before it takes root.
“Oh my God,” I snort softly, sinking back into my chair. “Who are you and what have you done with Santiago Garcia?”
A slow grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “He’s around here somewhere.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “And what exactly are you looking for in this right girl?”
The question comes out lighter than I mean for it to, teasing almost, but there’s a tightness curled underneath it. Because part of me wants to hear his answer more than I should, and the other part is already bracing for it. Afraid he’ll describe someone I could never be. Afraid he won’t.
He sinks back into the chair, loose-limbed and quiet, but his dark eyes remain pinned to mine.
“Someone who doesn’t take shit from anyone. And definitely not from me.”
I huff out a laugh. “Well, that already eliminates at least eighty percent of the population.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his mouth.
“She’d call me on my bullshit the second I earned it,” he says.
Another laugh. “So, you're looking for someone to keep you in line.”
His mouth twitches. “That's not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
“Pretty sure it's not.”
“All of you assholes need someone to keep you in line. Otherwise, things quickly become a total shitshow. And frankly, I’m tired of bailing all of you out of trouble.”
He holds my gaze for a second, his expression deadpan, before the tough-guy act cracks. A low laugh rumbles out of him. “Fair.”
I lean back, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “What else?”
“Probably a bit of a spitfire,” he says. “Smart mouth. Doesn’t back down. And doesn’t fall apart when things get hard.”
He pauses, like he’s deciding how honest he wants to be.
“Okay, sometimes she does,” he says, his voice dropping low, a trace of rough amusement in his chest. “But not for long. She’s too damn proud to let anyone think they broke her, or that she can’t handle her own shit.”
“Tough girl,” I murmur, the corner of my mouth tugging upward. “Sounds like she’d be a pain in the ass. You sure you can handle that?”
A quiet laugh slips out of him. “Yeah. I think I could.”
My gaze holds his a beat too long before I look away. “We’ll see about that.”
“I hope we do,” he replies, voice lower, the words lingering between us.
“Is that all?”
A faint breath of a laugh slips out of him, like he’s trying to keep it light and failing a little.
“She’s beautiful,” he says, the admission coming out quiet and rough, like he couldn't have held it back if he tried. He looks down at his beer for a split second, then right back up.
“But she’s completely blind to it,” he continues, his tone absolute. “It’s the kind of beautiful where she’s just going about her day, totally oblivious, until someone actually says it out loud. And then she just looks at you like you're speaking a different language.”
“Right. A gorgeous girl to make gorgeous babies,” I say, tossing him a dry smile. “Classic. I should have known that was on the checklist.”
Santi blinks once, then lets out a short, surprised laugh, more air than sound.
“Wait,” he says, leaning back a fraction like he’s recalibrating. “Are you saying that I’m gorgeous?”
There’s a flicker in his expression, something quick and unguarded before he reins it back in.
My eyes widen slightly when I realize what I just fed him.
“Slow your roll, Santiago,” I say immediately, cutting my eyes toward the fire to break the connection. “The kid's only hope is getting her genetics.”
“Damn,” he swears, shaking his head a little like he’s trying to shake the comment off. “Maybe my ego won’t survive tonight after all.”
I take a long, slow sip of my beer, letting the cold glass press against my bottom lip while I try to ignore the heat crawling up my neck.
“Well, whoever she is, she sounds exhausting.”
“She’s worth it,” he says, the words rough and certain in the quiet yard. “Trust me.”
The answer comes too fast. Too honest. Naturally, I deflect.
“You know,” I say, pointing at him, “most normal people would’ve just said ‘blonde’ or ‘brunette’ by now.”
His mouth curves slowly, eyes warm with amusement.
“Yeah, probably,” he replies. “But I don’t think the right person can be narrowed down to hair color.”
I release a small, skeptical hum. “That’s a very philosophical answer for a casual conversation.”
A quiet laugh slips out of him. “You asked.”
I exhale through my nose, lifting my bottle like I can toast the sentiment away.
“Well, I hope you find her. And I hope she’s prepared. Sounds like she’s got a whole lot to live up to.”
My words are meant to steer us back, but it doesn’t work.
Santi just watches me, his head tilted slightly, the firelight carving shadows under his cheekbones that make him look older, wearier, and more intense than usual. He lets the awkward silence hang there for a beat, letting my attempt to defuse the moment drift away like smoke, before he finally speaks.
“That’s the problem,” he murmurs, his dark eyes locking onto mine so intensely it almost makes my breath catch. “She doesn't get that she's been enough since day one.” He holds the silence, his voice falling to a rough whisper. “You really don't see it, do you?”
The fire pops, a sharp crack that sounds like a gunshot in the sudden, suffocating stillness. I freeze, my hand halfway to my mouth, the beer forgotten as the words settle over us.
I wait for the punchline, for the grin, the wink, the smooth deflection that turns this back into a joke, a tease between friends who have known each other for too long. But it doesn’t come.
Santi just stays there, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that feels almost physical. The lazy, charming facade he usually wears has completely vanished.
"Santi," I breathe out, the word barely more than a whisper. My heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Don't."
"Don't what?" he asks, seeming as though he isn’t going to back down. "Don't say it out loud? We've been dancing around this for years, and tonight you’re sitting here wondering why you weren't enough for some asshole who never deserved to breathe the same air as you. I'm done watching you do that to yourself."
I swallow hard, my grip tightening around the neck of my beer bottle until my knuckles turn white. "We're friends, Santi. The group-"
"I don't give a damn about the group," he interrupts, his tone fierce but steady. He sets his own bottle down on the table between us, entirely focused on me now. "And I haven't looked at you like just a friend in a very long time. You know that. Deep down, you do. And don't lie to me—I know you feel it, too."
The honesty of it feels like a physical blow. The safety net of our banter is completely gone, stripped away by a few words spoken in the quiet of the night. I look down at my lap, unable to hold his gaze any longer because it feels too exposing, like he's looking right into the bruised, aching parts of my soul.
"I can't do this right now," I utter, my voice trembling slightly. "My head is a mess, Santi. I'm still... I'm still trying to fix what he broke."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him move. He abandons his chair and crouches in front of me instead, closing the space between us. He doesn’t touch me, he knows better than to push that boundary, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him, steady and unavoidable.
“Then let me help you carry it,” he murmurs. “I’m not asking you to jump into anything. I’m not asking you to just… get over it. I’m just telling you where I am. Where I’ve been. So, when you finally look up, you don’t have to wonder who’s still here.”
I finally lift my head, my eyes searching his face. The shadows do nothing to hide the absolute sincerity in his expression. There’s no game here. No clever lines designed to get a girl into bed. Just Santi, completely raw and uncovered.
"Why haven’t you ever said anything before?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
A faint, wry smile touches his lips, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Because you were always with someone else. Then you were with him. And as much as it killed me to watch, you were trying to make it work. I wasn't going to mess up your life just because I wanted you. But he threw you away. And I'll be damned before I let anyone else make you feel like you're the one who failed."
A single tear slips free, hot against my cold cheek. I wipe it away quickly, annoyed by my own vulnerability.
Santi’s hand twitches on the armrest of my chair, a clear instinct to reach out and brush the dampness from my skin, but he restrains himself, keeping his unspoken promise not to crowd me. The self-control itself speaks volumes. It shows a level of care that I haven't experienced in a very long time.
The silence returns, but it’s entirely different now, moving from the suffocating weight of my own misery to the electric, terrifying hum of a line that has just been permanently crossed.
Santi watches me, waiting out my shock.
"You're lying," I whisper, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I shake my head, backing my shoulders deeper into the wooden chair, trying to create distance that doesn't exist. "You’re just... you’re being nice. You see me drowning and you’re trying to throw me a lifeline, but this isn't funny, Santi."
"Do I look like I'm joking?" His voice is dead serious, devoid of the usual easy cadence that makes everyone draw toward him. "I don't lie to you. I never have.”
"Everyone lies," I snap, a sudden flash of defense mechanism flaring up to protect the raw, bruised parts of my chest. "He said he loved me. He promised he’d never hurt me. He swore up and down that I was the only one, and look where that got me. Sitting by a dying fire, feeling like a ghost in my own life."
"I am not him," Santi says, each word a deliberate strike. "I don't make promises I can't keep. If I tell you you're the only thing I'm looking at, I mean it. If I tell you I'm going to be here, I'm not going anywhere. I promise you, if you give me a chance-"
"Stop. Just stop with the promises." I cut him off, a sharp, ragged breath leaving me. I look away, staring blindly at the edge of the brick firepit because looking at the sincerity in his eyes hurts too much. "I don't care about promises. I don't believe them anymore. They're just sentences people say to get what they want in the moment."
I squeeze my eyes shut, my throat tight and burning.
"I'm sorry, but I’m tired of words, Santi. I am so damn tired of them."
The confession hangs in the cool night air. I expect him to defend himself, to give me another speech, or to pull back into his usual protective layer of sarcasm. Instead, the yard goes completely still.
When I finally open my eyes and risk a glance back at him, the frustration on his face has cracked open, revealing something desperate. He’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s dying to solve, like he’d tear his own chest open if it meant giving me a reason to trust him.
"Then tell me what to do," he begs, his deep voice carrying a rare, vulnerable edge. He reaches out, his hand hovering in the space between us for a heartbeat before he lets his fingers rest lightly against the edge of my knee, just a fraction of contact, but it feels like lightning. “How can I make you believe me?”
I swallow, trying to find the version of myself that knows how to joke this off, but it’s inconveniently missing.
“Santi,” I start, but it comes out quieter than I mean it to.
His thumb moves slightly, not pushing, not pulling, just there, waiting.
“Look. If you need space,” he says, voice gone rough around the edges now, “I’ll give it to you. You want me gone? Fine. You want to act like this was a mistake? I’ll play along.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, bitter and tired all at once, dragging a hand over his mouth before looking at me again.
“But if you’re asking me what I want…” His gaze lifts to mine, steady and unflinching. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Another pause, smaller this time, like he’s deciding whether to cross a line he can’t uncross.
“You want me to prove it?” he asks, his voice dropping into a rough, low growl that makes my chest ache. He looks at me like he wants to shake me, or kiss me, or both. “Fine. Tell me what you need, and I’m there. You want me to follow you anywhere? Done. You want me on my knees? Just say the damn word. I will do whatever it takes to make you believe me.”
His hand doesn’t move away. It stays there, warm and grounding on the denim of my jeans.
An aching sob catches in my throat, and I swallow it down, my eyes swimming as I finally look straight at him. I want to believe him. Every broken, exhausted piece of me wants to lean into the warmth he’s offering and stop fighting the current. I want to believe that someone could look at me and see everything he just described.
Because beneath all my panic, a stubborn voice in the back of my mind refuses to let me lie to myself. I’m afraid of the risk, yes, but I am not afraid of him. For all his massive size and lethal capability, Santi is the only person alive who makes me feel entirely safe. I know with absolute certainty that he would burn the world down before he ever let a single scratch come to me.
"No more words,” I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of it. I look down at his hand on my knee, then back up to his gaze.
Santi freezes.
“Don't talk about it anymore. Just show me.”
For a long, agonizing beat, he doesn’t move. The easy confidence, the absolute certainty that usually radiates from him, falters. His jaw works, a muscle twitching violently under his stubble as he looks at me. He searches my eyes, his own dark and swirling with a sudden conflict. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Santiago Garcia hesitate, and the sheer weight of it makes my breath hitch.
Finally, he swallows.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his hand tightening just a fraction against my knee. “Because you need to understand something. If I cross this line with you, that’s it for me. No going back to how it was. I’m not playing games with you, cariño, so don’t try to play with me.”
“I’m sure,” I reply, and I mean it down to my bones. I slide my hand over his where it rests on my knee, feeling the rough warmth of his skin. “I want to believe you, Santi. I do. I'm tired of running from it. I'm tired of pretending I don't want this.”
I reach down, my fingers wrapping around his wrist, feeling the heavy, unsteady thrum of his pulse under my palm. For a second, he just looks at me like he’s trying to figure out if I really mean it, or if I’m about to pull away again the second it gets too real.
When I tug his hand upward, he lets me. He just follows, slow, like he’s giving me the space to set the terms myself. My grip tightens a fraction, not letting him slip out of it.
“So, if I’m really the one you’re waiting for…,” I whisper, turning his hand over in mine and pressing his palm flat against my chest. My heart is hammering against his skin, frantic and uneven, but I hold his hand there anyway. “No more pretty words. I've heard them all before. If you want me to believe you, Santi... Prove it.”
It’s then that I finally look at him.
“Show me I’m all that you need.”
The hesitation snaps.
Santi reaches out, his large hands anchoring against the sides of my face. His palms are warm, rough, and completely steady against my burning skin. He gently tilts my head and brushes his thumb over my cheekbone, catching a stray tear before it can fall.
He doesn't have to say a word. The fierce, consuming focus in his eyes tells me everything.
Then, he leans in, and the space between us vanishes.
When his mouth finds mine, it’s a crash of heat and absolute certainty, a silent vow pressed against my lips that completely takes the air from my lungs. It’s fierce, hungry, and so deeply possessive it makes my head spin.
My hands act on their own, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer because the sudden rush of warmth is the only thing keeping me anchored.
Santi groans into the kiss, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates straight through my chest. One of his hands slides down from my face, his fingers tangling in my hair to hold me steady, while his other hand moves to the back of my neck, his thumb anchoring my jaw. He kisses me like he’s trying to rewrite every lie I’ve ever been told, tracing the seam of my lips with a desperation that leaves no room for doubt.
Every defense mechanism I’ve spent weeks building up simply disintegrates.
And then, as abruptly as it began, he pulls back just an inch. The breath leaves him in a ragged, uneven rush against my lips.
The dark, heated look in his eyes takes over completely, swallowing any trace of hesitation. The tough, unyielding soldier vanished, replaced by a raw, single-minded focus that zeroes in on me like he’s been waiting for this exact command his entire life. The transformation is terrifying and absolute. It’s the look of a man who would burn the world down if I asked him to or kneel in the ashes to worship me if that’s what I needed.
The movement is fluid, controlled, his knees hitting the ground. He doesn't break eye contact for a second, his gaze locked on mine as he settles there, a supplicant at my altar.
He is massive, a wall of muscle and coiled power, and yet he looks completely disarmed like this. Stripped of his defenses, he's looking up at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the entire world.
He places his hands on my knees, his palms warm and rough through the denim. The heat of them sinks into my skin, branding me. He rests them there, waiting.
For a moment, I only stare at him, stunned by the sight of Santi on his knees before me. This is a man who commands rooms, who leads teams into hell and back, and here he is, kneeling in the dirt at my feet. The power rush is heady, dizzying, making the blood pound in my ears.
He waits, letting me take this in, letting me see him like this.
Slowly, his hands begin to move. They slide up my thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight up my spine. He's taking his time, exploring the terrain like he's memorizing it, his touch reverent but demanding.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked, vibrating against my skin.
"Worship me," I breathe, the command barely a whisper.
Santi’s eyes darken further, the pupils swallowing the iris until there’s almost nothing left. A low, ragged sound tears from his throat, something halfway between a groan and a growl, and he surges forward.
His hands slide from my knees to my hips, fingers hooking into the belt loops of my jeans to drag me to the very edge of the chair. I gasp at the sudden movement, my back arching as he pulls me flush against him, his face burying itself in the space between my legs.
He inhales deeply, like he’s trying to breathe me in, memorize my scent, and the sheer intimacy of the action makes my head spin.
"Fuck," he grits out, the word muffled against the denim. "You smell so fucking good.”
His hands move to the button of my jeans with practiced ease, popping it open and dragging the zipper down with agonizing slowness. The sound of the teeth parting is deafening in the quiet night. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my jeans and panties both, pulling them down my legs in one rough tug.
I lift my hips to help him, unable to look away from the sight of him, on his knees, doing exactly what I asked. The cool night air hits my heated skin, raising goosebumps, but his hands are there a second later, warm and grounding on my bare thighs.
He doesn’t give me a moment to feel exposed. He leans in immediately, his broad shoulders spreading my knees wider, forcing me open to the night air and his gaze. The firelight catches the sharp planes of his face as he dips his head, his breath hot against my inner thigh.
“Santi,” I gasp, my fingers flying to his hair, threading through the thick, dark curls.
He hums against my skin, a low, vibrating sound that sends a shockwave of electricity straight to my core. He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, then higher, his lips tracing a slow, torturous path up the sensitive skin of my thigh. He isn’t rushing. Every press of his mouth feels like a brand, staking a claim in the most tender way possible.
He works his way higher, his mouth leaving a trail of fire against my inner thighs. The scrape of his day-old stubble is a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips, sending shivers racing up my spine that have nothing to do with the chill in the air. He takes his time, mapping the terrain with a reverence that makes my chest ache, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of skin he’s been denied for so long.
When he finally reaches the apex of my thighs, he pauses. He pulls back just enough to look up at me, his eyes burning with a dark, fierce intensity. The sight of him, strong and unshakeable Santi, kneeling between my legs, looking at me like I’m the only holy thing left in the world, is almost enough to undo me right there.
“Look at you.”
The air between us is electric, charged with the weight of the moment. His eyes are pools of molten heat, filled with a raw, undisguised hunger that makes my breath hitch. He doesn't look away, his stare pinning me in place as he leans in, his breath ghosting over my exposed, aching flesh.
"You’re a fucking goddess," he murmurs, the words a dark rasp against my skin.
He seals his mouth over me with a desperate, hungry groan that vibrates through my entire body, his tongue flattening against my clit with a firm, pressured stroke.
My back bows off the chair, a broken cry tearing from my throat as my fingers tighten in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, but he doesn’t flinch. If anything, the pain seems to spur him on. He growls low against me, the sound rough and possessive, his hands gripping my thighs with bruising force to hold me open for him.
He eats me like he’s starving.
His tongue moves with a devastating precision, curling and flicking in ways that make my vision blur. There is no hesitation, no tentative exploration, only a relentless, consuming rhythm. He alternates between broad, flat strokes that cover every inch of me and sharp, targeted flicks of his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves that sends shockwaves racing up my spine.
I can’t think. I can’t breathe. The only thing that exists is the heat of his mouth, the rough grip of his hands on my thighs, and the desperate, embarrassing sounds escaping my own throat.
He changes his angle, dragging his lower lip through my folds before suctioning his mouth around my clit, sucking hard. My hips jerk instinctively, chasing the friction, but his grip tightens, iron-clad, holding me exactly where he wants me. He hums against me, the vibration radiating through my pelvis, down my thighs, settling deep in my bones.
The pressure builds, a tight, coiling knot low in my belly that threatens to snap. His name falls from my lips like a chant, a broken prayer. He doubles down, sliding one hand from my thigh, his fingers teasing my entrance before thrusting inside, curling upward to find that spot that makes me see stars.
The dual sensation is too much. The fullness of his fingers, the ruthless suction of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble. It’s a sensory overload that shatters me.
"Santi, I-," I gasp, my thighs trembling violently around his ears.
He doesn't let up. If anything, he presses harder, his tongue flicking rapidly while his fingers curl inside me, hitting that perfect, devastating spot over and over again. The coil in my belly snaps, white-hot and blinding.
My orgasm tears through me with the force of a freight train. I cry out, my back arching violently off the chair as the pleasure overwhelms my senses, wiping out everything but the feel of his mouth and hands. My entire body shakes, the tension releasing in a rush that leaves me gasping for air, my vision spotting with black and white.
He works me through it, drawing out every aftershock until I’m a trembling, oversensitive mess, completely boneless against the chair. The relentless rhythm of his tongue finally slows, turning into soft, languid laps that soothe rather than consume, gently bringing me down from the high.
I sag back, my chest heaving, staring up at the starless sky as my heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I feel wrecked, utterly spent.
Santi presses one last, lingering kiss to the inside of my thigh, a tender contrast to the bruising grip of his hands just moments ago. Then, he pulls back slightly, but he doesn't stand. He rests his forehead against my knee, his own breathing ragged and uneven, the heat of it seeping into my sweat-slicked skin.
The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the ragged sound of our breathing. For a long moment, he stays there, forehead resting against my knee, grounding us both. The rough stubble of his jaw scrapes against my skin, a tangible reminder of the intensity of what just happened.
He pulls back to look up at me, his eyes tracing the lines of my face as if he’s committing this moment to memory. The look in his eyes is fierce, a dark, possessive glint that says I’m his, and he’s not letting me go.
Slowly, he rises to his feet. The movement is effortless, a display of raw power that steals the breath I’m still trying to catch. He looms over me, his silhouette blocking out the firelight, a giant in the darkness. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to.
He reaches down, his hands sliding under my arms, and lifts. He scoops me up against his chest like I weigh nothing at all, one arm hooked behind my knees and the other braced firmly against my back. My head lolls against his shoulder, my face burying in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him.
The transition from the cool night air to the house is instantaneous, the warmth of the interior wrapping around us as he kicks the door shut behind him. He moves through the hallway with a predatory grace, his steps sure and silent on the floorboards.
I’m loose-limbed and floating, my body still humming with the aftershocks, my face pressed against the steady thrum of his heartbeat. I don't look up to see where we're going. I just let him carry me, trusting him completely to take me where I need to be.
He kicks the door to his bedroom open and carries me inside. He deposits me on the bed with a controlled drop, the mattress dipping under my weight.
I look up at him, breathless, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across his frame. He stands at the edge of the bed, staring down at me with a hunger that makes my throat go dry.
Santi stands there, chest heaving, his eyes dragging over me with a slow perusal that feels like a physical touch. He’s taking me in, and the look on his face is pure, unfiltered sin. He reaches back, gripping the hem of his shirt, and peels it off in one fluid motion, tossing it aside without looking.
The moonlight catches the hard planes of his chest, the definition of his abs, the scars that map his history. He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost violent, all coiled strength and restrained power.
“Come here,” I breathe, reaching for him.
He just stands there, letting his eyes trace the line of my body like he’s memorizing a map he intends to conquer. The silence stretches until the weight of his stare becomes a physical thing, pressing me into the mattress.
“Patience,” he chides, though the rough edge to his voice betrays him. His hands go to his belt, the metal clinking in the quiet room as he undoes it, then the button of his jeans. “I’m not rushing this. Not now.”
Santi’s dark eyes never leave mine as his hands hook into the waist of his jeans, pushing the denim down over his hips. The fabric bunches around his thighs before he steps out of them completely, kicking them aside with a careless movement that underscores his absolute focus on me.
He stands completely bare before me. He is magnificent, all long, powerful lines, the muscle of his thighs and the sharp, tensed V-cut of his lower stomach leading down to the undeniable, rigid proof of how badly he wants me. There is nothing hidden anymore. The vulnerability of his nakedness is entirely eclipsed by the raw, dominant presence he commands just by standing there.
A low, involuntary gasp slips from my throat at the sheer sight of him.
A slow, dark smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it disappears just as quickly, replaced by that heavy-lidded, consuming lust that has been burning in his eyes. He steps toward the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking deeply under his weight as he settles a knee on the mattress, looming over me once more.
"You like what you see?" he murmurs, his deep voice scraping low in his chest as he crawls forward, positioning himself over my body. "Because it's all yours. Every single inch."
He braces himself on his forearms, caging me in, his weight settling heavily on top of me in a way that feels like an anchor. The friction of his skin against mine sends a fresh shockwave of heat through my system, waking up nerves that are already raw and oversensitive.
I arch my neck back into the pillow, my hands coming up to wrap around his biceps, feeling the hard, tensed muscle beneath my palms. . I look up into his eyes, dark and steady, weighted with something unreadable, the kind that feel like they see too much and say too little. I’m completely helpless against the pull of him, unable to look away.
"I've never seen anything more perfect," I whisper, my voice trembling but entirely honest. I slide my hands up to his shoulders, pulling him down just that fraction closer until his breath mixes with mine. "
"God, you are so beautiful," he growls, the words raspy and unpolished as he stares down at me. His gaze roves over my face like he’s trying to memorize every line, every flush of my skin in the dim light. "I've been going out of my mind wanting you like this. It’s always been you."
He doesn't wait for me to answer, his mouth dropping down to claim mine again.
This time, the kiss is deeper, slower, filled with a quiet reverence that leaves me entirely breathless. He parts my lips with a possessive assurance, tasting me fully, while his fingers tangle into my hair to tilt my head just right. The sheer warmth of him floods through me, drowning out the lingering cold of everything that came before, until there is nothing left but the weight of his body and the absolute certainty of his mouth against mine.
He shifts, his mouth trailing a path of burning heat down the line of my jaw, finding the sensitive spot just beneath my ear. A low, ragged breath escapes him before he buries his lips against my throat. He kisses me there, deep and possessive, his tongue tracing the frantic, erratic beat of my pulse until my entire body arches into his touch.
The contrast of his heavy, solid weight against me and the deliberate, torturous precision of his mouth sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to my core.
“Santi, please,” I gasp, my hips lifting off the mattress in a desperate, silent plea. I need him to fill the ache, to stop the trembling that hasn't ceased since he put his mouth on me.
He hovers over me, bracing his weight on one arm while the other slides between us. He grips himself and runs the length of his cock through my folds, coating himself in the wet heat he left there. The friction is maddening, a slow, deliberate drag that makes my hips jerk off the mattress, chasing the contact.
“Eyes on me,” he orders, his voice a rough scrape against the quiet.
I force my eyes open, meeting that dark, consuming gaze. He’s watching me with an unblinking intensity, tracking every flutter of my eyelashes, every ragged breath that tears through my lips.
He doesn't ask again. He lines himself up and pushes forward, sinking into me with a slow, deliberate thrust. The stretch is intense, a burning, full pressure that borders on too much, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't give me a chance to adjust to the invasion. He just keeps coming, burying himself deep until his hips are flush against mine and there is nowhere left to go.
A ragged sound tears from my throat, half-gasp, half-moan. My body bows off the mattress, instinctively trying to accommodate the sheer size of him, my hands flying to his shoulders to hold on.
He holds himself there, deep and impossibly still, letting my body adjust to the invasion, letting me feel every thick inch of him stretching me wide. His breath is hot against my neck, ragged and uneven, the only sign that the iron control he’s famous for is hanging by a thread.
“Breathe,” he raps against my skin, his hand coming up to cup the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive spot behind my ear. “Just breathe, cariño. I got you.”
I try to obey, forcing air into lungs that feel seized, my internal muscles fluttering around him as they try to accommodate his size. He groans low in his throat, a dark, broken sound, his hips jerking involuntarily against me.
Then, he begins to move. A steady, punishingly deep rhythm that feels designed to completely dismantle me from the inside out. It’s a takeover. He refuses to let me look away, his dark eyes locked onto mine in the dim light filtering through the window, forcing me to witness every hitch in his breath, every tightening of his jaw, as if he's carving his name into my skin.
He leans down, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his teeth grazing my collarbone as his pace quickens, the friction and heat spiraling out of control.
“You’re it for me,” he confesses brokenly, his voice cracking against my ear as he drives us both over the edge. “But you get to decide if I stay yours the same way you’re mine.”
The admission hangs in the air, heavier than the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. It’s a detonation in the quiet room, shattering whatever fragile walls we’ve been hiding behind. The raw honesty in his voice, the way it cracks on the words, undoes me completely.
My heart lurches, a jagged, painful beat that matches the rhythm of his hips. I dig my heels into the mattress, lifting to meet him, my hands threading into his hair to pull him closer, needing him to merge with me, to erase the line where he ends and I begin. The coil in my belly tightens to the breaking point, white-hot and desperate, pulled by the drag of his body and the gravity of his confession.
“I’m yours, Santi,” I gasp, his name a prayer on my lips. “I’m yours…and you’re mine.”
He lets out a shuddering breath against my neck, as if my words have physically disarmed him, stripping away the last of his composure. But instead of driving into me harder, as his coiled muscles suggest he might, he slows. He pulls back to look at me, his expression fierce, reverent, almost pained in its intensity.
He brings a hand between us, his calloused palm tracing the line of my jaw, his thumb dragging over my lower lip until I part for him. He leans down, pressing his lips to my forehead, then the tip of my nose, then my cheeks, scattering kisses like he’s trying to memorize my features by braille.
“Mine,” he repeats, agreeing with my declaration, making it a vow. He shifts his weight, sliding one arm under my waist to tilt my hips up, changing the angle so he brushes against a spot that makes me see stars. “I’m going to take such good fucking care of you.”
He starts to move again, but the rhythm has changed. The punishing pace is gone, replaced by a deliberate, devastating slowness. He’s worshiping me with his body, using every inch of himself to show me what he can’t say with words alone.
He presses his lips to my temple, then down to the hollow of my throat, his tongue darting out to taste the salt on my skin.
“Fuck,” he exhales quietly, like the words aren’t enough for what he means. “You’re so beautiful it’s not even fair.”
His hips roll in a shallow, grinding wave, hitting that deep, tender spot inside me over and over until I’m a writhing mess beneath him. He’s taking his time, dragging out every sensation, forcing me to feel every ridge, every vein, every thick inch of him as he strokes the fire higher. His hands roam my body, gripping my thighs, tracing the curve of my waist, tangling in my hair, holding me steady for his possession.
He shifts slightly, bringing one hand between us where we are joined, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves with unerring precision. The dual sensation of him filling me and the tight, circling pressure of his thumb is devastating. My back arches off the bed, a broken cry spilling from my lips as the pleasure spikes sharp and blinding.
“Let go for me,” he commands softly, his voice dark and rough against my ear. “I want to feel you fall apart.”
He doesn’t stop. He works me with a relentless, focused dedication, watching my face with that piercing gaze as the tension in my belly winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap. The pleasure builds to a crescendo, a white-hot wave that crashes over me, pulling me under. I cry out his name, my body clamping down around him as the orgasm rips through me, leaving me gasping and shaking in its wake.
The aftershocks are still rippling through me, turning my bones to liquid, when Santi withdraws. The sudden emptiness is a jarring loss, a cold void where he just was, but he doesn’t give me time to mourn the absence. His hands are on me instantly, gripping my hips with a firm, undeniable pressure.
“Turn over,” he rasps, the command rough but laced with that same dark reverence.
I’m too wrecked to do anything but obey. I roll onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow to muffle a sound that’s half-sob, half-moan. My body is humming, oversensitive, every nerve ending exposed. I feel the mattress dip as he moves behind me, the heat of his skin radiating against mine even before he touches me.
His hands grip my waist, rough and demanding, pulling me up until I’m on my hands and knees. The position leaves me vulnerable, my back arched and exposed to him, but the vulnerability only serves to heighten the anticipation. I feel the mattress shift as he moves in behind me, the heat of his thighs brushing against the backs of mine. He’s a furnace at my back, a wall of solid muscle and restrained aggression.
He doesn’t enter me immediately. He takes a moment to appreciate the view, his calloused palms running over the curve of my spine, tracing the dip of my lower back before gripping my ass firmly. His touch is possessive, kneading the flesh, branding me as his own.
“God, look at you,” he groans, the sound rough and low, vibrating against my skin. “Perfect like this. All for me.”
He leans down, the heat of his chest pressing against my back, molding us together. The hair on his chest tickles my skin, a sharp contrast to the steel-hard muscles beneath. He doesn't rush; he takes a moment to bracket my body with his, caging me in. One arm slides under my chest, pulling me back against him until my shoulder blades are flush with his pecs, while his other hand grips my hip, anchoring me in place.
I can feel the thud of his heart against my spine, a frantic rhythm that matches my own. His breath is hot against the sensitive shell of my ear, sending shivers down my neck even as the rest of me burns.
“Santi,” I whimper, my head falling back onto his shoulder, exposing my throat to him in a gesture of total surrender. “Please.”
He doesn't make me wait any longer. He lines himself up and sinks into me in one deep, fluid stroke, a possessive invasion that forces a broken cry from my lips. The angle is deeper this way, devastatingly so, and I grip the bedsheets, knuckles white, as he seats himself fully inside.
“I got you,” he growls against the sensitive skin of my neck, his voice vibrating through my chest.
He pulls back then enters me again in one smooth stroke, and this time the angle is deeper, devastatingly so. I cry out, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on the sheets, but he has me locked down. There is no escaping the intensity of him, the way he fills every inch of space, physical and otherwise.
The friction is maddening, a slow drag that pulls against every nerve ending. He’s more than fucking me. He’s imprinting himself on me, ensuring that every inch of my body remembers the shape of him. The arm across my chest is a steel band, his hand splayed wide over my sternum, feeling the frantic race of my heart.
He shifts his hips, changing the angle just enough to hit that spot that makes spots dance behind my eyelids, and a high, thin sound tears from my throat. His response is a low, dark chuckle that he presses directly into the sweat-slicked skin of my shoulder.
“You feel that?” he rasps, his teeth grazing the tendon where my neck meets my shoulder. “That’s where I belong. Deep inside you.”
He buries his face in the curve of my neck, inhaling me like I’m the only source of oxygen left in a burning room. The intimacy of this position is overwhelming. I can’t hide from him like this. I’m completely spread open, trapped against the hard wall of his chest, forced to feel every ragged breath he takes, every twitch of the muscles that are caging me in.
“Santi, please,” I sob, the sound broken and breathless. “It’s too much. I can’t-”
“You can,” he cuts me off fiercely, his hand sliding up from my chest to wrap around my throat, tilting my head back further. His grip is firm, possessive, anchoring me to him. “You were made for this. Made for me. Do you trust me?”
“I trust you.”
“Good,” he groans, the words breaking on a thrust that feels like a prayer. “I want to show you what you do to me, how completely you have me on my knees. Fuck, I’d do anything for you.” The words are punched out of him with every thrust, raw and desperate and terrifyingly loud in the quiet room. "I need you. I need you in a way I don’t really know what to do with.”
His grip on my throat tightens just enough to make my pulse hammer against his palm, a possessive, grounding pressure that sends a fresh shockwave of heat straight to my core. The vulnerability of the position, the sheer weight of him surrounding me, is intoxicating. I feel claimed, not just in my body but in the very air I breathe.
“Please,” I gasp, my voice breaking as he hits a spot that makes the room tilt on its axis.
“Please what?” He doesn't let up. If anything, the angle sharpens, grinding deep until I’m arching off the mattress, a broken moan tearing from my throat. “Tell me what you need, cariño.”
“I… I…” The words dissolve into a breathless whine, completely broken. My mind is a white void of pure sensation, wiped entirely clean of everything but the agonizingly perfect drag of his skin against mine. I let out a desperate whimper, helpless against the relentless rhythm that’s pushing me straight toward another precipice.
“Shh,” he breathes, the words a ragged promise against my neck. He seems to understand my incoherence better than I do. “I know.”
He slides his hand between our bodies. When his hand finds the swollen, aching heat between my legs, the slick friction of his touch is absolute electricity. A violent shockwave ripples through me, bucking my hips helplessly against him.
He shifts his hips, hitting a spot that makes my vision blur, and the sheer precision of it, the fact that he knows my body better than I know myself right now, makes my head spin. He's attuning himself to me, reading every tremor, every gasp like a map he’s memorized.
His lips graze the sensitive skin just below my ear, placing a kiss there that is tender, a stark contrast to the relentless rhythm of his hips. It’s a benediction, a silent vow spoken in the language of touch.
“I’m giving it to you,” he breathes, the words rough, pouring out of him like he’s been holding them back for a lifetime. “Everything you could ever want, it’s yours. Just say the word.”
"Give it to me, Santi," I gasp out, my voice raw and completely undone against his lips. "I'm yours. I believe you."
That breaks him. The rhythm shifts from that devastatingly slow torture to a desperate, driving cadence, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room, raw and rhythmic. He’s not holding anything back, pouring everything he is, every secret, every fear, every ounce of that desperate devotion he confessed, into the way he moves inside me. It’s frantic, almost violent in its intensity, a man running out of time trying to etch his soul into mine.
He keeps talking, a stream of praise and devotion that mixes with the ragged sounds of our exertion. He tells me I'm beautiful, that I'm his, that he's never felt anything like this in his life. Each word acts as a catalyst, wringing spasm after spasm from my exhausted body until I'm sobbing, completely undone by the sheer force of his devotion and the overwhelming, blinding pleasure of him.
A raw, ragged sob tears from my throat as the third climax crashes into me, harder and sharper than the first two. It blindsides me, a white-hot supernova that obliterates every thought, every doubt, every memory of the months spent feeling invisible. My body locks up, shaking violently beneath him, my inner muscles clamping around him like a vice.
I scream his name, my voice breaking as the pleasure turns almost painful in its intensity.
He growls low in his throat, a sound of pure satisfaction, and rides me through it. He doesn't stop the ruthless motion of his hips, doesn't stop the devastating circles of his fingers until I’m completely spent, collapsed and twitching against the mattress.
He follows me over the edge with a guttural groan that sounds like it’s been wrenched out of him, his rhythm finally stuttering and breaking. He buries himself to the hilt, holding there as his body bows, his hand blindly seeking mine on the mattress, pinning our fingers together and squeezing tight. He holds me with a reverence that borders on the divine, anchoring me through the intensity, ensuring that even in the midst of his own unraveling, I am cherished, safe, and held.
For a long, suspended moment, the world narrows down to the sound of our breathing, ragged, uneven, deafening in the quiet room. The air smells of sex and sweat and him, a scent that seems to imprint itself directly into my bloodstream.
He collapses over me, a sweat-slicked weight that presses me into the mattress, but he doesn't crush me. He catches himself on his elbows at the last second, burying his face in the crook of my neck as his body continues to shudder with the aftershocks.
His heart hammers against my spine, a heavy, frantic rhythm that matches the thumping in my own chest. We are a tangle of limbs, skin sticking to skin, the air around us thick and stifling in the best possible way.
For a long time, neither of us moves. The only sounds are the ragged intake of breath and the distant, muffled crackle of the fire pit dying outside the window. It’s like the world has stopped spinning, just for us, leaving us suspended in this bubble.
Eventually, he shifts his weight, rolling us onto our sides so he doesn't crush me, but he doesn't let go. He pulls me back into his chest, spooning me, his face buried in my hair. His arm is a possessive weight across my waist, his hand splayed flat against my stomach, holding me together.
I can feel his breath against the back of my neck, warm and uneven, slowly syncing with my own. The dim room feels smaller now, the shadows pressing in, but it doesn't feel claustrophobic. It feels like a bunker. Like the only safe place left on earth.
He presses a kiss to my shoulder, lingering there like he’s memorizing the taste of my skin. "You okay?”
I hum, turning my head just enough to catch his eye. The intensity from before is still there, but it’s softened now, melted into an unguarded warmth. It’s a look he rarely shows the world, reserved only for these quiet moments when the armor comes off.
"Yeah," I whisper, my throat feeling raw and used. "I'm more than okay."
The corner of his mouth kicks up, that familiar, crooked thing that used to make my stomach flip years ago and still manages to do a number on me now. He lifts his hand from my stomach, tracing the line of my jaw with a thumb that's rough and calloused, but gentle enough to make my eyes sting.
“I know you’re tired of words,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough vibration against my skin. “But I meant every fucking one of them. I’m not letting you go. I don’t care what it takes. I’m making sure you believe me.”
He pulls back just enough to search my eyes, his gaze dark and unwavering, daring me to look away. But I don't. A slow, challenging smirk tugs at my lips as a familiar heat begins to build all over again.
"You talk a big game, Santiago," I whisper, shifting back to feel the reassuring weight of his body. "I’m going to hold you to it.”
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