I told you I wasn’t here to be gentle.
You laughed — that low, wicked laugh —
and told me to prove it.
So I did.
I drag you in by the wrist,
press you face-first against the door
before it even shuts.
My hand’s on your throat,
not to hurt,
just to remind you who’s calling the shots tonight.
Your pulse jumping under my thumb
tells me you’re ready to burn.
I rip that dress like it was paper,
mouth tracing every inch I’ve been starving for.
You whisper “amárrame,”
and I knot you up slow, cruel,
tying patience into the rope
so I can tear it out of you later.
I make you wait, make you beg,
make you grind against nothing until you’re shaking.
Then I ruin you.
Bite marks down your collarbone,
fingertips bruising your hips,
hair twisted in my fist as I drag you back onto me.
You gasp my name,
but I tell you not to say a word —
villains don’t take requests,
they take what’s theirs.
I push so deep you forget your own name,
palm over your mouth so the neighbors don’t hear
how much you love being broken open.
Every thrust is a warning you ignore,
every kiss is a sin you beg me to repeat.
You’re drenched, trembling,
clawing at me like you want to keep every inch inside you forever.
And when you finally can’t take it,
when your body’s shaking,
when you’re pleading for me to let you fall apart —
I make you wait one more second,
because I like watching you squirm,
like watching that good-girl halo crack.
When I finally give in,
it’s not mercy —
it’s punishment,
sweet and brutal.
And when you collapse against me, spent and ruined,
I kiss the sweat off your lips and whisper:
“You wanted the devil.
Don’t cry now that you got him.”