I told you I wasn’t here to be gentle.
You smiled, slow, knowing,
and said, then don’t be.
I catch your wrist, not dragging, asking.
You step into it.
I press you to the door before it even shuts,
and when my hand finds your throat
I pause just long enough for you to nod.
My thumb rests there, not to hurt,
just to let you feel how steady I am.
Your pulse jumps, not from fear,
but because you want this.
I tug at your dress and you lift your arms,
laughing as the fabric gives.
My mouth traces skin I already know you’ve been aching for,
and when you whisper “amárrame,”
I do it slow, deliberate,
checking your eyes between every knot.
You tell me to keep going.
You tell me you like waiting.
So I make you wait.
I make you beg, because you want to.
Make you grind against nothing
until you’re shaking and smiling at the same time.
Every second is a promise, not a threat.
When I finally take you, it’s because you pull me in.
Bite marks bloom where you asked for them,
my hands firm on your hips, never leaving your body unsure.
You say my name like it’s a challenge.
I tell you to stay quiet
and you do, because that’s the game tonight.
I move deep and slow, watching your face,
feeling the way your body opens because it trusts me.
My palm covers your mouth, not to silence you,
but because you told me you like the pressure.
Every thrust is something you lean into.
Every kiss is permission renewed.
When you’re trembling, when you tell me you’re close,
I hold you right there,
not to punish,
but because you asked me to make it unbearable.
One more second.
You curse me and smile.
When I finally let you fall apart,
it’s not mercy,
it’s devotion, fierce and consuming.
And when you collapse against me, breathless and glowing,
I kiss the sweat from your lips and whisper
“You chose the devil tonight.
I’m not sorry you loved it.”