I remember the way she looks at me when she knows she’s about to lose control, like she’s standing at the edge of a burning building and I’m the fire she’s about to step into. She wants it that way. She told me once, amárrame, and I could hear the shiver in her voice, not fear, not doubt, but hunger.
I’ll give her the roughness she craves, fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her head back so she feels the tension bloom down her spine. She moans when I don’t ask permission, when I pin her wrists to the mattress, when I let the weight of my body remind her she’s mine in this moment. She wants me to be the villain, and I’ll play that role until she’s begging the devil himself to slow down.
The truth is, the danger isn’t in what I do to her, it’s in the way she comes back for more. Like a bandolero’s girl who swears she’ll walk away but never does, she keeps chasing the chaos I leave on her skin. She loves the bruises like they’re holy marks. She tells me she feels alive when I take her past the point of control, when every thrust feels like a sin we can’t stop committing.
And I whisper in her ear that she belongs to me, not in the daylight, not in the safe places, but here, when the room is thick with sweat and breath and the kind of truth you can’t fake. She wants the bad boy, the hijueputa who doesn’t soften his hands, who doesn’t apologize when the sheets rip, who fucks her like the world’s ending and the only thing left to do is burn together.
And I’ll give it to her. Every time. Because she doesn’t just want love. She wants to be devoured.