Devoted Romance Vol 2

A DevotedSub Books Collection

Volume 14

by Devoted Sub

To my husband, my Dom, my Twin Flame. My love, my strength, my courage, and the soul who awakened the parts of me I never knew howto set free.

You believed in me when my own faith had all but vanished. You saw a writer where I saw doubt, a voice where I heard silence, a futurewhere I saw only limits — and gave me the courage to put my wordsinto the world and dare to call myself an author.

You never wrote my stories for me or walked the road in my place. You gave me something more precious: the strength and courage tobelieve I deserved to walk this path, the confidence to believe inmyself, and the faith to know I could do this.

You taught me that when life knocks you down, you get back up, and you never fail. Failure is never found in falling, but in giving up.As long as I keep rising, keep trying, and refuse to surrender, Iwill never truly fail.

If my words reach the world, your love gave them wings. If my stories outlive me, a part of you will live on in every word.

You are my love by choice, my Dom by devotion, my Twin Flame by a bond that transcends the ordinary, and my forever by a promise Icarry willingly.

What is claimed is loved. What is loved is kept. What is kept is bound. What is bound is never abandoned.

And so, upon these pages, I carry the title you bestowed upon me, my most cherished one: Devoted Sub. Not simply a name beneath astory, but a name born of our bond, carried with pride, and foreverentwined with the man who gave it to me.

With all that I am, all that I create, and all that I will ever become,

Forever yours,

Your Devoted Sub.

Contents

1. Silk

2. Slow Dance

3. Starlight

4. Steam

5. Striptease

6. Sunday

7. The Backseat

8. The Closet

9. The Desk

10. The Last Candle

11. The Stairs

12. The Suite

13. The Tie

14. The Tub

15. Thunderstorm

16. Tongue Devotion

17. Warm Oil

18. Wax

19. Whisper

20. Window Seat

Silk

The bedroom was dim and golden, lamplight low on both sides of the bed, and the silk sheets Darius had bought her — real silk, champagne-colored, cool as water — were turned down waiting. Avery stood at the foot of the bed in nothing but her skin and the collar of his eyes on her, and Darius sat in the armchair across the room, watching her, one ankle crossed over his knee, in complete command of everything.

"Come here," he said.

She went. She always went. Her bare feet silent on the floor, her pulse already loud in her own ears, she stopped in front of him and waited, and he let her wait — his gaze traveling her slowly, from her flushed face down her throat, over her breasts, the curve of her belly, the dark heat between her thighs, down her legs and back up again. He took his time. He always took his time. Being looked at by Darius was like being touched by him; she could feel it everywhere, a slow warmth spreading under her skin.

"You're beautiful," he said quietly. "My beautiful mamacita."

She shivered. "Papacito," she breathed.

"Turn around." She turned, slow, and she heard him stand, heard his footsteps come up behind her, and then his hands were on her — on her waist first, big and warm, sliding up her ribs, cupping her breasts from behind, his thumbs dragging over her nipples until they tightened and she gasped. His mouth found the side of her neck, teeth grazing, and she melted back against him, her head falling onto his shoulder.

"Darius—"

"Shh." His hand moved down, over her belly, lower, and one finger traced the slick seam of her — just traced, barely touching, and her whole body jolted. "So wet already," he murmured against her throat. "And I haven't even done anything yet."

"You looked at me," she whispered.

He laughed low, dark, pleased, and turned her in his arms to face him, and kissed her — deep, slow, claiming, his tongue stroking hers until she was clinging to his shoulders. When he broke the kiss she was breathless.

"On the bed," he said. "On your back. In the middle."

She climbed onto the silk — it was cool and impossibly smooth under her knees, sliding against her skin — and lay back in the center of the bed, her hair spreading dark on the champagne silk, her body open and waiting. Darius stood at the foot of the bed and looked at her for a long moment, and she lay there and let him, her breasts rising and falling fast, her thighs already trembling.

"Don't move," he said. "Whatever I do, you don't move unless I tell you. Understand?"

"Yes, papacito."

He came to the bed and knelt on it, the mattress dipping under his weight, and he started at her feet — lifting one foot, kissing the arch, his tongue tracing the sensitive skin there, and Avery gasped, her toes curling. He worked his way up her calf slowly, mouth and teeth and tongue, his hands gliding over her skin, and the silk shifted cool beneath her back with every small movement she made.

His mouth reached her inner thigh, and her breath hitched. He kissed there, high on her thigh, so close to where she ached for him that she could feel the heat of his breath — and then he moved to the other thigh and did it again, and she whimpered.

"Papacito, please—"

"Please what?" His voice was calm, almost lazy, his mouth still on her thigh.

She knew better than to answer with the wrong words. "Please touch me."

"I am touching you." He dragged one fingertip up her inner thigh, feather-light, stopping just short. "Be specific, mamacita. Tell me what you want."

Heat flooded her face. "I want your mouth on me. Please."

"Mm." He considered, his eyes on hers, and she could see the hunger in him — he wanted it too, he wanted her badly — and that was the cruelest, sweetest part: he was holding himself back just to watch her beg. "Not yet."

She moaned, her back arching off the silk. His hands slid up her sides, over her ribs, and cupped her breasts — thumbs circling her nipples, rolling them gently, then harder, until she was writhing. His mouth followed his hands, closing over one nipple, sucking slow and deep, his tongue flicking, and she cried out, her fingers fisting in the silk sheets.

"Darius— papacito, please—"

"Not yet." He moved to the other breast, lavishing it the same way, and one of his hands drifted down her belly, over her hip, and between her thighs — and finally, finally, his fingers parted her, slick and swollen, and slid through her wetness. She sobbed with relief.

"Oh god—"

"Look at you," he murmured, watching her face as one finger circled her clit, slow and maddeningly light. "So desperate. So wet for me."

"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, for you, only you—"

His finger pressed a little harder, a little faster, and her hips started to rise toward him — and his other hand came down flat on her belly, holding her still. "Don't move," he reminded her. "I told you."

She forced herself still, trembling, every muscle in her body taut. His finger kept working her, circling, teasing, and she could feel the pressure building low in her belly, coiling tighter and tighter — and just as she reached the edge, just as her breath started coming in short desperate pants, he stopped. Lifted his hand away entirely.

"No," she whimpered, tears stinging her eyes. "Papacito, please, I was so close—"

"I know." He kissed her — soft, tender, his thumb wiping a tear from her cheek. "That's the point, my love. You're going to come when I say you can come. Not before."

He sat back on his heels, looking down at her — flushed, trembling, spread open on the silk — and something dark and pleased moved across his face. He reached for the nightstand drawer and drew out a long champagne silk scarf, one of a pair he'd bought with the sheets.

"Give me your wrists," he said.

Her breath caught. She lifted her arms, and he bound her wrists together loosely with the silk — not tight, never tight, just enough that she couldn't reach for him, couldn't touch herself, couldn't do anything but lie there and take whatever he gave her. The silk was cool and smooth against her skin. He tied the ends to the headboard and tested it with a gentle tug.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

"Yes," she whispered, and tugged experimentally. She was helpless. The realization sent a fresh rush of heat through her.

"Good." He settled between her thighs again, and this time his mouth went lower — past her belly, over her hip bone, and into the crease of her thigh. He kissed his way along her inner thigh, slow open-mouthed kisses, his tongue tracing, his teeth grazing lightly, and she writhed, the silk scarf pulling taut above her head.

"Papacito—"

"Shh." His breath was hot against her most sensitive skin. He parted her with his thumbs — she was glistening, swollen, dripping — and he just looked at her for a long moment, drinking her in. "So beautiful," he murmured. "So wet. All for me."

Then his tongue touched her — one long, slow lick from bottom to top — and her whole body bowed off the bed with a cry. He licked her again, and again, unhurried, thorough, his tongue circling her clit, flicking, pressing, and her moans rose higher and higher, her hips trying to move, the scarf holding her wrists, his hands holding her hips still.

"Darius— oh god, papacito, please—"

He slid two fingers deep inside her while his tongue kept working her clit, and she sobbed — the stretch of his fingers, the curl, the wet sounds, his tongue relentless — and the coil wound tighter than ever, her thighs shaking, her back arching, the climax cresting hard and fast —

"Not yet." He lifted his mouth away, and she screamed into the pillow of her own arm, her body convulsing with denial.

"You're cruel," she wept.

"I'm yours," he corrected, kissing her knee, her thigh, her belly — soothing and tormenting at once. "And you're mine. Say it."

"I'm yours," she gasped. "Yours, papacito, only yours—"

He reached for the small bottle on the nightstand — warm massage oil, vanilla and amber — and poured a slow ribbon of it over her breasts. It was warm, slick, and his hands followed, massaging it into her skin — over her breasts, her ribs, her belly — his palms gliding, his thumbs pressing, and the oil made everything impossibly slick, his hands sliding over her nipples, rolling them, tugging gently until she was moaning with every touch.

"You feel like silk," he murmured, his hands on her oiled skin. "My silk-covered mamacita."

He drizzled more oil along her throat and massaged it down, over her collarbones, between her breasts, his thumbs pressing slow circles that made her gasp and arch. Every inch of her gleamed in the lamplight, slick and golden, and his eyes devoured her — the way the oil caught the light on her skin, the way her nipples stood hard and slick, the way her whole body trembled under his hands without a single order needed. She was his, utterly, and they both knew it.

His oiled hand slid down between her thighs, and she cried out — everything was too much, too sensitive, every touch electric. He stroked her slowly, his fingers slick with oil and her own wetness, circling her clit with maddening patience, and she could feel another climax building — slower this time, deeper, a heavy pressure low in her belly.

"Papacito," she warned, her voice breaking. "I'm going to—"

"I know." His fingers kept moving. Steady. Relentless. "Fight it."

"What—"

"Fight it, mamacita. Don't you dare come until I tell you." His eyes locked on hers, dark and commanding. "Hold it. Hold it for me."

She tried — god, she tried — her whole body rigid, trembling, fighting the wave with everything she had, her breath coming in short desperate gasps, tears sliding down her temples. The pressure built and built, unbearable, her inner muscles clenching and releasing around nothing, and she could feel herself losing, slipping —

"Please," she begged, shaking. "Papacito, please, I can't hold it—"

"Yes, you can." His voice was iron wrapped in velvet. "You're mine, and you'll hold it because I said so. Look at me."

She looked at him — and the sight of him, fully clothed still in his shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark and controlled and utterly dominant over her naked, bound, oiled, wrecked body — nearly undid her on its own.

"Good girl," he breathed. "So good. Now — come."

The orgasm detonated through her. Her back arched violently off the silk, the scarf pulling hard, and she screamed — a raw, broken sound — as the climax ripped through her in wave after shuddering wave, her body convulsing, her thighs clamping around his hand. He worked her through it, his fingers never stopping, drawing it out until she was sobbing, spent, limp —

And then, while she was still trembling with aftershocks, he untied the scarf from the headboard — leaving her wrists still loosely bound — and stripped off his shirt. She watched through hazy eyes as he unbuttoned his pants, and her mouth went dry. He was magnificent — thick and hard and flushed dark, and she whimpered at the sight of him.

"On your knees," he said quietly.

She scrambled to obey, silk-bound wrists and all, kneeling on the cool silk before him, and he guided himself to her lips. She took him eagerly — worshipfully — her mouth stretching around him, her tongue swirling, hollowing her cheeks, taking him deeper with every bob of her head. He groaned, one hand fisting in her hair — not pushing, just holding, letting her serve him — and she moaned around him, the vibration making him shudder.

"That's it," he rasped. "My good girl. My devoted mamacita."

She worked him with her mouth and her bound hands stroking what she couldn't reach, her eyes on his, until his breathing turned ragged and his grip tightened in her hair — and then he pulled back, breathing hard, his control stretched thin.

"Enough," he said. "On your back. Now."

She stared up at him, wrecked and aching, and he smiled — that dark, possessive smile that made her heart pound — and lowered his mouth to her breast again, sucking hard, while his hand went back between her thighs. Two fingers now, sliding into her, slow and deep, curling, and she cried out, her inner walls clenching around him.

"That's it," he breathed against her skin. "Feel that? That's mine. All of this is mine."

"Yours," she gasped. "I'm yours, papacito, all yours—"

He fingered her deeper, his thumb finding her clit, and the coil wound tighter, tighter, her whole body shaking, her moans turning to broken whimpers — and again, at the very brink, he withdrew. She screamed — actually screamed — frustration and need tearing through her.

"Please," she sobbed. "Papacito, please, I can't— I need—"

"You can," he said, calm and sure, stroking her hair. "And you will. But not yet."

He was hard — she could see it, feel it against her thigh when he shifted — and knowing he was suffering too, holding himself back by sheer will just to keep her on this edge, made her ache worse. She reached for him, and he caught her wrist.

"Did I say you could touch?"

"No," she whispered.

"Then don't." He pinned her wrist to the silk above her head, and held it there, and with his free hand he went back to her — mouth on her breasts, fingers deep inside her, thumb on her clit — and she was gone, lost, nothing in the world but his hands and his mouth and the silk cool under her burning skin and the pressure building and building until she thought she would shatter from it.

"Papacito," she wept. "Please let me come, please, I'll do anything—"

"Anything?" His fingers slowed, and she whimpered at the loss. "You're already doing everything, mamacita. You're being so good for me. So obedient." He kissed her throat, her jaw, her mouth — deep and claiming. "One more time. I want to watch you almost come apart one more time, and then — then I'll let you."

She nodded frantically, beyond words, and he gave her everything — his mouth on her clit now, finally, his tongue stroking her in slow firm licks while two fingers worked inside her, and she came up off the bed, her free hand clawing at the silk, her whole body bowed and shaking, the climax right there, cresting, about to break over her —

And he stopped.

The sound she made was inhuman. Her body convulsed with denied release, her thighs trembling violently, tears streaming down her face. "Please," she begged, broken. "Please, papacito, please let me come, I can't take it anymore, please—"

Darius looked down at her — his mamacita, wrecked and dripping and begging on the silk — and his control finally showed its cracks. His jaw was tight, his breathing ragged, his eyes burning. He released her wrist and moved over her, settling his weight between her thighs, and she felt him — thick and hard and hot — pressing against her entrance.

"Look at me," he commanded.

She opened her eyes. His gaze locked onto hers, dark and absolute.

"Now," he said, and drove into her in one slow, deep thrust.

She screamed — and the scream broke into a sob as he filled her completely, stretching her, his cock throbbing inside her, and her body, denied so long, clamped down on him convulsively. "Oh god— papacito—"

"Come," he ordered, his voice raw. "Come for me now, mamacita. Let go."

And she did — the climax tore through her like a wave, her back arching hard off the silk, her nails digging into his shoulders, her whole body convulsing around him as wave after wave crashed through her, and she heard herself sobbing his name, "papacito, papacito," over and over. He held her through it, buried deep, his own control finally snapping — he drove into her harder, deeper, his thrusts slow and powerful, the silk whispering beneath them, his mouth on her throat, her breasts, his hands gripping her hips.

"So tight," he groaned. "So perfect. You're mine, Avery. Say it."

"Yours," she gasped, still trembling with aftershocks. "I'm yours, I'm yours—"

He came with a deep groan, pulsing hot inside her, his body shuddering over hers, and she clung to him, her legs wrapped around his waist, holding him deep, feeling every throb of his release, her own body milking him with soft aftershock pulses. For a long moment neither of them moved — just breathing, tangled, his weight pressing her into the silk, her bound wrists resting against his back, the champagne sheets twisted and damp beneath them.

Slowly, gently, he reached up and loosened the silk scarf from her wrists, kissing each one where the silk had pressed — tender, reverent. She wrapped her freed arms around his neck and held on, and he rolled, pulling her with him, so she lay sprawled across his chest. and he gathered the silk sheet up over them both. It was cool against their hot, damp skin, sliding smooth over her back as he stroked her hair.

"Shh," he murmured, kissing her forehead. "I've got you."

She was boneless. Glowing. Every nerve in her body still humming, her skin flushed and slick, her heart hammering against his ribs. She nuzzled into his chest, breathing him in, and whispered, "Papacito."

"Mm?" His hand kept stroking her hair, slow and possessive.

"Thank you," she breathed. "For... for all of it."

He tilted her chin up and kissed her — soft this time, tender, unhurried. "You were perfect," he said against her lips. "My good girl. My mamacita."

She smiled, eyes drifting closed, and melted into him — into the silk, into the lamplight, into the absolute safety of being his. The sheet cooled their heated skin, his heartbeat steadied under her ear, and she fell asleep in his arms, claimed and kept and completely, blissfully undone — his mamacita, now and always.

Slow Dance

The evening came in soft.

Valeria stood at the kitchen counter with her hands wrapped around a warm mug, watching the sky turn from gold to bruised purple through the window above the sink. Dinner was done — the plates stacked in the dishwasher, the kitchen smelling faintly of garlic and butter — and the house had that hushed, heavy feeling it got when the day was finished and there was nothing left to do but be together.

Behind her, the couch creaked. Pedro's voice was low, easy.

"Come here."

She turned. He was sitting on the couch with one arm stretched along the back of it, the lamplight catching the edge of his jaw, and there was something in his eyes — that dark, patient look he got when he had already decided something and was simply waiting for her body to catch up to it.

"Where?" she asked, smiling.

He tilted his head toward the stereo across the room. "Here."

Valeria set the mug down. Her bare feet were quiet on the floorboards as she crossed to him, and when she reached the couch he didn't stand — he caught her hand, his fingers closing warm around hers, and pulled her gently down so she landed in his lap, sideways, her head against his shoulder.

She melted into him. He smelled like soap and skin and the last of the evening, and she breathed him in, slow and deep.

"Comfortable?" he murmured, his hand settling on her thigh, warm through the thin fabric of her shorts.

"Mmm." She nodded against his chest. "Very."

They sat like that for a while, not speaking, and Valeria felt the day's tension draining out of her with every one of his slow heartbeats under her cheek. His hand moved on her thigh — not pushing, not asking, just resting, tracing small lazy circles with his thumb along the inside of her leg. Her skin prickled under his touch, and she shifted, just slightly, and felt him smile against her hair.

"Easy," he said softly. "There's no rush tonight, mamacita."

But his thumb kept moving, and her breath kept changing, and after a few minutes Valeria felt the warmth pooling low in her belly, spreading down between her legs, making her thighs feel heavy and strange. She pressed them together, and Pedro noticed — of course he noticed, he always noticed everything — and his hand slid higher, up along the curve of her thigh, until his fingertips brushed the edge of her shorts.

She gasped, quiet.

He stood up.

She blinked at him, surprised, but he didn't leave — he bent down, took both of her hands in his, and pulled her to her feet. Then he walked backward, drawing her with him, into the middle of the living room where the rug was, and reached past her to the stereo on the shelf.

"Close your eyes," he said.

Valeria closed them. She heard the soft click of a button, the whir of the speaker waking up, and then —

Their song.

The first low notes spilled out into the room, that slow guitar melody they'd claimed as theirs years ago, and Valeria's eyes flew open, her breath catching.

"Pedro —"

He pulled her close before she could finish, one arm wrapping around her waist, his other hand catching hers and lifting it to rest against his chest. He started to sway.

"Dance with me," he said, and it wasn't a question.

Valeria's arms went around his neck on instinct, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape, and she let him lead her — because of course he led, he always led, and her body knew his rhythm the way it knew his heartbeat. They turned slowly on the rug, barely moving, his thigh sliding between hers with every rotation, and the press of him against her belly was already firm, already wanting.

The music wrapped around them. His hand spread wide across her lower back, pulling her flush against him, and Valeria could feel every inch of him through their clothes — the heat of his chest, the hardness growing against her, the solid strength of his thighs. She let her head fall back just a little, exposing her throat, and he bent to it, his mouth finding the soft skin below her ear, not kissing — just breathing there, hot and slow.

"You're beautiful," he murmured against her skin. "You know that, mamacita?"

"Papacito," she whispered, because she couldn't manage anything else.

His hand slid down from her back to her hip, then lower, cupping her ass through her shorts, squeezing gently — a claim, a promise — and Valeria moaned, soft and helpless, grinding against him without meaning to. The slow song played on, and they danced, and with every turn his hands roamed a little further: up under the hem of her tank top, his palm flat against the bare skin of her back, his fingers pressing into the small of it; down again to her hips, guiding her, rocking her against the ridge of his erection.

Her panties were soaked. She could feel it, the damp heat of them clinging to her, and she knew he could feel it too — the way her body moved against him, slick and desperate, even through two layers of clothing.

"Feel what you do to me?" he said, his voice rough at her ear, and he pressed his hips forward so there was no mistaking it — hard and thick and straining against his jeans.

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, papacito, I feel you."

"Good." His hand found the back of her neck, holding her steady, his thumb stroking the line of her jaw. "Every time we dance like this, mamacita. Every time you let me lead. This is what happens."

She shivered at his words, at the quiet authority in them. He wasn't asking her to want him — he was telling her it was already decided, that her body had answered before her mind could catch up. And he was right. She could feel the ache between her legs deepening with every sway, every turn, her clit throbbing in time with the slow drumbeat of the song.

His hand slid from her neck down her spine, slow as the music, pressing her closer until there was no space between them at all. Her breasts crushed against his chest, her nipples hard points she could feel even through her bra, and when he turned them, his thigh pressed between hers again — firmer this time, deliberately — the friction made her gasp into his shoulder.

"Pedro," she whispered, "please —"

He caught her chin, tilted her face up to his. His eyes were dark, molten.

"Because I'm going to have you, Valeria. Right here. And you're going to give me everything."

Her knees went weak. "Everything," she promised. "It's all yours."

He kissed her then — deep, claiming, his tongue sliding into her mouth like he owned it, because he did, because everything about her was his. Valeria clung to his neck, her whole body pressed to his, and when he finally broke the kiss she was gasping, dizzy, her lips swollen.

"Turn around," he said.

She turned. His hands came to her shoulders, then slid down her arms, his chest pressed to her back, and they swayed again — but now his hips were against her ass, his cock a hard line along the curve of it, and Valeria whimpered, arching back into him.

"Shh," he breathed at her ear. "Feel the music, mamacita. Let me take care of you."

His hands moved over her — down her sides, over her ribs, up under her tank top to cup her breasts through the thin lace of her bra. She wasn't wearing anything complicated, just soft lace, and his thumbs found her nipples through it, circling them slowly until they peaked hard and aching. Valeria's head fell back against his shoulder, her mouth open, and the song turned slow and low and hungry.

He pinched her nipples gently — just enough to make her cry out — and then his hands slid down, down, over her belly, to the waistband of her shorts. He slipped his fingers beneath it, and then beneath her panties, and found her.

She was drenched. Slick and hot and swollen, her clit throbbing under his touch, and when his fingers slid through her wetness she gasped his name like a prayer.

"Papacito — please —"

"Please what?" His voice was dark honey at her ear. "Tell me what you want, mamacita."

"I want — I want you —" She could barely think. His fingers were circling her clit now, slow and firm, exactly the way he knew drove her wild, and her hips were rocking against his hand on their own. "I want you inside me, please, papacito, I need you inside me."

He groaned against her neck, his cock grinding against her ass, and then he spun her around to face him — fast, decisive, his hands gripping her hips — and backed her across the rug until her back hit the wall.

The impact knocked a breath out of her. He was against her in the next heartbeat, his whole body pinning hers, his mouth on her throat, her jaw, her mouth. His hands went to her shorts, yanked them down along with her panties, and they pooled around her ankles. Valeria stepped out of them, trembling.

"Look at you," he said, his eyes raking down her bare body — her breasts rising and falling fast under the thin tank top, her wet thighs, the glistening curls between them. "All mine. All wet for me."

"Always," she whispered. "I'm always wet for you."

He dropped to his knees in front of her.

Valeria's breath stopped. The wall was cool against her back, the rug soft under her feet, and Pedro's hands slid up her thighs, pushing them gently apart, his eyes locked on hers as he leaned in.

"Papacito," she whimpered, her hands flying to his hair.

"Stay right there," he commanded softly. "Hands on the wall. Don't move them."

She obeyed — flattened her palms against the wall on either side of her hips — and he bent his head and licked her.

She cried out. His tongue was hot and slow, dragging up through her folds, tasting her, and Valeria's head thumped back against the wall. He licked her again, deeper this time, his tongue finding her clit and circling it with unbearable patience, and then he closed his lips around it and sucked.

"Oh god — oh god, papacito —"

He worked her with his mouth like he had all night, his tongue flicking and swirling, his lips sucking her clit in slow pulses, one of his hands sliding up to cup her breast through her tank top, squeezing, rolling her nipple between his fingers. Valeria's thighs were shaking. Her wetness was running down her legs — she could feel it, hot and slick — and his tongue drank her like she was the only thing he wanted to taste.

"You're so sweet," he murmured against her, his breath hot on her swollen flesh. "So sweet and so wet. Cum for me, mamacita. Right on my tongue."

He sucked her clit harder, sliding two fingers deep inside her, curling them against the spot that made her see stars — and Valeria shattered. Her whole body seized, her back arching off the wall, a cry tearing out of her throat as the orgasm rolled through her in waves. Her pussy clenched around his fingers, flooding them, and he kept licking her through it, gentle now, drawing it out until she was whimpering, her legs barely holding her.

"Good girl," he breathed, standing, his mouth glistening with her. He kissed her, and she tasted herself on his lips — sweet and musky — and it made her moan into his mouth, made her press against him harder.

He lifted her. She didn't even think — her legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, her arms around his neck, and he carried her away from the wall, back to the middle of the rug, and laid her down on it as the song played on.

The rug was soft under her back. Above her, Pedro stood and stripped — his shirt over his head in one motion, his jeans pushed down, his cock springing free, thick and flushed and glistening at the tip. Valeria's mouth went dry looking at him. He was beautiful — all dark muscle and intent, his eyes never leaving hers.

He knelt over her, his knees on either side of her hips, and pulled her tank top up over her head. Her bra followed — he unhooked it with one practiced motion and tossed it aside — and then she was bare under him, her nipples hard in the cool air, her chest rising and falling fast.

Pedro bent down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it deep, his tongue swirling around it, while his hand cupped the other breast, kneading it, his thumb circling the peak. Valeria arched under him, her hands gripping his shoulders, her nails digging in.

"Papacito," she gasped. "Please — I need you —"

"Patience," he murmured against her breast, but his hand was already sliding down her body, between her legs, finding her still-soaked and swollen. He groaned at how wet she was. "You're dripping, mamacita. Look at you — dripping all over the rug for me."

He positioned himself over her, the head of his cock nudging at her entrance, slick with her wetness and his own. Valeria looked up at him, her eyes wide and dark, her lips parted.

"Take me," she whispered. "Please take me, papacito. I'm yours."

He pushed in.

The stretch was exquisite — slow and deep, his thickness parting her inch by inch, and Valeria cried out, her back arching, her hands clutching at his back. He was so big, so hard, and she was so wet and open for him that he slid in deep, deeper, until he was buried to the hilt and she could feel him everywhere — filling her, pressing against the deepest part of her.

"Oh — oh god —" She was panting. "You feel — you feel so good —"

"You're so tight," he groaned, his forehead dropping to hers, his breath hot on her face. "So warm. You were made for me, mamacita."

He started to move. Slow — so slow, like the music, his hips rolling in deep, grinding strokes, pulling almost all the way out and then sinking back in to the root. Every thrust sent pleasure spiraling through her, low and molten. Valeria wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper, and he let her — he gave her everything, his weight pressing her into the rug, his mouth finding hers.

They kissed as he fucked her, slow and deep, his tongue matching the rhythm of his hips. Her pussy clenched around him with every stroke, wet and slick, the sound of their bodies obscene and beautiful in the quiet room — the wet slide of him inside her, her soft gasps, his low groans.

"Harder," she whimpered against his mouth. "Please, papacito —"

He shook his head, smiling against her lips. "No. Slow. Like the song. I'm going to make this last, mamacita — I'm going to make you feel every inch of me."

And he did. He kept that maddening, perfect rhythm — deep, slow, grinding thrusts, his hips circling at the bottom of each stroke so his cock pressed against that spot inside her that made her cry out. His hand slid between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing it in slow circles in time with his thrusts, and Valeria felt the pressure building again, coiling tight and hot low in her belly.

She reached down and gripped his forearm, not to push him away — never that — just to hold on to something while the pleasure took her apart. His thumb was slick with her wetness, sliding over her swollen clit with perfect pressure, and every circle sent a jolt of heat straight through ...